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The day, the hour, the sunshine, and the And the quick spirit of the universe
He held his dialogues; and they did teach All things pertaining to that place and hour, To him the magic of their mysteries : And her who was his destiny came back, To him the book of night was open'd wide, And thrust themselves between him and the light: And voices from the deep abyss reveal'd What business had they there at such a time? A marvel and a secret, - Be it so.
A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. My dream was past: it had no further change. The lady of his love, oh! she was changed It was of a strange order, that the doom As by the sickness of the soul: her mind Of these two creatures should be thus traced out Had wandered from its dwelling, and her eyes, Almost like a reality: the one They had not their own lustre, but the look To end in madness, — both in misery! Which is not of the earth: she was become The queen of a fantastic realm; her thoughts Were combinations of disjointed things; And forms -- impalpable and unperceived Of others' sight familiar were to hers. And this the world calls frenzy! but the wise · Have a far deeper madness; and the glance
Farewell. Of melancholy is a fearful gift:
Farewell! if ever fondest prayer What is it but the telescope of truth?
For others' weal avail'd on high, Which strips the distance of its phantasies,
Mine will not all be lost in air And brings life near in utter nakedness,
But waft thy name beyond the sky. Making the cold reality too real!
'Twere vain to speak, to weep, to sigh: A change came o’er the spirit of my dream.
Oh! more than tears of blood can tell, The wanderer was alone as heretofore;
When wrung from guilt's expiring eye, The beings which surrounded him were gone,
Are in that word - Farewell! Farewell! Or were at war with him! he was a mark For blight and desolation, -- compass'd round With hatred and contention : pain was mix'd These lips are mute, these eyes are dry; In all which was served up to him, until,
But in my breast, and in my brain, Like to the Pontic monarch of old days,
Awake the pangs that pass not by, He fed on poisons, and they had no power,
The thought that ne'er shall sleep again. But were a kind of nutriment: he lived
My soul nor deigns, nor dares complain, Through that which had been death to many men, Though grief and passion there rebel; And made him friends of mountains! with the I only know we loved in vain,
I only feel — Farewell! Farewell!
Robert Southey ward am 12. August 1774 in Bristol geboren, studirte zu Oxford Theologie und fasste darauf den Plan mit Coleridge und Lorell nach Amerika zu gehn und dort eine Pantisowacy zu gründen. Es wurde jedoch Nichts daraus und Southey machte nun eine Reise nach Lissabon, von der er nach sechs Monaten zurückkehrte, sich vermählte und fortan literarischen Beschäftigungen lebte. Während der Jahre 1800 und 1801 besuchte er nochmals Spanien und Portugal und wurde darauf bei seiner Zurückkunft Secretair des damaligen Kanzlers der Schatzkammer von Irland, Carry, legte aber 1803 dieses Amt nieder und zog sich nach Keswick in Camberland zurück. 1813 erhielt er die Bestallung eines Hofpoeten, ohne die Verpflichtung indessen den Geburtstag des Königs alljährlich mit einer Ode zu feiern und 1834 eine Pension von 300 Pfund Sterling. Er starb 1843.
Southey hat sehr viele poetische wie prosaische Schriften hinterlassen. Seine dichterischen Leistungen umschliessen mehrere epische Poesieen von grösserem Umfange, wie z. B. Thalaba, Madae, the curse of Kehama, Roderick; ein Trauerspiel Wat Tyler, viele lyrische Gedichte u. 8. v. Eine treffliche Auswahl aus denselben für die Jugend erschien London 1831 in 12. Gesammelt kamen seine poetischen Werke London 1820, 14 Bde in 8. heraus. Die Eigenschaften, welche ihn als Dichter auszeichnen, sind Reichthum der Phantasie, Geist, Lebendigkeit, Witz und Gefühl, aber es fehlt ihm an Ruhe und Besonnenheit; er lässt sich zu sehr vom Augenblicke hinreissen und giebt zu viel auf den ersten Eindruck. Er glänzt zu oft auf Kosten der Wahrheit und bleibend ist daher selten eine seiner Gestalten. Zu häufig bringt er bloss rhetorische Schönheit statt poetischer und glaubt zu genügen, wenn er die nackten Seiten seiner Stoffe durch schimmernden Flitter verhüllt. — Uebrigens ist er vollkommener Herr der Sprache, aber mehr ihr launenhafter Tyrann als ihr wohlwollender Gebieter.
Noch weit bedeutender als seine Dichtungen, sind seine Biographieen, namentlich seine Lebensbeschreibung Nelson's; hier ist er auch in den kleinsten Theilen ein bewährter Meister und ein edles Vorbild.
Back on the past he turns his eye;
Till she sunk with very weakness. Her old Remembering with an envious sigh
mother The happy dreams of Youth.
Omitted no kind office, working for her,
Albeit her hardest labour barely earn'd
Enough to keep life struggling, and prolong Of this our mortal pilgrimage,
The pains of grief and sickness. Thus she lay With feeble step and slow;
On the sick bed of poverty, worn out New ills that latter stage await,
With her long suffering and those painful thoughts And old Experience learns too late
Which at her heart were rankļing, and so weak, That all is vanity below.
That she could make no effort to express
Affection for her infant; and the child,
Whose lisping love perhaps had solaced her, Yet Age remembers with a sigh
Shunn'd her as one indifferent. But she too
Had grown indifferent to all things of earth;
sickness and grief, Her shame, her suffering, and her penitence:
Their work was done. The school-boys as they Hannah.
In the church-yard, for awhile might turn away Passing across a green and lonely lane
From the fresh grave till grass should cover it; A funeral met our view. It was not here Nature would do that office soon; and none A sight of every day, as in the streets
Who trod upon the senseless turf would think Of some great city, and we stopt and ask'd Of what a world of woes lay buried there! Whom they were bearing to the grave. A girl, They answer'd, of the village, who had pined Through the long course of eighteen painful
The Ebb tide.
Slowly thy flowing tide
With many a stroke and strong
Between thy winding shores.
Now down thine ebbing tide
And sings an idle song.
Now o'er the rocks that lay
Through wider-spreading shores.
Avon! I gaze and know
The lesson emblem'd in thy varying way; Nor did she, even on her death-bed, rest It speaks of human joys that rise so slow, From labour, knitting there with lifted arms,
So rapidly decay.
Kingdoms which long have stood, What a cold sickness made her blood run back And slow to strength and power attain'd at last, When first she heard the tidings of the fight: Thus from the summit of high fortune's flood Man does not know with what a dreadful hope Ebb to their ruin fast.
She listened to the names of those who died:
Man does not know, or, knowing, will not
His image who was gone. O God! be Thou,
The Battle of Blenheim.
It was a summer evening,
Old Kaspar's work was done,
Was sitting in the sun,
She saw her brother Peterkin
Roll something lurge and round,
In playing there had found;
Hark, how the church bells' thundering har
There was one who died
He, ocean deep,
Old Kaspar took it from the boy,
Who stood expectant by;
And with a natural sigh,
“I find them in the garden,
"For there's many here about; "And often when I go to plough,
“The ploughshare turns them out! “For many thousand men," said he, “Were slain in that great victory."
“Now tell us what 'twas all about,"
Young Peterkin he cries;
With wonder-waiting eyes;
"It was the English," Kaspar cried,
“Who put the French to rout;
“Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won,
"And our good prince Eugene." "Why, 'twas a very wicked thing!"
Said little Wilhelmine. “Nay • này my little girl," quoth he, “It was a famous victory.
O God! have mercy in this dreadful hour
On the poor mariner! in comfort here
Safe shelter'd as I am, I almost fear
What were it now to toss upon the waves,
And the wild sea that to the tempest raves :
And in the dread of death to think of her,
O God! have mercy on the mariner!
"And every body prais'd the Duke
"Who this great fight did win.” "But what good came of it at last?"
Quoth little Peterkin. "Why, that I cannot tell,” said he, "But 'twas a famous victory."
To a Bee.
Mary, the Maid of the Inn.
Who is yonder poor Maniac, whose wildlyfix'd Before the cow from her resting-place
Seem a heart overcharged to express?
She weeps not, yet often and deeply she sighs:
She never complains, but her silence implies Saw I thee, thou busy, busy Bee.
The composure of settled distress. Thou wert working late, thou busy, busy Bee!
After the fall of the Cistus flower; No pity she looks for, no alms does she seek; When the Primrose of evening was ready to burst, Nor for raiment nor food doth she care: