Through her rags do the winds of the winter With fearless good-humour did Mary comply,

blow bleak On that wither'd breast, and her weatherworn cheek

Hath the hue of a mortal despair.

Yet cheerful and happy, nor distant the day,
Poor Mary the Maniac hath been;

The Traveller remembers who journey'd this way

No damsel so lovely, no damsel so gay,

As Mary, the Maid of the Inn.

Her cheerful address fill'd the guests with de

light

As she welcomed them in with a smile; Her heart was a stranger to childish affright,

And Mary would walk by the Abbey at night

When the wind whistled down the dark aisle.

And her way to the Abbey she bent;

The night it was dark, and the wind it was high,
And as hollowly howling it swept through the sky,
She shiver'd with cold as she went.

O'er the path so well known still proceeded the
Maid

Where the Abbey rose dim on the sight;

Through the gate-way she enter'd, she felt not

afraid,

Yet the ruins were lonely and wild, and their

shade

Seem'd to deepen the gloom of the night.

All around her was silent, save when the rude

blast

Howl'd dismally round the old pile;

Over weed-cover'd fragments she fearlessly past,

She loved, and young Richard had settled the day, And arrived at the innermost ruin at last,

And she hoped to be happy for life:

But Richard was idle and worthless, and they
Who knew him would pity poor Mary and say
That she was too good for his wife.

Where the elder-tree grew in the aisle.

Well-pleased did she reach it, and quickly drew

near,

And hastily gather'd the bough;

'Twas in autumn, and stormy and dark was the When the sound of a voice seem'd to rise on

I myself, like a school-boy, should tremble to Behind a wide column, half breathless with fear,

She ran with wild speed, she rush'd in at the Her eyes from that object convulsively start,

door,

She gazed horribly eager around, Then her limbs could support their faint burthen no more,

For what a cold horror then thrill'd through
her heart
When the name of her Richard she knew!

And exhausted and breathless she sunk on the Where the old Abbey stands, on the common

Thomas Moore ward am 28. Mai 1780 in Dublin geboren, studirte daselbst und widmete sich dann der juristischen Praxis. 1803 erhielt er eine Anstellung in Bermuda, kehrte aber 1806 wieder nach England zurück, vermählte sich und lebt seit dieser Zeit als Privatmann, meist bei Bowwood in Wiltshire.

Abgesehen von seinen prosaischen Schriften hat sich Moore besonders einen bedeutenden Namen erworben durch seine epischen, lyrischen und satyrischen Poesieen. Eine vollständige Ausgabe seiner Dichtungen mit Ausnahme der wenigen später geschriebenen, kam für Deutschland, Leipzig 1826 in einem Bande in gross 8. heraus. Sie enthält sein grösseres aus vier erzählenden Gedichten bestehendes und durch einen prosaischen Rahmen verbundenes Werk, Lalla Rookh, ein anderes episches Poem, the Loves of the Angels, eine Reihe von Satyren, The Fudge Family, eine Sammlung Lieder, Irish Melodies, viele einzelne lyrische Poesieen, Satyren, Fabeln u. A. m.

Die glänzendste Phantasie in ihrem üppigsten Reichthume, eine fast schneidende Schärfe des Verstandes und der Auffassungskraft und die dem innersten Herzen entsprungene Tiefe des Gefühls sind Eigenschaften, die Moore nie verlassen, sondern beständig als die treuesten und bereitwilligsten Dienerinnen seiner Muse zur Seite wandeln. Ganz im Gegensatz zu Byron's melancholischen Färbungen, weiss er über fast alle Gebilde seiner Schöpfung einen beinahe blendenden Schimmer freudigen, gewaltig strömenden Lebens auszugiessen und doch herrscht wieder eine Zartheit und Innigkeit überall vor, wie man sie nur selten mit solcher Kraft vermählt findet. Dabei beherrscht er einen ungeheuern Schatz von Kenntnissen, der ihm aber nie zur Last wird; denn wie unter des Midas Berührung sich Alles vor diesem in Gold verwandelte, so wird ihm, dem echten Dichter Alles zur Poesie und selbst dem sprödesten und widerstrebendsten Stoffe vermag er eine Seite abzugewinnen, die ihn gefällig darstellt. Aus Allem aber bricht die Liebenswürdigkeit und Redlichkeit seiner Gesinnungen siegreich hervor und erhöht unendlich den Werth seiner Gaben. Als Dichter ist er ein Proteus, aber als Mensch immer echt und man muss ihn daher lieben, selbst dann, wenn es ihm gefällt, frivol und leichtfertig oder sarkastisch und verletzend vor uns zu erscheinen, denn sein Genius verlässt ihn auch in solchen Augenblicken nicht und seine Grazie hindert uns, ihm ernstlich zu zürnen.

Though many a gifted mind we meet,
Though fairest forms we see,
To live with them is far less sweet
Than to remember thee, Mary!

I saw from the Beach.

I saw from the beach, when the morning was

shining,

A bark o'er the waters moved gloriously on;
I came, when the sun o'er that beach was de-

clining,

The bark was still there, but the waters were

gone!

Ah! such is the fate of our life's early promise,
So passing the spring-tide of joy we have

known:

Each wave, that we danced on at morning, ebbs
from us,
And leaves us, at eve, on the bleak shore
alone!

Ne'er tell me of glories, serenely adorning

Each billow, as brightly or darkly it flows,
Reflecting our eyes as they sparkle or weep.
So closely our whims on our miseries tread,
That the laugh is awaked ere the tear can be
dried;

And, as fast as the rain-drop of Pity is shed,

The goose-feathers of Folly can turn it aside, But pledge me the cup if existence would

cloy

With hearts ever happy, and heads ever wise,
Be ours the light grief that is sister to Joy,
And the short brilliant folly that flashes and

dies!

When Hylas was sent with his urn to the fount,
Through fields full of sunshine, with heart full

of play,

Light rambled the boy over meadow and mount,
And neglected his task for the flowers on the

way.

Thus some who, like me, should have drawn and have tasted

The fountain that runs by Philosophy's shrine, Their time with the flowers on the margin have wasted,

And left their light urns all as empty as mine! But pledge me the goblet while Idleness

weaves

Her flowerets together, if Wisdom can see The close of our day, the calm eve of our One bright drop or two, that has fall'n on the

night; Give me back, give me back the wild freshness of morning,

Her clouds and her tears are worth evening's best light.

Oh, who would not welcome that moment's re

turning,

When passion first waked a new life through
his frame,

And his soul like the wood that grows precious
in burning
Gave out all its sweets to Love's exquisite
flame!

This Life is all chequer'd with
Pleasures and Woes.

This life is all chequer'd with pleasures and
That chase one another, like waves of the

leaves

From her fountain divine, 'tis sufficient for me!

St. Jerome's Love.

Who is the maid my spirit seeks,

Through cold reproof and slander's blight?
Has she Love's roses on her cheeks?

Is hers an eye of this world's light?
No, wan and sunk with midnight prayer
Are the pale looks of her I love;
Or if, at times, a light be there,
Its beam is kindled from above.

I chose not her, my soul's elect,

From those who seek their Maker's shrine
In gems and garlands proudly deck'd,
As if themselves were things divine!
No-heaven but faintly warms the breast

That beats beneath a broider'd veil;
And she who comes in glittering vest
To mourn her frailty, still is frail.