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 Lebhaftigkeit und warmen Gefühls, sind aber nicht immer frei von Affectation. Humming with the May-bee, See her whitest lilies Chill the silver showers, 299 And what a red mouth is her rose, the woman of the flowers. Knights from the olden field, hold cups of mightiest force to give the wildest calm. Ev'n the terror, poison, Hath its plea for blooming; Life it gives to reverent lips, though death to the presuming. And oh! our sweet soul-taker, That thief, the honey maker, What a house hath he, by the thymy glen! How the feasting fumes, Till the gold cups overflow to the mouths of men! The butterflies come aping Those fine thieves of ours, Hails us with his bright stare, stumbling through And flutter round our rifled tops, like tickled the grass; The honey-dropping moon, On a night in June, Kisses our pale pathway leaves, that felt the bridegroom pass. Age, the wither'd clinger, On us mutely gazes, And wraps the thought of his last bed in his childhood's daisies. See (and scorn all duller Taste) how heav'n loves colour; flowers with flowers. To expound such wonder How great Nature, clearly, joys in red and Yet there dies no poorest weed, that such a glory Then think in what bright show'rs We thicken fields and bow'rs, Oh! pray believe that angels From those blue dominions, And with what heaps of sweetness half stifle Brought us in their white laps down, 'twixt their wanton May: golden pinions. Yes, still he's fix'd, and sleeping! Seems going by one's ear, The leap was quick, return was quick, he has regain'd the place, Then threw the glove, but not with love, right in the lady's face. "By God!" cried Francis, "rightly done!" and he rose from where he sat; "No love," quoth he, "but vanity sets love a task like that!" The Glove and the Lions. King Francis was a hearty king, and lov'd a royal sport, The nobles fill'd the And one day, as his lions fought, sat looking on the court; benches round, the ladies by their side, sat the Count de Lorge, with one for whom he sigh'd: And truly 'twas a gallant thing to see that crowning show, And 'mongst them Valour and love, and a king above, and the royal beasts below. Ramp'd and roar'd the lions, with horrid laughing jaws; They bit, they glared, gave blows like beams, a wind went with their paws; With wallowing might and stifled roar, they roll'd on one another, Till all the pit, with sand and mane, was in a thunderous smother; The bloody foam above the bars came whizzing through the air: Said Francis, then, "Faith gentlemen, we're better here than there." De Lorge's love o'erheard the king, a beauteous, lively dame, With smiling lips and sharp bright eyes, which always seem'd the same; She thought, The count, my lover, is brave as brave can be He surely would do wondrous things to show his love of me: King, ladies, lovers, all look on; the occasion is divine, I'll drop my glove, to prove his love; great glory will be mine. She dropp'd her glove, to prove his love, then look'd at him and smil'd; He bow'd, and in a moment leap'd among the lions wild: Amazing monster! that, for aught I know, race For ever stare! O flat and shocking face, Grimly divided from the breast below! Thou, that on dry land horribly dost go With a split body, and most ridiculous pace Prong after prong, disgracer of all grace, Long-useless-finn'd, hair'd, upright, unwet, slow! O breather of unbreathable, sword-ship air, How canst exist! How bear thyself, thou dry I sometimes see of ye an actual pair Abou Ben Adhem and the Angel. Lord," "And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so;" Man's life is warm, glad, sad, 'twixt loves and Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low, graves, But cheerly still; and said, "I pray thee, then, Boundless in hope, honour'd with pangs Write me as one that loves his fellow-men." austere, Heaven-gazing; and his angel-wings he craves:- A cold sweet silver life, wrapp'd in round waves, The angel wrote and vanish'd. The next night And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest. Norton. Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton, die Tochter von Thomas und die Enkelin von Richard Brinsley Sheridan, ward in London 1808 geboren, vermählte sich in ihrem neunzehnten Jahre mit dem Hon. George Chapple Norton und ward später von ihm, nach englischer Sitte, öffentlich vor Gericht der Untreue angeklagt, ging aber rein und fleckenlos aus diesem skandalösen Process, dem, wie es hiess, eine politische Intrigue zu Grunde lag, hervor. Eine Trennung von ihrem Gatten erfolgte; Mistress Norton nahm darauf ihren Wohnsitz auf längere Zeit in Paris. Sie hat zwei grössere Dichtungen The Sorrows of Rosalie und the Undying One, so wie viele kleinere lyrische Poesieen geschrieben, die sich sämmtlich durch Grazie, Energie und Gedankenfülle, weniger jedoch durch schöpferische Phantasie auszeichnen. Low she lies, who blest our eyes She may not smile, she will not rise, Yet there is a world of light beyond, Where we neither die nor sleep; The Mourners. She is there, of whom our souls were fend, The heart is cold, whose thoughts were told And she lies pale, who was so bright, |