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Her locks, apparent tufts of wiry gold, Wo to the man on whom she unaware

Lay on her lily temples, fairly dangling, Did the dear witchery of her eye elance! And on each hair, so harmless to behold, 'Twas such a thrilling, killing, keen regard

A lover's soul hung mercilessly strangling; May Heaven from such a look preserve each The piping silly zephyrs vied to unfold

tender bard! The tresses in their arms so slim and

tangling, And thrid in sport these lover-noosing snares,

So on she rode in virgin majesty, And played at hide-and-seek amid the golden and with the light and grandeur of her eye

Charming the thin dead air to kiss her lips, hairs.

Shaming the proud sun into dim eclipse; While round her presence clustering far and

nigh, Her eye was as an honoured palace, where On horseback some, with silver spurs and A choir of lightsome Graces frisk and

whips, dance;

And some afoot with shoes of dazzling buckles, What object drew her gaze, how mean soe'er, Attended knights, and lairds, and clowns Got dignity and honour from the glance;

with horny knuckles.


Bernard Barton ward im Jahr 1784 geboren. Er stammte aus einer Quäkerfamilie, weshalb er seine erste Bildung in einem Quäkerseminar genoss, und der Quakerdichter genannt wurde. Im J. 1806 schlug er seinen Wohnsitz zu Woodbridge in Suffolk auf, wo er in ein Wechselgeschäft trat. 4842 veröffentlichte er einen Band Gedichte anonym, unter dem Titel: Metrical Effusions, welchem 1848 ein anderer Band folgte: Poems by an Amateur. Von seinen Freunden aufgemuntert, wagte er es endlich, ein Bändchen Gedichte unter seinem Namen herauszugeben, welche, von den literarischen Zeitschriften günstig beurtheilt, mehrere Auflagen erhielten. Um das Jahr 1826 veröffentlichte er „Napoleon and other Poems". Es sind seitdem mehrere Bände vermischte Gedichte von ihm erschienen, ohne jedoch seinen Ruf als Dichter zu erhöhen. Bernard Barton's Poesie trägt das Gepräge der Lauterkeit, eines frommen Gemüthes und der Milde der Secte an sich, welcher er angehört. Sein Styl ist etwas weitschweifig, im Allgemeinen aber anmuthig, fliessend und leicht, und obschon seine Sprache nicht reich an Gedanken oder originellen Bildern ist, so empfiehlt sie sich doch durch eine Wahrheit der Empfindung und einen natürlichen Ernst der Sitte, welche das Herz gewinnen und die Aufmerksamkeit fesseln.


Could I embody the thoughts which now What is it that stills the sigh of Sorrow,

Pass my soul's living tablet over,

No being more lovely and fair than thou And forbids her tears to flow? That allows the desolate-hearted to borrow Not deathly and pale, like a spectre stealing

Before mortal eye could hover: A transient relief from woe?

On the slumb’rer, whose eyes thy power It is thou, sweet Sleep! Oh then listen to me!

is sealing; Be it but in thy dreams, while I sing of thee.

But a form full of beauty, of joy, and grace, I love at such an hour to mark

And features with kindness bright, Their beauty greet the night breeze chill,
Such as a Raphael would love to trace; And shine, 'mid shadows gathering dark,
A creature of glory and light,

The garden's glory still.
With silvery cloud, to chasten each hue
Too radiant else, should arise to view.

For such, 'tis sweet to think the while,

When cares and griefs the breast invade,
Is friendship's animating smile

In sorrow's dark’ning shade.
Stanzas on the Sea.

o'er me,

Oh! I shall not forget, until memory depart, Thus it bursts forth, like thy pale cup,
When first I beheld it, the glow of my heart;
The wonder, the awe, the delight that stole And bears the sinking spirit up

Glist’ning amid its dewy tears,

Amid its chilling fears. When its billowy boundlessness opened be

fore me. I stood on its margin, or roamed on its strand, But still more animating far, I felt new ideas within me expand,

If meek Religion's eye may trace, Of glory and grandeur, unknown till that Even in the glimmering earth-born star,


The holier hope of Grace. And my spirit was mute in the presence of

power! In the surf-beaten sands that encircled it The hope, that as thy beauteous bloom


Expands to glad the close of day, In the billow's retreat, and the breaker's So through the shadows of the tomb


May break forth Mercy's ray. In its white drifted foam, and its dark

heaving green, Each moment I gazed, some fresh beauty

The Solitary Tomb. And that, while I wandered on ocean's bleak


Not a leaf of the tree which stood near me And surveyed its vast surface, and heard

was stirred, its waves roar,

Though a breath might have moved it so I seemed wrapt in a dream of romantic

lightly; delight,

Not a farewell note from a sweet singing And haunted by majesty, glory, and might!

bird Bade adieu to the sun setting brightly.

was seen.

The sky was cloudless and calm, except
To the Evening Primrose. In the west, where the sun was descending;

And there the rich tints of the rainbow Fair flower, that shunn'st the glare of day,

slept, Yet lov'st to open, meekly bold,

As his beams with their beauty were To evening's hues of sober gray

blending. Thy cup of paly gold;

And the evening star, with its ray clear, Be thine the offering owing long

So tremulous, soft, and tender, To thee, and to this pensive hour, Had lit up its lamp, and shot down from Of one brief tributary song,

its sphere Though transient as thy flower.

Its dewy delightful splendour.

I love to watch, at silent eve,

Thy scattered blossoms' lonely light, And have my inmost heart receive

The influence of that sight.

And I stood all alone on that gentle hill,

With a landscape so lovely before me; And its spirit and tone, so serene and still, | Seemed silently gathering o'er me.

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Yet in this rude school had his heart still

The Sky-Lark. kept

Bird of the free and fearless wing, All the freshness of gentle feeling; Up, up, and greet the sun's first ray, Nor in woman's warm eye has a tear ever Until the spacious welkin ring


With thy enlivening matin lay: More of softness and kindness revealing. I love to track thy heaven-ward lay:

Till thou art lost to aching sight, And here, when the bustle of youth was past,

And hear thy numbers blithe and gay, He lived, and he loved, and he died too;

Which set to music morning's light. Oh! why was affection, which death could

outlast, A more lengthened enjoyment denied to ? Songster of sky and cloud! to thee

Hath Heaven a joyous lot assign'd;

And thou, to hear those notes of glee, But here he slumbers! and many there are Wouldst seem there in thy bliss to find:

Who love that lone tomb and revere it ; Thou art the first to leave behind And one far off who, like eve's dewy star, At day's return this lower earth, Though at distance, in fancy dwells near it. And, soaring as on wings of wind,

To spring where light and life have birth.


Bird of the sweet and taintless hour,

When dew-drops spangle o'er the lea,
Ere yet upon the bending flower

to William and Mary Howitt.
Has lit the busy humming-bee;
Pure as all nature is to thee

The breath of Spring is stirring in the wood, Thou, with an instinct half divine,

Whose budding boughs confess the genial Wingest thy fearless flight so free

gale: Up toward a yet more glorious shrine.

And thrush and blackbird tell their tender Bird of the morn! from thee might man,

The hawthorn tree, that leafless long has Creation's lord, a lesson take:

stood, If thou, whose instinct always scan

Shows signs of blossoming; the streamlet's The glories that around thee break,

flood Thus bidd'st a sleeping world awake

Hath shrunk into its banks, and in each To joy and praise; oh! how much more

vale Should mind immortal earth forsake,

The lowly violet, and the primrose pale, A man look upward to adore!

Have lured the bee to seek his wonted

food. Bird of the happy heaven-ward song!

Then up! and to your forest hunts repair, Could but the poet act thy part,

Where Robin Hood once held his revels His soul, up-borne on wings as strong

gay; As thought can give, from might start,

Yours is the greensward smooth, and vocal And with a far diviner art

spray; Than ever genius can supply,

And I, as on your pilgrimage ye fare, As thou the ear, might glad the heart, In all your sylvan luxuries shall share And scatter music from the sky.

When I peruse them in your minstrel



William Knox wurde 1793 zu Edinburg geboren, wo sein Vater ein angesehener Yeoman (Freisasse) war. Unter dem Herzoge Buccleuch gelang es dem jungen Knox, bedeutenden Pachtereien vorzustehen, so dass er leider zu frühzeitig und unerfahren sein eigner Herr ward, und durch Verschwendung dem Verderben entgegeneilte. Er verlebte seine letzten Jahre in seines Vaters Hause zu Edinburg, wo er schon 1825 starb. Inmitten seiner jugendlichen Verirrungen hatte er sich doch stets als achtungsvoller Sohn und treuliebender Bruder erwiesen.

Knox war ein Dichter von bedeutendem Talent, wie sich dies aus folgenden seiner geistigen Erzeugnisse ergiebt: The Lonely Hearth; Songs of Israel; The Harp of Zion

Diese seine Dichtungen athmen biblische Einfachheit und Innigkeit der Empfindung. Namentlich giebt der junge Dichter ein schönes Zeugniss von der Tiefe and Fülle seines Herzens, bei einem besonderen Entscheidungspunkt seiner Familiengeschichte, in folgenden Versen:

u. a. m.

Opening of the 'Songs of Israel. They died — and this a world of wo,

of anxious doubt and chilling fear; Harp of Zion, pure and holy,

I wander onward to the tomb, Pride of Indah's eastern land,

With scarce a hope to linger here: May a child of guilt and folly

But with a prospect to rejoin Strike thee with a feeble hand ?

The friends beloved, that once were mine. May I to my bosom take thee,

Trembling from the prophet's touch, And with throbbing heart awake thee To the strains I love so much?

Dirge of Rachel. I have loved thy thrilling numbers,

(Genesis, XXXV. 19.) Since the dawn of childhood's day; Since a mother soothed my slumbers

And Rachel lies in Ephrath's land, With the cadence of thy lay;

Beneath her lonely oak of weeping; Since a little blooming sister

With mouldering heart and withering hand, Clung with transport round my knee, The sleep of death for ever sleeping. And my glowing spirit blessed her With a blessing caught from thee!

The spring comes smiling down the vale,

The lilies and the roses bringing; Mother sister both are sleeping

But Rachel never more shall hail Where no heaving hearts respire, The flowers that in the world are springing. Whilst the eve of age is creeping

Round the widowed spouse and sire. He and his, amid their sorrow,

The summer gives his radiant day, Find enjoyment in the strain :

And Jewish dames the dance are treading; Harp of Zion, let me borrow

But Rachel on her couch of clay, Comfort from thy chords again!

Sleeps all unheeded and unheeding.

The autumn's ripening sunbeam shines,

And reapers to the field is calling;

But Rachel's voice no longer joins
Conclusion of the 'Songs of Israel.'

The choral song at twilight's falling.
My song bath closed, the holy dream
That raised my thoughts o'er all below,

The winter sends his drenching shower, Hath faded like the lunar beam,

And sweeps his howling blast around her ; And left me 'mid a night of wo

But earthly storms possess no power

To break the slumber that hath bound her. To look and long, and sigh in vain For friends I ne'er shall meet again.

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