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Is there not one not one to share The harvest of the rose, on Syria's plains,
Thy glorious royalty on high?

Is reaped for Venice; from the Indian vales I cannot choose but pity thee,

The sandal-wood is brought to burn in Venice; Thou lovely orphan of the sky.

The ambergris that floats on eastern seas,

And spice, and cinnamon, and pearls that lie I'd rather be the meanest flower

Deep in the gulf of Ormus, are for Venice; That grows, my mother earth, on thee, The Persian loom doth spread her silken floors; So there were others of my kin,

And the clear gems from far Golconda's mines To blossom, bloom, droop, die with me. Burn on the swanlike necks of her proud daugh

ters Earth, thou hast sorrow, grief, and death; For the fair wife of a Venetian noble

But with these better could I bear, Doth often bear upon her ivory arm
Than reach and rule yon radiant sphere, The ransom of a kingdom. By the sword,
And be a solitary there.

Drawn by the free and fearless; by the sail,
That sweeps the sea for riches, which are power,
The state of Venice is upheld: she is
A Christian Tyre, save that her sea-girt


Do fear no enemy, and dread no fall.

Morn on the Adriatic, bright and glad ! Morn on the Adriatic, every wave

And yet we are not joyful; there is here Is turned to light, and mimics the blue sky, A stronger influence than sweet Nature's joy: As if the ocean were another heaven;

The scene hath its own sorrow, and the heart Column, and tower, and fretted pinnacle Ponders the lessons of mortality Are white with sunshine; and the few soft shades Too gravely to be warmed by that delight Do but relieve the eye.

Born of the sun, and air, and morning prime.

The morning-time For we forget the present as we stand, The summer time, how beautiful they are ! So much beneath the shadow of the past: A buoyant spirit fills the natural world, And here the past is mighty. Memory And sheds its influence on humanity;

Lies heavy on the atmosphere around; Man draws his breath more lightly, and forgets There is the sea, but where now are the The weight of cares that made the night seem

ships long.

That bore the will of Venice round the world? How beautiful the summer, and the morn, Where are the sails that brought home victory When opening over forest and green field, And wealth from other nations? No glad prows Waking the singing birds, till every leaf Break up the waters into sparkling foam : Vibrates with music; and the flowers unfold, I only see some sluggish fishing-boats. Heavy and fragrant with their dewy sleep. There are the palaces, their marble fronts But here they only call to life and light Are grey and worn; and the rich furniture The far wide waste of waters, and the walls Is stripped from the bare walls; or else the moth Of a proud city, yet how beautiful!

Feeds on the velvet hangings. There they hang, Not the calm beauty of a woodland world, The many pictures of the beautiful, Fraught with sweet idleness and minstrel-dreams: The brave, the noble, who were once Venetians : But beauty which awakes the intellect

But hourly doth the damp destroy their colours, More than the feelings; that of power and And Titian's hues are faded as the face


From which he painted. With a downcast brow, Man's power, man's mind for never city Drawing his dark robė round him, which no

raised A prouder or a fairer brow than Venice, Hides the rich silk or gems, walks the Venetian; The daughter and the mistress of the sea. Proud, with a melancholy pride which dwells Far spread the ocean, but it spread to Only upon the glories of the dead;


And humble, with a bitter consciousness Her galleys o'er its depths, for war or wealth; Of present degradation. And raised upon foundations, which have robbed These are the things that tame the pride of The waters of its birthright, stand her halls. Now enter in her palaces: a world

The spectral writings on the wall of time, Has paid its tribute to their luxury;

Warnings from the Invisible, to show


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Man's destiny is not in his own hands.

Rubies, and lighted amber; and thence spread Cities and nations, each are in their turn A wide heath covered with thick furze, whose The mighty sacrifice which Time demands,

flowers, And offers up at the eternal throne,

So bright, are like the pleasures of this world, Signs of man's weakness, and man's vanity. Beautiful in the distance, but, once gained,

Little worth, piercing through the thorns which

Around them ever. Wilder and more steep
The banks upon the river's other side:
Tall pines rose up like warriors; the wild rose

Was there in all its luxury of bloom,
Roland's Tower.

Sown by the wind, nursed by the dew and sun:
O heaven, the deep fidelity of love! And on the steeps were crosses gray and old,

Which told the fate of some poor traveller.

The dells were filled with dwarfed oaks and firs; Where, like a courser starting from the spur,

And on the heights, which mastered all the rest, Rushes the deep-blue current of the Rhine,

Were castles, tenanted now by the owl, A little island rests; green cypresses

The spider's garrison : there is not one Are its chief growth, bending their heavy boughs Without some strange old legend of the days, O'er gray stones marking long-forgotten graves. When love was life and death, when lady's A convent once stood here; and yet remain

glove Relics of other times, pillars and walls,

Or sunny curl were banners of the battle. Worn away and discoloured, yet so hung

My history is of the tower which looks
With wreaths of ivy that the work of ruin

Upon the little island.
Is scarcely visible. How like this is
To the so false exterior of the world!

Lord Herbert sat him in his hall: the hearth Outside all looks so fresh and beautiful;

Was blazing as it mocked the storm without But mildew, rot and worm, work on beneath,

With its red cheerfulness: the dark hounds lay Until the heart is utterly decayed.

Around the fire; and the old knight had doffed There is one grave distinguished from the rest,

His hunting-cloak, and listened to the lute But only by a natural monument:

And song of the fair girl who at his knee A thousand deep-blue violets have grown Was seated. In the April-hour of life, Over the sod. - I do love violets :

When showers are led by rainbows and the heart They tell the history of woman's love;

Is all bloom and green leavés, was Isabelle: They open with the earliest breath of spring;

A band of pearls, white like the brow o'er which Lead a sweet life of perfume, dew and light;

They past, kept the bright curls from off the fore And, if they perish, perish with a sigh

head; thence Delicious as that life; on the hot June

They wandered to her feet a golden shower. They shed no perfume: the flowers may remain, She had that changing colour on the cheek But the rich breathing of their leaves is past;

Which speaks the heart so well; those decp-blue Like woman, they have lost their loveliest gift,

eyes, When yielding to the fiery hour of passion:

Like summer's darkest sky, but not so glad The violet-breath of love is purity.

They were too passionate for happiness.

Light was within her eyes, bloom on her cheek, On the shore opposite a tower stands

Her song had raised the spirit of her race In ruins, with a mourning-robe of moss Upon her eloquent brow. She had just told Hung on the gray and shattered walls, which of the young Roland's deeds, how he had fling

stood A shadow on the waters; it comes o'er Against a host and conquered; when there came The waves, all bright with sunshine, like the A pilgrim to the hall and never yet

Had stranger asked for shelter and in vain! Adversity throws on the heart's young gladness. The board was spread, the Rhenish flask was I saw the river on a summer-eve:


drained; The sun was setting over fields of corn, Again they gathered round the hearth, again 'Twas like a golden sea; and on the left The maiden raised her song; and at its close, Were vineyards, whence the grapes shone forth “I would give worlds,” she said, "to see this


like gems,


This gallant Roland ! I could deem him all Grew red with blood : Lord Herbert's banner A man must honour and a woman love!”

flies, “Lady, I pray thee, not recall those words, And gallant is the bearing of his ranks. For I am Roland!" From his face he threw But where is he who said tha would ride The hood and pilgrim's cloak, and a young At his right hand to battle? - Roland ! where


O where is Roland ? Knelt before Isabelle !

Isabelle bas watched Day after day, night after night, in vain,

Till she has wept in hopelessness and thought They loved; -- they were beloved. Oh, hap- Upon old histories, and said with them,


“There is no hope in man's fidelity !” I have said all that can be said of bliss, Isabelle stood upon her lonely tower; In saying that they loved. The young heart And as the evening-star rose up, she saw


An armed train bearing her father's banner Such store of wealth in its own fresh wild In triumph to the castle. Down she flew


To greet the victors: they had reached the And it is love that works the mind, and

hall brings

Before herself. What saw the maiden there? Its treasure to the light. I did love once A bier! -- her father laid upon that bier! Loved as youth

genius loves; Roland was kneeling by the side, his face

though now Bowed on his hands and hid; but Isabelle My heart is chilled with fear, and taught to Knew the dark curling hair and stately form,


And threw her on his breast. He shrank away That falsest of false things a mask of As she were death, or sickness, or despair.

smiles :

“'Isabelle ! it was I wbo slew thy father!" Yet every pulse throbs at the memory

She fell almost a corpse upon the body. Of that which has been! Love is like the glass, It was too true! With all a lover's speed, That throws its own rich colour over all, Roland had sought the thickest of the fight; And makes all beautiful. The morning looks He gained the field just as the crush began; Its very loveliest, when the fresh air

Unwitting of his colours, he had slain Has tinged the cheek we love with its glad red; the father of his worshipped Isabelle! And the hot noon flits by most rapidly,

They met once more;

and Isabelle was When dearest eyes gaze with us on the page

changed Bearing the poet's words of love: and then As much as if a lapse of years had past: The twilight-walk, when the linked arms can She was so thin, so pale and her dim eye


Had wept away its luxury of blue. The beating of the heart; upon the air

She had cut off her sunny hair, and wore There is a music never heard but once,

A robe of black, with a white crucifix: A light the eyes can never see again;

It told her destiny her youth was vowed Each star has its own prophecy of hope,

To Heaven. And in the convent of the isle And every song and tale that breathe of love That day she was to enter, Roland stood Seem echoes of the heart.

Like marble, cold and pale, and motionless :

The heavy sweat upon his brow was all

And time past by His sign of life. At length he snatched the As time will ever pass, when Love has lent

scarf His rainbow-plumes to aid his flight and That Isabelle had tied around his neck,


And gave it her and prayed that she would Had wedded with the summer, when a steed Stood at Lord Herbert's gate, and Isabelle Its white folds from the lattice of her cell Had wept farewell to Roland, and had given At each pale rising of the evening star, Her blue scarf for his colours. He was gone That he might know she lived. They parted: To raise his vassals, for Lord Herbert's towers

Never Were menaced with a siege; and he had sworn Those lovers met again! But Roland built By Isabelle's white hand, that he would claim A tower beside the Rhine, and there he dwelt. Its beauty only as a conqueror's prize.

And every evening saw the white scarf Autumn was on the woods, when the blue

waved, Rhine

And heard the vesper-hymn of Isabelle

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Float in deep sweetness o'er the silent river. And with it came the convent's heavy bell,
One evening, and he did not see the scarf, Tolling for a departed soul; and then
He watched and watched in vain; at length his He knew that Isabelle was dead! Next day


They laid her in her grave; and the moon Grew desperate, and he prayed his Isabelle Might have forgotten him: but midnight Upon a mourner weeping there : that tomb


Was Roland's death-bed!




George Croly ward um 1790 in Irland gehoren, studirte zu Dublin Theologie und wurde dann Prediger auf einem Dorfe, wo er in stiller Abgeschiedenheit seinem Amte und seinen Studien lebte. Später besuchte er London und dann nach dem Frieden von 1815 Deutschland und Frankreich. Nach seiner Rückkehr ertheilte ihm die Universität Dublin das Ehrendiplom eines Doctors der Philosophie und er verwaltete von Neuem ein geistliches Amt, welches er 1835 mit dem Rectorat von St. Stephens in Walbrook vertauschte, das ihm Lord Lyndhurst ertheilte.

Croly hat viel veröffentlicht — mehrere bedeutende theologische Werke abgerechnet wie z. B. Paris in 1815, a poem, the Angel of the World, grössere Dichtungen, Catilina, ein Trauerspiel ; Gems from the Antique, kleinere Poesieen, Sala thiel, ein philosophischer Roman u. A. m.

Ausserordentliche Kraft und eine erhabene Lebensanschauung, sowie Gedankenfülle und reiche Phantasie characterisiren seine Leistungen, aber es fehlt ihnen an Wärme und Gemütblichkeit und so haben sie weniger Verbreitung gefunden, als sie verdienen.

Pericles and Aspasia. This was the ruler of the land,

And his the sole, the sacred hand,
When Athens was the land of fame;

That shook her aegis o'er the land!
This was the light that led the band,
When each was like a living flame:

And thron'd immortal, by his side,
The centre of earth's noblest ring,

A woman sits, with eye sublime, Of more than men, the more than king! Aspa sia, all his spirit's bride;

But if their solemn love were crime,

Pity the beauty and the sage,
Yet, not by fetter, nor by spear,

Their crime was in their darken'd age.
His sovereignty was held or won;
Fear'd but alone as freemen fear;

He perish'd but his wreath was won
Loved, but as freemen love alone:

He perish'd on his height of fame! He waved the sceptre o'er his kind,

Then sank the cloud on Athens' sun; By Nature's first great title mind!

Yet still she conquer'd in his name.

Fill'd with his soul, she could not die
Resistless words were on his tongue;

Her conquest was posterity!
Then eloquence first flash'd belowi
Full arm'd to life the portent sprung,

Minerva, from the thunderer's brow!

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