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up the hill
Smiling between bank and brook,
Silent speakers unto man,
Of the world to be!
The Death of the Warrior King.
There are noble heads bowed down and pale, Happy children ye!
Deep sounds of wo arise,
Where a wounded warrior lies;
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.
Like a bright and leading star,
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
Flee from his blood-dark brand.
Forsake the festive throng,
And give his soul to song;
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
An exhaustless line!
Offering incense free;
Then seemed the bard to cope with Time,
And triumph o'er his doom
Oblivion's mighty tomb!
Like lions to the fight,
Flowers! sweet Flora's children!
Loved by moon and star;
Many a footstep far!
For ye seem to me
But battle shout and waving plume,
The drum's heart-stirring beat;
The rush of million feet,
Which told of victories o’er,
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;
If thou hast lost a friend,
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.
Too beautiful to last;
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,
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,
Beloved, from those eyes of thine!
“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;
Losing, may be, some charm of life,
And, watching for thy soul above,
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;
And all her sorrow, who can tell ?
His last and passionate farewell ?
With thy dear image in my heart:
One more to soothe a lover's pain, The winds may dash it,
The storms may wash it,
But neither the wind, nor the rain, nor the sea Allows, deep blushing, while be presses,
Can injure me can injure me.
The lightnings cannot strike me down
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.
In the ocean dells
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,
Unknown to fortune, escapes her ban,
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.