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Different from both! Yet each succeeding claim, Summer is gone: and autumn's soberer hues

I, that all other love had been forswearing, Tint the ripe fruits, and gild the waving Forthwith admitted, equal and the same;

corn; Nor injured either, by this love's comparing; The huntsman swift the flying game pursues, Nor stole a fraction for the newer call,

Shouts the halloo! and winds his eager horn. But in the mother's heart found room for all! "Spare me awhile, to wander forth and gaze

On the broad meadows, and the quiet stream,
To watch in silence while the evening rays
Slant through the fading trees with ruddy

gleam!
Cooler the breezes play around my brow;
I am content to die, but, oh! not now!"

The Child of Earth.

The bleak wind whistles: snow-showers, far and Fainter her slow step falls from day to day,

near, Death's hand is heavy on her darkening Drift without echo to the whitening ground:

brow;

Autumn hath passed away, and, cold and drear, Yet doth she fondly cling to earth, and say, Winter stalks on with frozen mantle bound:

"I am content to die, but, oh! not now! - Yet still that prayer ascends. “Oh! laugbingly Not while the blossoms of the joyous spring My little brothers round the warm hearth Make the warm air such luxury to breathe;

crowd, Not while the birds such lays of gladness sing; Our home-fire blazes broad, and bright, and Not while bright flowers around my footsteps

high, wreathe.

And the roof rings with voices light and Spare me, great God! lift up my drooping

loud: brow;

Spare me awhile! raise up my drooping brow! I am content to die, but, oh! not now!" I am content to die, but, oh! not now!"

The spring hath ripened into summer time; The spring is come again the joyful spring! The season's viewless boundary is past;

Again the banks with clustering flowers are The glorious sun hath reached his burning

spread; prime:

The wild bird dips upon its wanton wing: Oh! must this glimpse of beauty be the The child of earth is numbered with the dead!

last?

“Thee never more the sunshine sball awake, Let me not perish while o'er land and lea, Beaming all redly through the lattice-pane;

With silent steps, the Lord of light moves on; The steps of friends thy slumbers may not Not while the murmur of the mountain-bee

break, Greets my dull ear with music in its tone! Nor fond familiar voice arouse again! Pale sickness dims my eye and clouds my Death's silent shadow veils thy darkened brow;

brow;

Why didst thou linger? thou art happier I am content to die, but, oh! not now!"

now!"

Rogers.

Samuel Rogers ward 1762 in London geboren, wo sein Vater als Bankier lebte, erhielt eine sehr sorgfältige Bildung, machte grössere Rejsen und trat dann in das väterliche Geschäft ein, seinen fortwährenden Aufenthalt in London, nur dann und wann durch einen Ausflug nach dem Festlande unterbrechend. Nach einigen Angaben starb er bereits 1832, nach Anderen, und dies scheint das Richtigere zu sein, lebt er noch in sehr hohem Alter.

Er gab heraus: Ode on Superstition and other Poems. London 1786. The pleasures of Me-
mory, London 1792; Epistle to a Friend, London 1798; The vision of Columbus; Jacqueline;
Human Life, London 1819; Poems, London 1815; Italy, London 1822, 5. Aufl. London 1830;
Poems, London 1834, 2 Bde; u. A. m.
Sehr treffend characterisirt Sharon Turner ihn als Dichter in folgenden Zeilen :

Calm, elegant, correct, with finish'd touch,
That never leaves too little nor too much;
Attractive pictures and at times a gem
The Bard of Memory scatters round his stem,
A moral taste his graceful flower improves.
And strains melodious murmur as it moves;
Again thro' human life the music roves
And sweetly draws us to its ethic groves.

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To an old Oak.

The hour we met; and, when Aurora rose,

Rising, we climbed the rugged Apennine.
Round thee, alas! no shadows move,

Well I remember how the golden sun
From thee no sacred murmurs breathe!
Yet within thee, thyself a grove,

Filled, with its beams, the unfathomable gulphs,

As on we travelled, and along the ridge Once did the eagle scream above,

Mid groves of cork and cistus and wild fig, And the wolf howl beneath!

His motley household came. Not last nor least,

Battista, who upon the moonlight-sea There once the steel-clad knight reclined, Of Venice, had so ably, zealously

His sable plumage tempest-toss'd: Served, and, at parting, flung his oar away, And, as the death-bell smote the wind, To follow thro' the world; who without stain From towers long fled by human kind, Had worn so long that honourable badge, His brow the hero cross'd!

The gondolier's, in a patrician house,

Arguing unlimited trust. Not last nor least, Then culture came, and days serene,

Thou, tho' declining in thy beauty and strength,

Faithful Moretto, to the latest hour And village-sports, and garlands gay:

Guarding his chamber-door, and now along Full many a pathway cross'd the green,

The silent, sullen strand of Missolunghi
And maids and shepherd-youths were seen
To celebrate the May!

Howling in grief.

He had just left that place

Of old renown, once in the Adrian sea, Father of many a forest deep,

Ravenna; where, from Dante's sacred tomb Whence many a navy thunder fraught!

He had so oft, as many a verse declares, Erst in thy acorn-cells asleep,

Drawn inspiration; where at twilight-time Soon destined o'er the world to sweep, Thro' the pine-forest wandering with loose rein, Opening new spheres of thought!

Wandering and lost, he had so oft beheld

(What is not visible to a poet's eye?) Wont in the night of woods to dwell, The spectre-knight, the hell-hounds and their The holy Druid saw thee rise;

prey, And, planting there the guardian-spell, The chase, the slaughter, and the festal mirth Sung forth, the dreadful pomp to swell Suddenly blasted. 'Twas a theme he loved, Of human sacrifice!

But others claimed their turn: and many a

tower, Thy singed top and branches bare

Shattered, uprooted from its native rock, Now struggle in the evening sky;

It's strength the pride of some heroic age, And the wan moon wheels round to glare Appeared and vanished (many a sturdy steer On the long corse that shivers there

Yoked and unyoked) while as in happier days Of him who came to die!

He poured his spirit forth. The past forgot,

All was enjoyment. Not a cloud obscured
Present or future.

He is now at rest,
And praise and blame fall on his ear alike,

Now dull in death. Yes, Byron, thou art gone,

Gone like a star that thro' the firmament
Meeting with Lord Byron. Shot and was lost, in its eccentric course
A Fragment from Roger's Italy.

Dazzling, perplexing. Yet thy heart, methinks,
Was generous, noble

noble in its scorn
Much had passed

Of all things low or little; nothing there Since last we parted; and those five years, Sordid or servile. If imagined wrongs Much had they told! His clustering locks were Pursued thee, urging thee sometimes to do

turn'd

Things long regretted, oft, as many know, Grey, nor did aught recall the youth that swam None more than I, thy gratitude would build From Sestos to Abydos. Yet his voice,

On slight foundations: and, if in thy life Still it was sweet, still from his eye the thought Not happy, in thy death thou surely wert. Flashed lightning-like nor lingered on the way, Thy wish accomplished; dying in the land, Waiting for words. Far, far into the night Where thy young mind had caught ethereal fire, We sat, conversing no unwelcome hour, Dying in Greece and in a cause so glorious !

They in thy train ah little did they think, When round the Ark the birds of tempest As round we went, that they so soon should sit

wheel'd,
Mourning beside thee, while a nation mourned, When all was still in the destroying hour
Changing her festal for her funeral song; No trace of man! no vestige of its power!
That they so soon should hear the minute-gun,
As morning gleamed on what remained of thee,
Roll o'er the sea, the mountains, numbering
Thy years of joy and sorrow.

Thou art gone;

War and the Great in war let others sing, And he who would assail thee in thy grave,

Havoc and spoil, and tears and triumphing; Oh, let him pause! For who among us all,

The morning-march that flashes to the sun, Tried as thou wert even from thine earliest

The feast of vultures when the day is done; years,

And the strange tale of many slain for one! When wandering, yet unspoilt, a highland

I sing a Man amidst his sufferings here, boy

Who watch'd and serv'd in humbleness and fear; Tried as thou wert, and with thy soul of flame,

Gentle to others, to himself severe.
Pleasure, while yet the down was on thy cheek,
Uplifting, pressing, and to lips like thine

Still unsubdued by Danger's varying form,
Her charmed cup ah, who among us all
Could say he had not erred as much and more? Still

, as unconscious of the coming storm,
He look'd elate! His beard, his mien sublime,
Shadow'd by Age by Age before the time,
From many a sorrow borne in many a clime,
Mov'd every heart.

A Farewell.
Once more, enchanting girl, adieu !
I must be gone, while yet I may.
Oft shall I weep to think of you;
But here I will not, cannot stay.

The sweet expression of that face,
For ever changing, yet the same,
Ah no, I dare not turn to trace,
It melts my soul, it fires my frame!

Columbus.
Say who first pass'd the portals of the West,
And the great Secret of the Deep possess'd;
Who first the standard of his Faith unfurl'd
On the dread confines of an unknown World ;
Sung ere his coming and by Heav'n design'd
To lift the veil that cover'd half mankind!.
'Twas night. The Moon, o'er the wide wave,

disclos'a
Her awful face; and Nature's self reposed;
When, slowly rising in the azure sky,
Three white sails shone but to no mortal eye,
Entering a boundless sea. In slumber cast,
The very ship-boy, on the dizzy mast,
Half breath'd his orisons. Alone unchang'd
Calmly, beneath, the great Commander rang'd,
Thoughtful not sad. “Thy will be done!” he

cried
He spoke, and, at his call, a mighty Wind,
Not like the fitful blast, with fury blind,
But deep, majestic, in its destin'd course,
Rush'd with unerring, unrelenting force,
From the bright East. Tides duly ebb'd and

flow'd;
Stars rose and set; and new horizons glow'd;
Yet still it blew! As with primeval sway
Still did its ample spirit, night and day
Move on the waters !
Yet who but He undaunted could explore
A world of waves a sea without a shore,
Trackless and vast and wild as that reveal'd

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L and on.

Laetitia Elizabeth Landon (auf ihren frühern Werken nur durch die Initialen L. E. L. bezeichnet), ward 1804 in London geboren, erhielt eine sorgfältige Erziehung und zeichnete sich schon früh durch ihre dichterischen Fähigkeiten aus und trat zuerst um 1822 mit Poesieen hervor. Im Jahre 1838 vermählte sie sich mit George Maclean, dem Gouverneur von Cape-Coast-Castle und folgte diesem nach Südafrica, ward aber wenige Monate nachher am 15. October 1838 eines Morgens todt, ein Fläschchen mit Blausäure in der erstarrten Hand, an der Thür ihres Zimmers gefunden. Die Ursache ihres gewaltsamen Endes ist noch immer ein Räthsel. Vgl. The Life and Correspondence of L. E. L., London 1839, 3 Bde in 8.

Ihre vorzüglichsten Schriften sind: The Improvisatrice, London 1825 u. ö.; the Troubadour, the golden Bracelet, the golden Violet, London 1825 — 1827; the Vow of the Peacock, London 1835, sämmtlich grössere romantisch- epische Gedichte, denen eine Reihe kleinerer angehängt ist. Ausserdem hat sie noch mehrere Bände Erzählungen und Romane, und viele kleinere prosaische Aufsätze und Dichtungen für Zeitschriften und Almanache verfasst.

Eine überaus reiche Phantasie, Geschmack, Eleganz der Sprache und Harmonie des Verses sind die Hauptzierden ihrer Leistungen, deren Reiz oft durch eine melancholische Stimmung, die fast in ihren sämmtlichen Schriften vorwaltet, auf eigenthümliche Weise erhöht wird: doch war sie zu schöpferisch um ihren Arbeiten Tiefe und die nothwendige Vollendung geben zu können, was sie vielleicht erlangt haben würde, wenn ihr das Schicksal ein längeres, ungetrübtes Leben gestattet hätte.

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