Ebenezer Elliott.ward am 17. März 1781 zu Masbro, einem Dorfe in der Nähe von Sheffield geboren. Er hat dasselbe nie verlassen und lebt daselbst als Schmied, nebenbei einen Eisenhandel treibend. Seine Bildung verdankt er sich selbst durch anhaltende Lectüre. Seine Gedichte erschienen gesammelt in drei Bänden, London 1835. Elliott wird gewöhnlich the Corn-Law Rhymer genannt, weil er in einer Sammlung Poesieen, welche unter dem Titel Corn-Law-Rhymes im Jahre 1832 an das Licht trat, heftig und mit grosser Kraft die Sache des durch die englischen zum Vortheil der Landbesitzer bestehenden Korngesetze unterdrückten Volkes führte. Hier wie in allen seinen politischen Gedichten ist er schroff, hart und unversöhnlich voll Hass gegen die Bevorzugten und Alles von der schwärzesten Seite auffassend. Im Allgemeinen aber besitzt er tiefes Gefühl, reiche Naturanschauung, Phantasie und seltene Herrschaft über die Sprache und schliesst, obwohl nur ein Naturdichter, sich Männern wie Crabbe, Wordsworth, Cowper und Burns als ein würdiger und reichbegabter Genosse an. The Wonders of the Lane. Strong climber of the mountain's side, Yet walk with me where hawthorns hide High o'er the rushy springs of Don His purple, green, and gold. Where dewy daisies gleam; Complains that Sol is slow, O'er headlong steeps and gushing rocks But here the lizard seeks the sun, Here coils in light the snake; And here the fire-tuft hath begun The glories of the lane! For, oh, I love these banks of rock, This roof of sky and tree, These tufts, where sleeps the gloaming clock, As spirits from eternal day Look down on earth secure; A world in miniature; A world not scorn'd by Him who made And splendid in his light. O'er storm-lov'd mountains spread, Or widely teaching sun and star A page on which the angels look, Thy bright small hand is here. Yon drop-fed lake, six inches wide, What tidings from the Andes brings Yon line of liquid light, That down from heav'n in madness flings The blind form of its might? Do I not hear his thunder roll 'Tis mute as death! but in my soul It roars, and ever will. What forests tall of tiniest moss Clothe every little stone! What pigmy oaks their foliage toss With shade o'er shade, from ledge to ledge, They feather o'er the steepest edge Of mountains mushroom high. Oh, God of marvels! who can tell What myriad living things On these grey stones unseen may dwell! What nations, with their kings! I feel no shock, I hear no groan Lo! in that dot, some mite, like me, May crawl, some atoms' cliffs to see Lo! while he pauses, and admires The dying Boy to the Sloe-blossom. Before thy leaves thou com'st once more, White blossom of the sloe! Thy leaves will come as heretofore; But this poor heart, its troubles o'er, Will then lie low. A month at least before thy time Thou com'st, pale flower, to me; For well thou know'st the frosty rime Will blast me ere my vernal prime, No more to be. Why here in winter? No storm lours But blithe larks meet the sunny showers, Sweet violets in the budding grove Peep where the glad waves run; The wren below, the thrush above, Of bright to-morrow's joy and love Sing to the sun. And where the rose-leaf, ever bold, Hears bees chaunt hymns to God, The breeze-bowed palm, mossed o'er with gold, Smiles o'er the well in summer cold, And daisied sod. But thou, pale blossom, thou art come, To tell me that the worm makes room For as the rainbow of the dawn A sunbeam on the saddened lawn Thy leaves will come! but songful spring Will see no leaf of mine; Her bells will ring, her bride's-maids sing, When my young leaves are withering Where no suns shine. Oh, might I breathe morn's dewy breath, Before my time. A Poet's Epitaph. Stop, mortal! Here thy brother lies, His books were rivers, woods, and skies, His teachers were the torn heart's wail, From passion, danger, doubt, and care, The meanest thing, earth's feeblest worm, But, honouring in a peasant's form He bless'd the Steward, whose wealth make Yet loath'd the haughty wretch that takes A hand to do, a head to plan, A heart to feel and dare Tell man's worst foes, here lies the man To the Bramble-flower. Thy fruit full well the school-boy knows, So, put thou forth thy small white rose; Thy tender blossoms are! How rich thy branchy stem! How soft thy voice, when woods are still, A sweet air lifts the little bough, The violet by the moss'd grey stone Hath laid her weary head; But thou wild bramble! back dost bring, And boyhood's blossomy hour. Scorn'd bramble of the brake! once more To gad with thee the woodlands o'er, Lamb. Charles Lamb ward am 11. Februar 1775 in London geboren, erhielt seine wissenschaftliche Bildung im Christ's Hospital, bekleidete darauf ein Amt bei dem South-Sea-House und später bei der ostindischen Compagnie. Im Jahre 1825 wurde er mit einer ansehnlichen Pension in den Ruhestand versetzt. Er starb am 27. December 1831. Lamb's Schriften kamen zuerst gesammelt heraus London 1818, 2 Bde in 8. Dann nach seinem Tode Prose-Works, London 1836, 3 Bde in 8.; Poetical Works, London 1836, 1 Bd in 8. So vorzüglich Lamb auch als Prosaist sich zeigte, so haben wir hier uns doch nur mit der letzteren Sammlung zu beschäftigen. Sie sind meist lyrischen Inhaltes, mehr tändelnd als begeistert, aber voll inniger Zartheit und Anmuth, Beweise jener hohen eigenthümlichen Liebenswürdigkeit, welche von Allen, die je mit ihm in Berührung standen, auf das Lebhafteste gerühmt wird. Sprache und Weise derselben nähern sich mehr den Dichtern aus der Periode der Elisabeth als denen der Gegenwart, aber gerade das verleiht den Poesieen Lamb's einen ganz besonderen Reiz. My sprightly neighbour, gone before Some summer morning, When from thy cheerful eyes a ray Shrouding her beauties in the lone retreat. I held free converse with the fair-hair'd maid. "Now fair befal thee, gentle maid!" said I, Methinks how dainty sweet it were, reclin'd On an Infant dying as soon as born. I saw where in the shroud did lurk Extinct, with scarce the sense of dying: She did but ope an eye, and put A clear beam forth, then straight up shut Through glasses of mortality. Riddle of destiny, who can show What thy short visit meant, or know What thy errand here below? Shall we say, that Nature blind Check'd her hand, and changed her mind, Or lack'd she the Promethean fire Aught envying. And, O Anna! mild eyed maid! Could she flag, or could she tire, (With her nine moons' long workings sicken'd) When last I roved these winding wood walks Of young years widow'd; and the pain, green Green winding walks, and shady pathways sweet, When single state comes back again |