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Each bird that shakes the dewy grove
Or set thy tottering feet but on
Fly from the town, sweet child! for health
The Lass of Gleneslan-mill.
The bee the balmy fox-glove fair;
When song and sunshine fill the air :
With all her stars, pure streaming still;
The sweet lass of Gleneslan-mill.
The violets lay their blossoms low,
Beneath her white foot, on the plain;
Their fragrant heads the lilies wave,
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!
Was she by green Gleneslan-mill.
Mute was the wind, soft fell the dew,
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,
Farewell, lass of Gleneslan-mill.
Had I the eye of worldish care, The goldspink answer'd from the bush;
I could not think thee half 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,
My lass of green Gleneslan-mill!
The Poet's Bridal-day Song. Yes, lovely one! and dost thou mark
0! 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;
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.
Taste, but with a reverent care;
See her whitest lilies
Chill the silver showers,
of the flowers.
Of a use the finest,
the teachers of the end of use;
Travellers, weary eyed, We are the sweet flowers,
Bless us, far and wide; Born of sunny showers,
Unto sick and prison'd thoughts we give sudden (Think, whene'er you see us, what our beauty
Not a poor town window Utterance, mute and bright,
Loves its sickliest planting, Of some unknown delight,
But its wall speaks loftier truth than Babylonian We fill the air with pleasure, by our simple
vaunting breath. All who see us love us, We befit all places:
Sagest yet the uses, Unto sorrow we give smiles,
and unto graces,
Mix'd with our sweet juices, graces.
Whether man, or May-fly, profit of the balm;
As fair fingers heal'd
Knights from the olden field, Mark our ways, how noiseless
We hold cups of mightiest force to give the All, and sweetly voiceless,
wildest calm. Though the March-winds pipe, to make our pas
Ev'n the terror, poison, sage clear;
Hath its plea for blooming; Not a whisper tells
Life it gives to reverent lips, though death to Where our small seed dwells,
the presuming. Nor is known the moment green, when our tips
And oh! our sweet soul-taker,
That thief, the honey maker,
In his talking rooms a - top, sweet flowers.
How the feasting fumes,
Till the gold cups overflow to the mouths of men!
The butterflies come aping
Those fine thieves of ours,
flowers with flowers. The honey-dropping moon, On a night in June,
See those tops, how beauteous! Kisses our pale pathway leaves, that felt the
What fair service duteous
Elfin court 'twould seem;
And taught, perchance, that dream childhood's daisies. Which the old Greek mountain dreamt, upon
To expound such wonder
Human speech avails not;
Think of all these treasures,
Every one a marvel, more than thought can say;
Then think in what bright show'rs
Oh! pray believe that angels We thicken fields and bow'rs,
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. Think of the mossy forests
By the bee-birds haunted,