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up the hill

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

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 fight,
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,

When, with sable cloak and 'broidered pall, If thou hast lost a friend.

A funeral train swept by;
Dull and sad fell the torches' glare

If thou hast lost a friend,
On many a stately crest

By hard or hasty word, They bore the noble warrior king


- call him to thy heart again, To his last dark home of rest.

Let pride no more be heard.
Remind him of those happy days,

Too beautiful to last;
Youth and Age.

Ask, if a word should cancel years

Of truth and friendship past? The proudest poetry of youth

Oh! if thou hast lost a friend, Is "Would I were a Man!'

By hard or hasty word, The golden years that lie between

Go, - call him to thy heart again; Youth, like a dream would span:

Let pride no more be heard. 'Tis in its thought 'tis in its heart

*Tis ever on its tongue; But oh, the poetry of age It is "When I was young!

Oh! tell him, from thy thought

The light of joy hath fled;

That, in thy sad and silent breast, Thus, in the morn of life, our feet

Thy lonely heart seems dead; Would distant pathways find;

That mount and vale, - each path ye trod, The sun still face to face we meet

By morn or evening dim, The shadow falls behind!

Reproach you with their frowning gaze, But when the morn of life is o'er,

And ask your soul for him. And nature grows less kind;

Then, if thou'st lost a friend, The length’ning shadow creeps before

By hard or hasty word, The sunlight falls behind!

Go, call him to thy heart again;

Let pride no more be heard.

M a c k å y.

Charles Mackay ist einer der beliebtesten Dichter der Gegenwart, der sich namentlich nach Pope und Goldsmith gebildet hat. Zu seinen ersten dichterischen Leistungen gehört „Egeria, the Spirit of Nature and other Poems. Im Jahre 1840 veröffentlichte er The Hope of the World and other Poems,“ so wie „Legends of the Isles and other Poems. Ein grösseres Gedicht unter dem Titel Salamandrine liess er 1842 erscheinen.

Neben diesen poetischen Werken hat Mackay auch mehreres Prosaische geschrieben, wie History of London, Longbeard, Lord of London, a Romance in 3 Bdn.; Memoirs of Extraordinary Popular Delusions, 3 Bde. und Thomas and its Tributaries, 2 Bde.

Reinheit und Wärme der Gesinnung, Einfachheit, Würde und Anmuth der Sprache verleihen seinen dichterischen Schöpfuugen einen bleibenden Werth, und weisen ihrem Verfasser eine ehrenvolle Stelle unter den lebenden Dichtern seiner Nation an.

The Autumn Leaf. Poor autumn leaf! down floating

Upon the blustering gale ;

Torn from thy bough,

Where goest now,
Withered, and shrunk, and pale?

But warm,

I go, thou sad inquirer,

Yes, Peace and Love might build a nest As list the winds to blow,

For us amid these vales serene, Sear, sapless, lost,

And Truth should be our constant guest And tempest-tost,

Among these pleasant wild-woods green. I go where all things go.

My heart should never nurse again

The once fond dreams of young Ambition,

And Glory's light should lure in vain, The rude winds bear me onward

Lest it should lead to Love's perdition; As suiteth them, not me,

Another light should round me shine,
O'er dale, o'er hill,

Beloved, from those eyes of thine!
Through good, through ill,
As destiny bears thee.

“Ah, Gilbert! happy should I be

This hour to die, lest fate reveal What though for me one summer,

That life can never give a joy And threescore for thy breath

Such as the joy that now I feel. I live my span,

Oh! happy! happy! now to die, Thou thine, poor man!

And go before thee to the sky;
And then adown to death?

Losing, may be, some charm of life,
But yet escaping all its strife;

And, watching for thy soul above,
And thus we go together;

There to renew more perfect love, For lofty as thy lot,

Without the pain and tears of this And lowly miné,

Eternal, never palling bliss! My fate is thine,

And more she yet would say, and strives to To die and be forgot!

speak, fast tears begin to course her


And sobs to choke her; so, reclining still The Parting of Lovers.

Her head upon his breast, she weeps her [From the Salamandrine.] And all so lovely in those joyous tears

To his impassioned eyes the maid appears; Now, from his eastern couch, the sun, He cannot dry them, nor one word essay

Erewhile in cloud and vapour hidden, To soothe such sorrow from her heart away. Rose in his robes of glory dight; And skywards, to salute his light, Upsprung a choir, unbidden,

At last she lifts her drooping head, Of joyous larks, that, as they shook

And, with her delicate fingers, dashes The dewdrops from their russet pinions, The tears away that hang like pearls Pealed forth a hymn so glad and clear, Upon her soft eyes' silken lashes : That darkness might have paused to hear Then hand in hand they take their way

(Pale sentinel on morn's dominions), O’er the green meadow gemmed with dew, And envied her the flood of song

And up the hill, and through the wood, Those happy minstrels poured along.

And by the streamlet, bright and blue, And sit them down upon a stone

With mantling mosses overgrown, The lovers listened. Earth and heaven That stands beside her cottage door,

Seemed pleased alike to hear the strain; And oft repeat, And Gilbert, in that genial hour,

When next they meet, Forgot his momentary pain:

That time shall never part them more. 'Happy', said he, beloved maid,

Our lives might flow 'mid scenes like this;
Still eve might bring us dreams of joy, He's gone! Ah no! he lingers yet,
And morn awaken us to bliss.

And all her sorrow, who can tell ?
I could forgive thy jealous brother; As gazing on her face he takes
And Mora's quiet shades might be

His last and passionate farewell ?
Blessed with the love of one another, 'One kiss! said he, 'and I depart
A Paradise to thee and me.

With thy dear image in my heart:


One more to soothe a lover's pain, The winds may dash it,
And think of till I come again!

The storms may wash it,
One more: Their red lips meet and tremblc, The lightnings rend its tall masts three;
And she, unskilful to dissemble,

But neither the wind, nor the rain, nor the sea Allows, deep blushing, while be presses,

Can injure me can injure me.
The warmest of his fond caresses.

The lightnings cannot strike me down
Whirlwinds wreck, or whirpools down;
And the ship to be lost ere the break of

May pass o'er my head in saucy scorn;
And when the night unveils its face

I may float, unharmed, in my usual place, The Floating Straw.

And the ship may show to the pitying stars

No remnant but her broken spars.
(A Thought in the Panic 1847.) Among the shells

In the ocean dells
The wild waves are my nightly pillows,
Beneath me roll th’ Atlantic billows;

The ships, the crews, and the captains lie, And as I rest on my couch of brine

But the floating straw looks up to the sky.

And the humble and contented man,
I watch the eternal planets shine.
Ever I ride

Unknown to fortune, escapes her ban,
On a harmless tide

And rides secure when breakers leap, Fearing naught enjoying all things

And mighty ships go down to the deep. Undisturbed by great or small things.

May pleasant breezes waft them home

That plough with their keels the driving foam. Alas! for the lordly vessel

Heaven be their hope, and Truth their law, That sails so gallantly.

There needs no prayer for the floating straw.

Leipzig, printed by Alexander Wiede.

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