The earnest tearful prayer all wrath disarming!
When first thou camest, gentle, shy, and fond, Again my heart a new affection found,
My eldest-born, first hope, and dearest treasure,
My heart received thee with a joy beyond
All that it yet had felt of earthly pleasure; Nor thought any love again might be So deep and strong as that I felt for thee.
But thought that love with thee had reach'd its bound.
At length thou camest; thou, the last and least; Nick-named "the Emperor," by thy laughing brothers,
Because a haughty spirit swell'd thy breast, And thou didst seek to rule and sway the others; Mingling with every playful infant wile A mimic majesty that made us smile:
And oh! most like a regal child wert thou! An eye of resolute and successful scheming;
Haunting my walks, while summer-day was Fair shoulders curling lip and dauntless
Nor leaving in thy turn: but pleased to glide
Thro' the dark room where I was sadly lying,
Or by the couch of pain, a sitter meek,
Fit for the world's strife, not for Poet's dreaming:
And proud the lifting of thy stately head,
Watch the dim eye, and kiss the feverish cheek. And the firm bearing of thy conscious tread.
Different from both! Yet each succeeding claim, Summer is gone: and autumn's soberer hues
I, that all other love had been forswearing, Forthwith admitted, equal and the same;
Nor injured either, by this love's comparing; Nor stole a fraction for the newer call,
Tint the ripe fruits, and gild the waving
The huntsman swift the flying game pursues, Shouts the halloo! and winds his eager horn.
But in the mother's heart found room for all! "Spare me awhile, to wander forth and gaze
The Child of Earth. Fainter her slow step falls from day to day, Death's hand is heavy on her darkening brow;
Yet doth she fondly cling to earth, and say, "I am content to die, but, oh! not now! Not while the blossoms of the joyous spring Make the warm air such luxury to breathe;
On the broad meadows, and the quiet stream, To watch in silence while the evening rays Slant through the fading trees with ruddy gleam!
Cooler the breezes play around my brow; I am content to die, but, oh! not now!"
The bleak wind whistles: snow-showers, far and near,
Drift without echo to the whitening ground: Autumn hath passed away, and, cold and drear, Winter stalks on with frozen mantle bound: Yet still that prayer ascends. "Oh! laughingly My little brothers round the warm hearth crowd,
Not while the birds such lays of gladness sing; Our home-fire blazes broad, and bright, and Not while bright flowers around my footsteps
Samuel Rogers ward 1762 in London geboren, wo sein Vater als Bankier lebte, erhielt eine sehr sorgfältige Bildung, machte grössere Rejsen und trat dann in das väterliche Geschäft ein, seinen fortwährenden Aufenthalt in London, nur dann und wann durch einen Ausflug nach dem Festlande unterbrechend. Nach einigen Angaben starb er bereits 1832, nach Anderen, und dies scheint das Richtigere zu sein, lebt er noch in sehr hohem Alter.
Er gab heraus: Ode on Superstition and other Poems. London 1786. The pleasures of Memory, London 1792; Epistle to a Friend, London 1798; The vision of Columbus; Jacqueline; Human Life, London 1819; Poems, London 1815; Italy, London 1822, 5. Aufl. London 1830; Poems, London 1834, 2 Bde; u. A. m.
Sehr treffend characterisirt Sharon Turner ihn als Dichter in folgenden Zeilen:
Calm, elegant, correct, with finish'd touch, That never leaves too little nor too much; Attractive pictures and at times a gem The Bard of Memory scatters round his stem, A moral taste his graceful flower improves. And strains melodious murmur as it moves; Again thro' human life the music roves And sweetly draws us to its ethic groves.
Round thee, alas! no shadows move, From thee no sacred murmurs breathe! Yet within thee, thyself a grove, Once did the eagle scream above, And the wolf howl beneath!
There once the steel-clad knight reclined, His sable plumage tempest-toss'd: And, as the death-bell smote the wind, From towers long fled by human kind, His brow the hero cross'd!
Then culture came, and days serene,
And village-sports, and garlands gay: Full many a pathway cross'd the green, And maids and shepherd-youths were seen To celebrate the May!
Father of many a forest deep,
Whence many a navy thunder fraught! Erst in thy acorn-cells asleep, Soon destined o'er the world to sweep, Opening new spheres of thought!
Wont in the night of woods to dwell, The holy Druid saw thee rise; And, planting there the guardian-spell, Sung forth, the dreadful pomp to swell Of human sacrifice!
Thy singed top and branches bare
Now struggle in the evening sky; And the wan moon wheels round to glare On the long corse that shivers there Of him who came to die!
Meeting with Lord Byron.
A Fragment from Roger's Italy. Much had passed
Since last we parted; and those five years, Much had they told! His clustering locks were
The hour we met; and, when Aurora rose, Rising, we climbed the rugged Apennine. Well I remember how the golden sun Filled, with its beams, the unfathomable gulphs, As on we travelled, and along the ridge Mid groves of cork and cistus and wild fig, His motley household came. Not last nor least, Battista, who upon the moonlight-sea Of Venice, had so ably, zealously Served, and, at parting, flung his oar away, To follow thro' the world; who without stain Had worn so long that honourable badge, The gondolier's, in a patrician house, Arguing unlimited trust. — Not last nor least, Thou, tho' declining in thy beauty and strength, Faithful Moretto, to the latest hour Guarding his chamber-door, and now along The silent, sullen strand of Missolunghi Howling in grief.
He had just left that place
Of old renown, once in the Adrian sea, Ravenna; where, from Dante's sacred tomb He had so oft, as many a verse declares, Drawn inspiration; where at twilight-time Thro' the pine-forest wandering with loose rein, Wandering and lost, he had so oft beheld (What is not visible to a poet's eye?) The spectre-knight, the hell-hounds and their prey,
The chase, the slaughter, and the festal mirth Suddenly blasted. 'Twas a theme he loved, But others claimed their turn: and many a tower,
Shattered, uprooted from its native rock, It's strength the pride of some heroic age, Appeared and vanished (many a sturdy steer Yoked and unyoked) while as in happier days He poured his spirit forth. The past forgot, All was enjoyment. Not a cloud obscured Present or future.
And praise and blame fall on his ear alike, Now dull in death. Yes, Byron, thou art gone, Gone like a star that thro' the firmament Shot and was lost, in its eccentric course Dazzling, perplexing. Yet thy heart, methinks, Was generous, noble noble in its scorn Of all things low or little; nothing there Sordid or servile. If imagined wrongs Pursued thee, urging thee sometimes to do Things long regretted, oft, as many know,
Grey, nor did aught recall the youth that swam None more than I, thy gratitude would build From Sestos to Abydos. Yet his voice, Still it was sweet, still from his eye the thought Flashed lightning-like nor lingered on the way, Waiting for words. Far, far into the night We sat, conversing no unwelcome hour,
On slight foundations: and, if in thy life Not happy, in thy death thou surely wert. Thy wish accomplished; dying in the land, Where thy young mind had caught ethereal fire, Dying in Greece and in a cause so glorious!
When all was still in the destroying hour No trace of man! no vestige of its power!
They in thy train ah little did they think, When round the Ark the birds As round we went, that they so soon should sit Mourning beside thee, while a nation mourned, Changing her festal for her funeral song; That they so soon should hear the minute-gun, As morning gleamed on what remained of thee, Roll o'er the sea, the mountains, numbering Thy years of joy and sorrow.
Thou art gone; And he who would assail thee in thy grave, Oh, let him pause! For who among us all, Tried as thou wert even from thine earliest years,
When wandering, yet unspoilt, a highland- boy
Tried as thou wert, and with thy soul of flame, Pleasure, while yet the down was on thy cheek, Uplifting, pressing, and to lips like thine Her charmed cup ah, who among us all Could say he had not erred as much and more?
War and the Great in war let others sing, Havoc and spoil, and tears and triumphing; The morning-march that flashes to the sun, The feast of vultures when the day is done; And the strange tale of many slain for one! I sing a Man amidst his sufferings here, Who watch'd and serv'd in humbleness and fear; Gentle to others, to himself severe.
Say who first pass'd the portals of the West, And the great Secret of the Deep possess'd; Who first the standard of his Faith unfurl'd On the dread confines of an unknown World; Sung ere his coming and by Heav'n design'd To lift the veil that cover'd half mankind!.... 'Twas night. The Moon, o'er the wide wave, disclos'd
Her awful face; and Nature's self reposed; When, slowly rising in the azure sky, Three white sails shone but to no mortal eye, Entering a boundless sea. In slumber cast, The very ship-boy, on the dizzy mast, Half breath'd his orisons. Alone unchang'd Calmly, beneath, the great Commander rang'd, Thoughtful not sad. "Thy will be done!" he cried
He spoke, and, at his call, a mighty Wind, Not like the fitful blast, with fury blind, But deep, majestic, in its destin'd course, Rush'd with unerring, unrelenting force,
From the bright East. Tides duly ebb'd and
Stars rose and set; and new horizons glow'd; Yet still it blew! As with primeval sway Still did its ample spirit, night and day Move on the waters!
Yet who but He undaunted could explore A world of waves Trackless and vast and wild as that reveal'd
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