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Felicia Dorothea Browne, später verehelichte Hemans ward 1794 in Liverpool geboren, zog dann mit ihren Eltern nach St. Asaph in Nordwales und verheirathete sich sehr früh mit einem Capitain Hemans, aber ihre Ehe war keine glückliche und wurde später nach gegenseitiger Uebereinkunft wieder getrennt. Sie zog nun nach Wavertree bei Liverpool, dann nach Dublin, wo sie am 16. Mai 1835 starb.

Ihre Dichtungen, mit wenigen Ausnahmen, fast sämmtlich zur lyrischen Gattung gehörend (Early Blossoms; Domestic Affections; National Lyrics; Scenes and Hymns of Life u. s. w., lauten die Titel der verschiedenen Sammlungen, welche sie nach einander erscheinen liess), zeichnen sich durch sanfte Empfindung, innige Frömmigkeit, Anmuth , Geist, Phantasie und treftliche Sprache sehr vortheilhaft aus und haben ihr ein dauerndes Andenken bei ihrer Nation, nainentlich bei den englischen Frauen erworben.

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every tone

Cathedral Hy m n.

Of the rich organ harmony bears 11p

Their voice on its high waves! a mighty A dim and mighty minster of old Time!

burst! A temple shadowy with remembrances Of the majestic past! the very light

A forest-sounding music! Streams with a colouring of heroic days

Which the blasts call forth with their harping In every ray, which leads through arch and aisle

wings A path of dreamy lustre, wandering back

From gulfs of tossing foliage there is blent: To other years;

And the old minster and the rich fretted roof

forest-like itself And the wrought coronals of summer leaves,

With its long avenues of pillared shade, Ivy and vine, and many a sculptured rose

Seems quivering all with spirit, as that strain The tenderest image of mortality

O’erflows its dim recesses, leaving not Binding the slender columns, whose light shafts

One tomb unthrilled by the strong sympathy Cluster like stems in corn-sheaves, all these

Answering the electric notes. Join, join, my

soul! things Tell of a race that nobly, fearlessly,

In thine own lowly, trembling consciousness, On their heart's worship poured a wealth of love! And thine own solitude, the glorious hymn. Honour be with the dead! - the people kneel Under the helms of antique chivalry, And in the crimson gloom from banners thrown, And midst the forms, in pale proud slumber

carved Of warriors on their tombs. The people kneel

The Song of Night. Where mail-clad chiefs have knelt; where jewel

led crowns

I come to thee, O Earth! On the flushed brows of conquerors have been set; With all my gifts : for every flower, sweet Where the high anthems of old victories

dew, Have made the dust give echoes. Hence, vain In bell, and urn, and chalice, to renew


The glory of its birth.
Memories of power and pride, which, long ago,
Like dim processions of a dream, have sunk

Not one which glimmering lies
In twilight depths away. Return, my soul! Far amidst folding hills or forest-leaves,
The cross recals thee. Lo! the blessed cross! But, through its views of beauty, so receives
High o'er the banners and the crests of earth, A spirit of fresh dyes.
Fixed in its meek and still supremacy!
And lo! the throng of beating human hearts,

I come with every star: With all their secret scrolls of buried grief, Making thy streams, that on their noon-day track All their full treasuries of immortal Hope, Gave but the moss, the reed, the lily back, Gathered before their God! Hark! how the flood Mirrors of worlds afar.



I come with peace; I shed

I, that shower dewy light Sleep through thy wood-walks o'er the honey-bee, Through slumbering leaves, bring storms! -- the The lark's triumphant voice, the fawn's young

tempest birth glee, of memory, thought,

be holy, The hyacinth's meek head.


I am the solemn Night!
On my own beart I lay
The weary babe, and, sealing with a breath
Its eyes of love, send fairy dreams, beneath
The shadowing lids to play.

The Hebrew Mother.
I come with mightier things!

The rose was in rich bloom on Sharon's plain,
Who calls me silent? - I have many tones:
The dark skies thrill with low mysterious moans went up to Zion; for the boy was vowed

When a young mother, with her firstborn, thence Borne on my sweeping wings.

Unto the temple service. By the hand

She led him; and her silent soul, the while, I waft them not alone

Oft as the dewy laughter of his eye From the deep organ of the forest shades,

Met her sweet serious glance, rejoiced to think Or buried streams, unheard amidst their glades, That aught so pure, so beautiful, was her's, Till the bright day is done.

To bring before her God!

So passed they on, But in the human breast

O'er Judah's hills; and wheresoe'er the leaves A thousand still small voices I awake,

Of the broad sycamore made sounds at noon, Strong in their sweetness from the soul to shake Like lulling rain-drops, or the olive boughs, The mantle of its rest.

With their cool dimness, crossed the sultry blue

Of Syria's heaven, she paused, that he might I bring them from the past :

rest: From true hearts broken, gentle spirits torn,

Yet from her own meek eyelids chased the sleep From crush'd affections, which, though long That weighed their dark fringe down, to sit and o'erborne,

watch Make their tone heard at last.

The crimson deepening o'er his cheeks' repose,

As at a red flower's heart; and where a fount I bring them from the tomb;

Lay, like a twilight star, 'midst palmy shades, O'er the sad couch of late repentant love,

Making its banks green gems along the wild, They pass though low as murmurs of a

There, too, she lingered, from the diamond wave

Drawing clear water for his rosy lips, dove

And softly parting clusters of jet curls Like trumpets through the gloom.

To bathe his brow.

At last the fane was reached, I come with all my train:

The earth's one sanctuary; and rapture hushed Who calls me lonely? Hosts around me tread, Her bosom, as before her, through the day Th' intensely bright, the beautiful, the dread It rose, a mountain of white marble, steeped Phantoms of heart and brain !

In light like floating gold. But when that hour

Waned to the farewell moment, when the boy Looks from departed eyes,

Lifted, through rainbow-gleaming tears, his eye These are my lightnings! filled with anguish Turned from the white-robed priest, and round

Beseechingly to her's, — and, half in fear, vain,

her arm Or tenderness too piercing to sustain, They smite with agonies.

Clung, even as ivy clings, the deep spring-tide

Of nature then swelled high ; and o'er her child

Bending, her soul brake forth, in mingled sounds I, that with soft control

Of weeping and sad song. “Alas!" she cried, Shut the dim violet, hush the woodland song, I am th' Avenging One! the armed, the “Alas! my boy! thy gentle grasp is on me,


The bright tears quiver in thy pleading eyes, The searcher of the soul!

And now fond thoughts arise,


And silver cords again to earth have won me,


farewell! I go! my soul may And like a vine thou claspest my full heart,

fail me, How shall I hence depart?

As the stay panteth for the water-brooks,

Yearning for thy sweet looks!

But thou, my firstborn! droop not, nor bewail How the lone paths retrace, where thou wert

me, playing

Thou in the shadow of the Rock shalt dwell, So late along the mountains at my side?

The Rock of Strength, farewell!"
And I, in joyous pride,
By every place of flowers my course delaying,
Wove, even as pearls, the lilies round thy hair,

Beholding thee so fair!

"And, oh! the home whence thy bright smile

The Captive Knight. hath parted! Will it not seem as if the sunny day

'Twas a trumpet's pealing sound! Turned from its door away,

And the knight look'd down from the Paynim's While, through its chambers wandering, weary

tower, hearted,

Aud a Christian host, in its pride and power, I languish for thy voice, which past me still,

Through the pass beneath him wound.
Went like a singing rill?

Cease awhile, clarion! clarion will and slirill,
Cease! let themn hear the captive's voice, be

“Under the palm-trees thou no more shalt meet me,
When from the fount at evening I return,

“I knew 'twas a trumpet's note! With the full water-urn!

And I see my brethren's lances gleam, Nor will thy sleep's low, dove-like murmurs And their pennons wave, by the mountain stream,

greet me,

And their plumes to the glad wind toat! As 'midst the silence of the stars I wake, Cease awhile, clarion! clarion wild and shrill, And watch for thy dear sake!

Cease! let them hear the captive's voice, be

still! “And thou, will slumber's dewy cloud fall round


"I am here, with my heavy chain! Without thy mother's hand to smooth thy bed?

And I look on a torrent, sweeping by,
Wilt thou not vainly spread

And an eagle, rushing to the sky,
Tbine arms,
when darkness as a veil hath wound

And a host, to its battle plain! thee,

Cease awhile, clarion! clarion wild and shrill, To fold my neck; and lift up, in thy fear,

Cease! let them hear the captive's roire, - be

still! A cry which none shall hear?

"Must I pine in my fetters here? "What have I said, my child? will He not with the wild wave's foam, and the free bird's hear thee

flight, Who the young ravens heareth from their nest? And the tall spears glancing on my sight, Will He not guard thy rest,

And the trumpet in mine ear? And, in the hush of holy midnight near thee, Cease awhile, clarion! clarion wild and shrill, Breathe o'er thy soul, and fill its dreams with Cease! let them hear the captive's voice, be joy?

still! Thou shalt sleep soft, my boy!

“They are gone! they have all pass'd by! "I give thee to thy God! the God that gave They in whose wars I had borne my part,


They that I loved with a brother's heart,
A well-spring of deep gladness to my heart!

They have left me here to die!
And, precious as thou art,

Sound again, clarion! clarion , pour thy blast! And pure as dew of Hermon, He shall have thee, Sound! for the captive's dream of hope is past!" My own, my beautiful, my undefiled!

And thou shalt be His child!

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The Trumpet.
The trumpet's voice hath roused the land,

Light up the beacon-pyre!
A hundred hills have seen the brand,

And waved the sign of fire!
A hundred banners to the breeze

Their gorgeous folds have cast;
And, hark! was that the sound of seas?

A king to war went past!

The Treasures of the Deep.
What hid'st thou in thy treasure caves and cells?

Thou hollow-sounding and mysterious main!
Pale glistening pearls, and rainbow colour'd

shells, Bright things which gleam unrecked of and in

vain. Keep, keep thy riches, melancholy sea!

We ask not such from thee.

The chief is arming in his hall,

The peasant by his hearth;
The mourner hears the thrilling call,

And rises from the earth!
The mother on her firstborn son

Looks with a boding eye;
They come not back, though all be won,

Whose young hearts leap so high.

Yet more, the depths have more! - what wealth

untold, Far down, and shining through their stillness,

Thou hast the starry gems, the burning gold,

Won from ten thousand royal argosies.
Sweep o'er thy spoils, thou wild and wrathful

Earth claims not these again!

The bard hath ceased his song, and bound Yet more, the depths have more! thy waves The falcbion to his side;

have rolled E'en for the marriage altar crowned,

Above the cities of a world gone by!
The lover quits his bride!

Sand hath filled up the palaces of old,
And all this haste, and change, and fear, Sea-weed o'ergrown the halls of revelry!
By earthly clarion spread!

Dash o'er them, ocean! in thy scornful play, How will it be when kingdoms hear

Man yields them to decay!
The blast that wakes the dead?

Yet more, the billows and the depths have more!
High hearts and brave are gathered to thy

They hear not now the booming waters roar,

The battle thunders will not break their rest. The Return to Poetry.

Keep thy red gold and gems, thou stormy grave!

Give back the true and brave! Once more the eternal melodies from far, Woo me like songs of home: once more discern- Give back the lost and lovely! - those for whom


The place was kept at board and hearth so Through fitful clouds the pure majestic star,

long; Above the poet's world serenely burning, The prayer went up through midnight's breathThither my soul, fresh-winged by love, is turn

less gloom, ing,

And the vain yearning woke 'midst festal song! As o'er the waves the wood-bird seeks her nest, Hold fast thy buried isles, thy towers o'erFor those green heights of dewy stillness yearning,

thrown, Whence glorious minds o'erlook the earth's un

But all is not thine own! rest. Now be the spirit of Heaven's truth my guide To thee the love of woman hath gone down; Through the bright land! that no brief gladness, Dark flow thy tides o'er manhood's noble found

head, In passing bloom, rich odour, or sweet sound, O'er youth's bright locks and beauty's flowery May lure my footsteps from their aim aside :

crown! Their true, high quest to seek, if ne'er to Yet must thou hear a voice, Restore the dead!


Earth shall reclaim her precious things from thee! The inmost, purest shrine of that august domain.

Restore the dead, thou sea!


Allan Cunningham ward am 7. December 1784 nicht weit von Dumfries geboren. Er war der Sohn eines Pächters, erhielt eine dürftige Schulbildung und musste dann, eilf Jahr alt, Maurerlehrling werden. Später ging er nach London und ward 1814 Aufseher im Atelier des berühmten Bildhauers Chantrey, eine Stelle, die er noch bekleidet. Später trat er mit seiner dramatischen Dichtung Sir Marmaduke Maxwell hervor; Walter Scott lenkte die Aufmerksamkeit des Publicums darauf und seit dieser Zeit war ihm eine Stelle unter den Dichter Englands gesichert, die er würdig ausfüllt.

Neben mehreren prosaischen Werken hat er nur wenige Dichtungen veröffentlicht; noch bedeutender als jene obengenannte ist seine Maid of Elvar und seine Balladen und Lieder. In vielen der Letzteren hat er den Ton echter Volkspoesie so glücklich angeschlagen, dass sie selbst Kenner täuschten. Warmes Gefühl, Anmuth, Einfachheit, Eleganz und Wohlklang sind ihm eigen.

The Town and Country Child.

Child of the town! for thee, alas!

Glad Nature spreads nor flowers nor grass. Child of the country! free as air

Birds build no nests, nor in the sun Art thou , and as the sunshine fair;

Glæd streams come singing as they run: Born, like the lily, where the dew

A Maypole is thy blossom'd tree, Lies odorous when the day is new;

A beetle is thy murmuring bee; Fed 'mid the May-flowers like the bee,

Thy bird is cag'd, thy dove is where Nurs'd to sweet music on the knee,

Thy poulterer dwells, beside thy haro;
Lull'd in the breast to that glad tune

Thy fruit is pluck'd, and by the pound
Which winds make 'mong the woods of June: Hawk'd clamorous all the city round;
I sing of thee; - 'tis sweet to sing

No roses, twinborn on the stalk,
Of such a fair and gladsome thing.

Perfume thee in thy evening walk; Child of the town! for thee I sigh;

No voice of birds, but to thee comes A gilded roof's thy golden sky,

The mingled din of cars and drums, A carpet is thy daisied sod,

And startling cries, such as are rile A narrow street thy boundless road,

When wine and wassail waken strife. Thy rushing deer's the clattering tramp

Child of the country! on the lawn Of watchmen, thy best light's a lamp,

I see thee like the bounding fawn, Through smoke, and not through trellised vines Blithe as the bird which tries its wing And blooming trees, thy sunbeam shines: The first time on the winds of spring; I sing of thee in sadness; where

Bright as the sun when from the cloud Else is wreck wrought in aught so fair.

He comes as cocks are crowing loud; Child of the country! thy small feet

Now running, shouting, 'mid sunbeams, Tread on strawberries red and sweet;

Now groping trouts in lucid streams,
With thee I wander forth to see

Now spinning like a mill-wheel round,
The flowers which most delight the bee; Now hunting echo's empty sound,
The bush o'er which the throstle sung

Now climbing up some old tall tree
In April, while she nursed her young;

For climbing sake. 'Tis sweet to thee The den beneath the sloe-thorn, where

To sit where birds can sit alone,
She bred her twins the timorous hare;

Or share with thee thy venturous throne.
The knoll, wrought o'er with wild bluebells, Child of the town and bustling street,
Where brown bees build their balmy cells; What woes and snares await thy feet!
The greenwood stream, the shady pool, Thy paths are paved for five long miles,
Where trouts leap when the day is cool; Thy groves and hills are peaks and tiles;
The shilfa's nest that seems to be

Thy fragrant air is yon thick smoke,
A portion of the sheltering tree,

Which shrouds thee like a mourning cloak; And other marvels which my verse

And thou art cabin'd and contined, Can find no language to rehearse.

At once from sun, and dew, and wind;

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