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I gazed on that star last night - it shook, We sit by the Miser's treasure-chest,
And near his bed
And we watch his anxious heart's unrest, And a mist is over its beams.
And in mockery tread
And laugh when we hear his frightened shout I have read thy fate in a flowery braid;
Of dread I hung it on a tree –
Lest the gnomes, who once o'er his gold I saw one bright rose fall and fade,
did reign, 'Twas the blossom I named for thee!
To his hoards, to claim it back again,
Have sped. But mostly thy fortune I can tell,
From thy happiness and mirth,
To-day is ours;
By a fountain's showers,
Reading the April sky's sweet book,
Written by the hours,
Thinking those glorious thoughts that grow
Untutored up in life's fresh glow,
We will catch the richest, brightest hue
Of the rainbow's rim;
The purest cloud that 'midst the blue
Of Heaven doth swim;
The clearest star-beam that shall be
In a dew-drop shrined, when the twilight sea
And a spirit of love about them breathe, We come where the Babe, on its mother's And twine them all in a magic wreath breast,
And o'er her sleep
The Messenger Thought.
I send a thought to thee,
Far over land and sea;
Beloved! in thy breast?
The winged and burning power the lightning That falls so lightly on the grass,
hath; We scarcely hear its echo pass;
Through night and storm and tempest is its And we put
path; In his heart all hopes, the radiant-crowned, Ah! shall its radiance fall And hang sweet tones, and voices round Upon thy soul and wake a thrilling start His lute.
Of memory in thy heart?
I send it a full glance
I will believe the dream From the soul' eye, that shall, without a word, Will fancy I can rule thy thoughts with mine; Cause all thy spirit inly to be stirred, That I have power on that high soul of thine, Then bring a magic trance,
Though vain the vision seem A momentary spell of deep delight To those who know not how my every thought Upon the heart to-night.
Is with thine image franght.
"T is gone! Doth not it reach
Ah could that thought return! With its swift flight its destined haven now? Return and bring some token of its stay! Doth it not whisper blessing, trust and vow Vain hope! it loves too dearly to delay, In its own wordless speech?
Where my full heart doth yearn, Doth not its viewless stress thy soul compel Even unto aching, at this hour to be Even now on mine to dwell?
With thee, beloved, with thee!
S wa i n.
Charles Swain wurde zu Manchester im Jahre 1803 geboren. Obgleich es ihm nicht vergönnt war, in seiner frühen Jugend eine wissenschaftliche Bildung zu erlangen, indem er zunächst die Färberei erlernte und dann Kupferstecher und Steinzeichner wurde, so war ihm doch die Muse der Dichtung nicht unhold, und er zeichnete sich bald durch einen nicht gewöhnlichen poetischen Aufschwung aus, wovon seine ziemlich zahlreichen Geistesproducte Zeugniss geben. So erschien im Jahre 1827 Metrical Essays on Subjects of History and Imagination, 1844 The Mind and other Poems; ferner English Melodies, und 1848 Dramatic Chapters, Poems and Songs.
Obschon Swains Poesieen nicht ersten Ranges sind, so besitzen sie doch einen gewissen Reichthum der Gedanken, Innigkeit des Gefühls, und eine fliessende, schöne Diction.
Smiling between bank and brook,
Silent speakers unto man,
Of the world to be!
The Death of the Warrior King.
There are noble heads bowed down and pale, Happy children ye!
Deep sounds of wo arise,
Where a wounded warrior lies;
The hue of death is gathering dark How ye roam and race
Upon his lofty brow, Up the valley - up the hill
And the arm of might and valour falls, With an everchanging will,
Weak as an infan's now.
Like a bright and leading star,
And flew the bolts of war. Bold adventurers ye!
When, in his plenitude of power
He trod the Holy Land,
I saw the routed Saracens
Flee from his blood-dark brand.
Forsake the festive throng,
And give his soul to song; In melodious key;
For dearly as he loved renown, Blooming where no step is heard
He loved that spell-wrought strain Save the light foot of some bird : Which bade the brave of perished days Favoured children ye!
Light conquest's torch again.
Flowers ! sweet Flora's children!
How ye dance and twine
An exhaustless line!
Offering incense free;
Then seemed the bard to cope with Time,
And triumph o'er his doom
Oblivion's mighty tomb!
Like lions to the fight,
Flowers! sweet Flora's children!
Loved by moon and star;
Many a footstep far!
For ye seem to me
But battle shout and waving plume,
The drum's heart-stirring beat;
The rush of million feet,
Which told of victories o'er,
shall hear no more!
It was the hour of deep midnight,
In the dim and quiet sky,
Charles Mackay ist einer der beliebtesten Dichter der Gegenwart, der sich namentlich nach Pope und Goldsmith gebildet hat. Zu seinen ersten dichterischen Leistungen gehört „Egeria, the Spirit of Nature and other Poems. Im Jahre 1840 veröffentlichte er The Hope of the World and other Poems,“ so wie „Legends of the Isles and other Poems. Ein grösseres Gedicht unter dem Titel Salamandrine liess er 1842 erscheinen.
Neben diesen poetischen Werken hat Mackay auch mehreres Prosaische geschrieben, wie History of London, Longbeard, Lord of London, a Romance in 3 Bdn.; Memoirs of Extraordinary Popular Delusions, 3 Bde. und Thomas and its Tributaries, 2 Bde.
Reinheit und Wärme der Gesinnung, Einfachheit, Würde und Anmuth der Sprache verleihen seinen dichterischen Schöpfuugen einen bleibenden Werth, und weisen ihrem Verfasser eine ehrenvolle Stelle unter den lebenden Dichtern seiner Nation an.
The Autumn Leaf. Poor autumn leaf! down floating
Upon the blustering gale ;
Torn from thy bough,
Where goest now,
I go, thou sad inquirer,
Yes, Peace and Love might build a nest As list the winds to blow,
For us amid these vales serene, Sear, sapless, lost,
And Truth should be our constant guest And tempest-tost,
Among these pleasant wild-woods green. I go where all things go.
My heart should never nurse again
The once fond dreams of young Ambition,
And Glory's light should lure in vain, The rude winds bear me onward
Lest it should lead to Love's perdition; As suiteth them, not me,
Another light should round me shine,
Beloved, from those eyes of thine!'
'Ah, Gilbert! happy should I be
This hour to die, lest fate reveal What though for me one summer,
That life can never give a joy And threescore for thy breath
Such as the joy that now I feel. I live my span,
Oh! happy! happy! now to die, Thou thine, poor man!
And go before thee to the sky;
Losing, may be, some charm of life,
And, watching for thy soul above,
There to renew more perfect love, For lofty as thy lot,
Without the pain and tears of this And lowly mine,
Eternal, never palling bliss! My fate is thine,
And more she yet would say, and strives to To die and be forgot!'
speak, fast tears begin to course her
And sobs to choke her; so, reclining still The Parting of Lovers.
Her head upon his breast, she weeps her
fill: [From the Salamandrine.]
And all so lovely in those joyous tears
To his impassioned eyes the maid appears ; Now, from his eastern couch, the sun, He cannot dry them, nor one word essay
Erewhile in cloud and vapour hidden, To soothe such sorrow from her heart away. Rose in his robes of glory dight; And skywards, to salute his light, Upsprung a choir, unbidden,
At last she lifts her drooping head, Of joyous larks, that, as they shook
And, with her delicate fingers, dashes The dewdrops from their russet pinions, The tears away that hang like pearls Pealed forth a hymn so glad and clear, Upon her soft eyes' silken lashes: That darkness might have paused to hear Then hand in hand they take their way
(Pale sentinel on morn's dominions), O’er the green meadow gemmed with dew, And envied her the flood of song
And up the hill, and through the wood, Those happy minstrels poured along.
And by the streamlet, bright and blue, And sit them down upon a stone
With mantling mosses overgrown, The lovers listened. Earth and heaven That stands beside her cottage door,
Seemed pleased alike to hear the strain; And oft repeat, And Gilbert, in that genial hour,
When next they meet, Forgot his momentary pain:
That time shall never part them more. ‘Happy', said he, beloved maid,
Our lives might flow 'mid scenes like this;
And all her sorrow, who can tell ?
His last and passionate farewell?
With thy dear image in my heart: