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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,

lies! Thou hast the starry gems, the burning gold,

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

main! Earth claims not these again!

The bard hath ceased his song, and bound Yet more, the depths have more! thy waves The falchion 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

breast!
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 grare!

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

ing

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

gain,

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

Restore the dead, thou sea!

crown!

Cunningham.

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 Dichtern 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.

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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;

Glad 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 hare;
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 rife 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 confined, Can find no language to rehearse.

At once from sun, and dew, and wind;

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Each bird that shakes the dewy grove
Warms its wild note with nuptial love;
The bird, the bee, with various sound,
Proclaim the sweets of wedlock round.

Or set thy tottering feet but on
Thy lengthen'd walks of slippery stone;
The coachman there careering reels,
With goaded steeds and maddening wheels;
And Coinmerce pours each poring son
In pelf's pursuit and hollos' run:
While flush'd with wine, and stung at play,
Men rush from darkness into day.
The stream's too strong for thy small bark;
There nought can sail, save what is stark.

Fly from the town, sweet child! for health
Is happiness, and strength, and wealth.
There is a lesson in each flower,
A story in each stream and bower;
On every herb on which you tread
Are written words which, rightly read,
Will lead you from earth's fragrant sod,
To hope, and holiness, and God.

The Lass of Gleneslan-mill.
The laverock loves the dewy light,

The bee the balmy fox-glove fair;
The shepherd loves the glowing morn,

When song and sunshine fill the air :
But I love best the summer moon,

With all her stars, pure streaming still ;
For then, in light and love I meet,

The sweet lass of Gleneslan-inill.

The violets lay their blossoms low,

Beneath her white foot, on the plain;

Their fragrant heads the lilies wave,
Awake, my Love!

Of her superior presence fain.

O might I clasp her to my heart, Awake, my love! ere morning's ray

And of her ripe lips have my will!
Throws off night's weed of pilgrim grey; For loath to woo, and long to win,
Ere yet the hare, cower'd close from view,

Was she by green Gleneslan-mill.
Licks from her fleece the clover dew:
Or wild swan shakes her snowy wings,

Mute was the wind, soft fell the dew,
By hunters roused from secret springs:

O'er Blackwood brow bright glow'd the moon; Or birds upon the boughs awake,

Rills murmur'd music, and the stars Till green Arbigland's woodlands shake.

Refused to set our heads aboon:

Ye might have heard our beating hearts, She comb'd her curling ringlets down,

Our mixing breaths, all was so still,
Lac'd her green jupes, and clasp'd her shoon; Till morning's light shone on her locks,
And from her home, by Preston-burn,

Farewell, lass of Gleneslan-mill.
Came forth the rival light of morn.
The lark's song dropp'd, now loud, now Wert thou an idol all of gold,

hush,

Had I the eye of worldish care, The goldspink answer'd from the bush;

I could not think thee balf so sweet, The plover, fed on heather crop,

Look on thee so, or love thee mair. Call'd from the misty mountain top.

Till death's cold dewdrop dim mine eye,

This tongue be mute, this heart lie still, 'Tis sweet, she said, while thus the day

Thine every wish of joy and love,
Grows into gold from silvery grey,

My lass of green Gleneslan-mill!
To hearken heaven, and bush, and brake,
Instinct with soul of song awake;
To see the smoke, in many a wreath,
Stream blue from hall and bower beneath,
Where yon blithe mower hastes along
With glittering scythe and rustic song.

The Poet's Bridal-day Song. Yes, lovely one! and dost thou mark

O! my love's like the steadfast sun, The moral of yon carolling lark ?

Or streams that deepen as they run; Tak'st thou from Nature's counsellor tongue Nor hoary hairs, nor forty years, The warning precept of her song?

Nor moments between sighs and fears;

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Hunt.

James Henry Leigh Hunt, der Sohn eines Geistlichen der anglikanischen Kirche, ward am 19. October 1784 zu Southgate in Middlesex geboren, besuchte die Schule von Christ's Hospital und widmete sich dann literarischen Bestrebungen. Ein eifriger Anhänger der Reform hatte er harte Verfolgungen auszustehn, die er jedoch mannhaft überwand. Er lebte eine Zeit lang in Italien, in näherer Verbindung mit Lord Byron und kehrte dann nach England zurück, wo er vorzüglich bei Zeitschriften betheiligt ist.

Seine Dichtungen (Juvenilia, Feast of the Poets, Francesca da Rimini u. A. m.) erfreuen sich reicher Phantasie, grosser Lebliaftigkeit und warmen Gefühls, sind aber nicht immer frei von Affectation.

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