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I gazed on that star last night - it shook, We sit by the Miser's treasure-chest,
And though it still faintly gleams,

And near his bed
It looks not as it wont to look,

And we watch his anxious heart's unrest, And a mist is over its beams.

And in mockery tread
With a seeming heavy step about;

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,
For when did bliss so perfect dwell But a sunnier scene and a brighter sky
More than an instant on earth?

To-day is ours;
We have seen a youthful Poet lie

By a fountain's showers,
With his up-turned eyes and his dreamy

look,
The Song of Dreams.

Reading the April sky's sweet book,

Written by the hours,
In the rosy glow of the evening cloud,
In the twilight's gloom

Thinking those glorious thoughts that grow

Untutored up in life's fresh glow,
In the sultry noon, when the flowers are
bowed,

Like flowers,
And the streams are dumb
In the morning's beam, when the faint stars

die

We will catch the richest, brightest hue

Of the rainbow's rim;
On the brightening flood of the azure sky
We come!

The purest cloud that 'midst the blue

Of Heaven doth swim;
Weavers of shadowy hopes and fears,
Darkeners of smiles, brighteners of tears,

The clearest star-beam that shall be
We come!

In a dew-drop shrined, when the twilight sea

Grows dim;

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,

For him!
Lies in slumber deep
We flit by the maiden's couch of rest,

And o'er her sleep
We float, like the honey-laden bees,
On the soft, warm breath of the languid

breeze;

The Messenger Thought.
Hues, more beautiful than we bring,
From her lip and her cheek, for each wander- The deep, unspoken essence of my love;

I send a thought to thee,
ing wing I send it like a home-returning dove
To keep.

Far over land and sea;
Ah! shall it reach thee? shall it find a nest,

Beloved! in thy breast?
We linger about the Lover's bower,

Hovering mute,
When he looks to the west for the sunset hour, I send it forth with all
And lists for the foot

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?

And weep

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.

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Smiling between bank and brook,

Silent speakers unto man,
Mossy marge, and woody nook,

Of the world to be!
Where the linnets sing:
Climbing hedge-row, bush and brier,
As your spirit ne'er would tire
Over lane and lea;

The Death of the Warrior King.
Full of life, and full of mirth,
Ye alone enjoy the earth,

There are noble heads bowed down and pale, Happy children ye!

Deep sounds of wo arise,
And tears flow fast around the couch

Where a wounded warrior lies;
Flowers! sweet Flora's children!

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.
Hunting every place:
Hanging half-way down the steep,
Where not e'en the stag dare leap, I saw him 'mid the battling hosts,
In your reckless glee;

Like a bright and leading star,
Or, where snows eternal blanch, Where banner, helm, and falchion gleamed,
Listening to the avalanche,

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
Flowers! sweet Flora's children!

Flee from his blood-dark brand.
How ye love to meet
Far away from human sound,
Making Natüre hallowed ground, I saw him in the banquet hour
Even loneness sweet:

Forsake the festive throng,
Where some fount, 'mid mountain springs, To seek his favourite minstrels 'haunt,
Singing falls, and falling sings

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
With the loveliest born of spring,
Moving in an endless ring

An exhaustless line!
Sometimes shy and singly seen
Like some nur in cloister green,

Offering incense free;
Sometimes over marsh and moor,
Resting by the cottage door,

Welcomers ye!

Then seemed the bard to cope with Time,

And triumph o'er his doom
Another world in freshness burst

Oblivion's mighty tomb!
Again bardy Britons ruhed

Like lions to the fight,
While horse and foot, helm, shield, and lance,
Swept by his visioned sight!

Flowers! sweet Flora's children!

Loved by moon and star;
Loved by little ramblers 'lone,
Seated on some grassy stone,

Many a footstep far!
Loved by all that God hath made,
All that ever watched and prayed,

For ye seem to me
In your bright and boundless span,

But battle shout and waving plume,

The drum's heart-stirring beat;
The glittering pomp of prosperous war,

The rush of million feet,
The magic of the minstrel's song,

Which told of victories o'er,
Are sights and sounds the dying king
Shall see

shall hear no more!

It was the hour of deep midnight,

In the dim and quiet sky,

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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,
Withered, and shrunk, and pale?

But warm,

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,
O'er dale, o'er hill,

Beloved, from those eyes of thine!'
Through good, through ill,
As destiny bears thee.

'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;
And then adown to death?

Losing, may be, some charm of life,
But yet escaping all its strife;

And, watching for thy soul above,
And thus we go together ;

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

cheek,

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;
Still eve might bring us dreams of joy, He's gone! Ah no! he lingers yet,
And morn awaken us to bliss.

And all her sorrow, who can tell ?
I could forgive thy jealous brother; As gazing on her face he takes
And Mora's quiet shades might be

His last and passionate farewell?
Blessed with the love of one another, 'One kiss! said he, 'and I depart
A Paradise' to thee and me.

With thy dear image in my heart:

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