Изображения страниц

It cannot be that long we dwell,

Thus torn apart:
Time's shadow like the shuttle flee:
And, dark howe'er life's night may be,
Beyond the grave I'll meet with thee,

Casa Wappy!

Where those who were severed re-meet in joy,
Which death can never more destroy;
Where scenes without, and where souls within,
Are blanched from taint and touch of sin;

Where speech is music and breath is balm;
And broods an everlasting calm;
And flowers wither not, as in worlds like this;
And hope is swallowed in perfect bliss;

The White Rose.


[ocr errors]

Rose of the desert! thou art to me

Where all is peaceful, for all is pure;
An emblem of stainless purity,
Of those who, keeping their garments white, And day is endless, and ever bright;

And all is lovely, and all endure;
Walk on through life with steps aright!

And no more sea is, and no more night;

[ocr errors]


VI. Thy fragrance breathes of the fields above, Where round the throne, hues like thine, Whose soil and air are faith and love; The raiments of the ransom'd shine; And where, by the murmur of silver springs, And o’er each brow a halo glows The Cherubim fold their snow-white wings; – Of glory, like the pure White Rose!

[ocr errors][merged small]

Robert Montgomery hat sich bereits seit 1828 durch das „The Omnipotence of the Deity hervorgethan, dem bald einige andere Gedichte folgten, die seinen Dichterruf bleibend begründet haben, wie Satan 1830, The Messiah 1832, Luther u. a.

Montgomery's literarische Thätigkeit scheint sich gänzlich dem Dienste der Religion and den Wahrheiten gewidmet zu haben, deren begabter und beredter Verkünder er auf der Kanzel ist.

Seine poetischen Leistungen sind in ähnlichem Geiste wie die des älteren Montgomery, und zeichnen sich namentlich durch poetischen Erguss und leichten Versbau aus, ohne jedoch mit der Selbständigkeit in der Erfindung und der Reinheit in der Sprache geschrieben zu sein, wodurch die Dichtungen des letzterwähnten sich unterscheiden.

The Starry Heavens.

And round the lattice creep your midnight

beams, Ye quenchless stars! so eloquently bright, How sweet to gaze upon your placid eyes, Untroubled sentries of the shadowy night, In lambent beauty looking from the skies ! While half the world is lapped in downy And when, oblivious of the world, we stray


At dead of night along some noiseless way,

I gazed on that star last night — it shook, We sit by the Miser's treasure-chest,
And though it still faintly gleams,

And near his bed
It looks not as it wont to look,

And we watch his anxious heart's unrest, And a mist is over its beams.

And in mockery tread
With a seeming heavy step about;

And laugh when we hear his frightened shout I have read thy fate in a flowery braid;

Of dread I hung it on a tree –

Lest the gnomes, who once o'er his gold I saw one bright rose fall and fade,

did reign, 'Twas the blossom I named for thee!

To his hoards, to claim it back again,

Have sped. But mostly thy fortune I can tell,

From thy happiness and mirth,
For when did bliss so perfect dwell But a sunnier scene and a brighter sky
More than an instant on earth?

To-day is ours;
We have seen a youthful Poet lie

By a fountain's showers,
With his up - turned eyes and his dreamy

The Song of Dreams.

Reading the April sky's sweet book,

Written by the hours, In the rosy glow of the evening cloud,

Thinking those glorious thoughts that grow In the twilight's gloom

Untutored up in life's fresh glow,
In the sultry noon, when the flowers are

Like flowers.
And the streams are dumb
In the morning's beam, when the faint stars


We will catch the richest, brightest hue

Of the rainbow's rim;
On the brightening flood of the azure sky
We come!

The purest cloud that 'midst the blue

Of Heaven doth swim;
Weavers of shadowy hopes and fears,

The clearest star-beam that shall be
Darkeners of smiles, brighteners of tears,
We come!

In a dew-drop shrined, when the twilight sea

Grows dim;

And a spirit of love about them breathe, We come where the Babe, on its mother's And twine them all in a magic wreath breast,

For him!
Lies in slumber deep
We Ait by the maiden's couch of rest,

And o'er her sleep
We float, like the honey-laden bees,
On the soft, warm breath of the languid


The Messenger Thought. Hues, more beautiful than we bring, From her lip and her cheek, for each wander- The deep, unspoken' essence of my love;

I send a thought to thee,
ing wing

I send it like a home-returning dove
To keep

Far over land and sea;
Ah! shall it reach thee? shall it find a nest,

Beloved! in thy breast?
We linger about the Lover's bower,

Hovering mute,
When he looks to the west for the sunset hour, I send it forth with all
And lists for the foot

The winged and burning power the lightning That falls so lightly on the grass,

hath; We scarcely hear its echo pass;

Through night and storm and tempest is its And we put

path; In his heart all hopes, the radiant-crowned, Ah! shall its radiance fall And hang sweet tones, and voices round Upon thy soul and wake a thrilling start His lute.

Of menory in thy heart?

And weep

And waft the spirit to that halcyon shore, And fresh and fair no longer lie
Where war's loud thunders lash the winds Joy-tints upon the cheek.

no more!

[blocks in formation]

Mary Ann Browne, später Mrs Gray, ist nicht, wie Griswold in seinem Werke ,Poets and Poetry of England“ S. 286 behauptet, eine Schwester der bekannten Dichterin Felicia Hemans. Mrs Gray starb wahrscheinlich im Jahre 1847. Sie ist die Verfasserin mehrerer poetischen Werke, von welchen namentlich folgende hier erwähnt werden mögen: Mont Blanc and other Poems; Ada and other Poems; Repentance and other Poems, London 1828; ferner Ignatia and other Poems, London 1838. Ausserdem hat sie auch mehrere prosaische Werke geschrieben, wie: History of Emperors of Rome; History of Etruria, 2 Bde. History of Rome for Young Persons, 2 Bde. Tour to the Sepulchres of Etruria u. a.

Die poetischen Leistungen dieser Dichterin tragen fast durchgängig das Gepräge echt weiblicher Innigkeit und wahrer Empfindung an sich, athmen aber meist tiefe Wehmuth.

The Forboding.

Its strongest link is snapt in twain,

And thou wilt be as such:
Ay, twine thy hair with a summer-wreath,

And sing thy bridal song;
Let fragrant flowers around thee breathe

And mingle with the thoughtless crowd, It will not be for long.

And soon thy gorgeous vest:

"T will soon be changed, for thy burial shroud As that bright garland will decay,

Already wraps thy breast.
Thy beauty will soon be gone;
And thy very name will pass away,
Like thy sweet song's closing tone.

Bright and clear the heavens are,

There is but one speck in the sky; Ay, deck thee with that golden chain, But that speck covers thy natal star, It severs with scarce a touch;

The star of thy destiny!

Smiling between bank and brook,

Silent speakers unto man,
Mossy marge, and woody nook,

Of the world to be!
Where the linnets sing:
Climbing hedge-row, bush and brier,
As your spirit ne'er would tire
Over lane and lea;

The Death of the Warrior King.
Full of life, and full of mirth,
Ye alone enjoy the earth,

There are noble heads bowed down and pale, Happy children ye!

Deep sounds of wo arise,
And tears flow fast around the couch

Where a wounded warrior lies;
Flowers! sweet Flora's children!

The hue of death is gathering dark How ye roam and race

Upon his lofty brow, Up the valley — up the hill

And the arm of might and valour falls, With an everchanging will,

Weak as an infan's now,
Hunting every place:
Hanging half-way down the steep,
Where not e'en the stag dare leap, I saw him 'mid the battling hosts,
In your reckless glee;

Like a bright and leading star,
Or, where snows eternal blanch, Where banner, helm, and falchion gleamed,
Listening to the avalanche,

And flew the bolts of war. Bold adventurers ye!

When, in his plenitude of power

He trod the Holy Land,

I saw the routed Saracens
Flowers! sweet Flora's children!

Flee from his blood-dark brand.
How ye love to meet
Far away from human sound,
Making Nature hallowed ground, I saw him in the banquet hour
Even loneness sweet:

Forsake the festive throng,
Where some fount, 'mid mountain springs, To seek his favourite minstrels 'haunt,
Singing falls, and falling sings

And give his soul to song; In melodious key;

For dearly as he loved renown, Blooming where no step is heard

He loved that spell-wrought strain Save the light foot of some bird : Which bade the brave of perished days Favoured children ye!

Light conquest's torch again.

Flowers! sweet Flora's children!

How ye dance and twine
With the loveliest born of spring,
Moving in an endless ring

An exhaustless line!
Sometimes shy and singly seen
Like some nur in cloister green,

Offering incense free;
Sometimes over marsh and moor,
Resting by the cottage door,

Welcomers ye!

Then seemed the bard to cope with Time,

And triumph o'er his doom
Another world in freshness burst

Oblivion's mighty tomb!
Again bardy Britons ruhed

Like lions to the ght,
While horse and foot, helm, shield, and lance,
Swept by his visioned sight!

Flowers! sweet Flora's children!

Loved by moon and star;
Loved by little ramblers ’lone,
Seated on some grassy stone,

Many a footstep far!
Loved by all that God hath made,
All that ever watched and prayed,

For ye seem to me
In your bright and boundless span,

But battle shout and waving plume,

The drum's heart-stirring beat;
The glittering pomp of prosperous war,

The rush of million feet,
The magic of the minstrel's song,

Which told of victories o'er,
Are sights and sounds the dying king
Shall see - shall hear no more!

It was the hour of deep midnight,

In the dim and quiet sky,

I send it a full glance

I will believe the dream From the soul' eye, that shall, without a word, Will fancy I can rule thy thoughts with mine; Cause all thy spirit inly to be stirred, That I have power on that high soul of thine, Then bring a magic trance,

Though vain the vision seem A momentary spell of deep delight To those who know not how my every thought Upon the heart to-night.

Is with thine image fraught.

"T is gone! Doth not it reach

Ah could that thought return! With its swift flight its destined haven now? Return and bring some token of its stay! Doth it not whisper blessing, trust and vow Vain hope! it loves too dearly to delay, In its own wordless speech ?

Where my full heart doth yearn, Doth not its viewless stress thy soul compel Even unto aching, at this hour to be Even now on mine to dwell?

With thee, beloved, with thee!

[ocr errors]

Charles Swain wurde zu Manchester im Jahre 1803 geboren. Obgleich es ihm nicht vergönnt war, in seiner frühen Jugend eine wissenschaftliche Bildung zu erlangen, indem er zunächst die Färberei erlernte und dann Kupferstecher und Steinzeichner wurde, so war ihm doch die Muse der Dichtung nicht unhold, und er zeichnete sich bald durch einen nicht gewöhnlichen poetischen Aufschwung aus, wovon seine ziemlich zahlreichen Geistesproducte Zeugniss geben. So erschien im Jahre 1827 Metrical Essays on Subjects of History and Imagination, 1844 The Mind and other Poems; ferner English Melodies, and 1848 Dramatic Chapters, Poems and Songs.

Obschon Swains Poesieen nicht ersten Ranges sind, so besitzen sie doch einen gewissen Reichthum der Gedanken, Innigkeit des Gefühls, und eine fliessende, schöne Diction.

[blocks in formation]
« ПредыдущаяПродолжить »