Hausschatz englischer Poesie

Lift the fair sail, and cheat th' experienced eye.
Be it the summer noon: a sandy space
The ebbing tide has left upon its place;
Then just the hot and stony beach above,
Light twinkling streams in bright confusion move;
(For heated thus, the warmer air ascends,
And with the cooler in its fall contends),
Then the broad bosom of the ocean keeps
An equal motion; swelling as it sleeps,
Then slowly sinking; curling to the strand,
Faint, lazy waves o'ercreep the ridgy sand,
Or tap the tarry boat with gentle blow,
And back return in silence, smooth and slow.
Ships in the calm seem anchor'd; for they glide
On the still sea, urged solely by the tide;
Art thou not present, this calm scene before,
Where all beside is pebbly length of shore,
And far as eye can reach, it can discern no

more?

Yet sometimes comes a ruffling cloud to make The quiet surface of the ocean shake; As an awaken'd giant with a frown Might show his wrath, and then to sleep sink

down.

View now the winter-storm! above, one cloud, Black and unbroken, all the skies o'ershroud; Th' unwieldy porpoise through the day before Had roll'd in view of boding men on shore; - And sometimes hid and sometimes show'd his form, Dark as the cloud, and furious as the storm. All where the eye delights, yet dreads to

roam,

The breaking billows cast the flying foam
Upon the billows rising, - all the deep
Is restless change; the waves so swell'd and

steep,

Breaking and sinking, - and the sunken swells,
Nor one, one moment, in its station dwells :
But nearer land you may the billows trace,
As if contending in their watery chase;
May watch the mightiest till the shoal they

reach,

Then break and hurry to their utmost stretch; Curl'd as they come, they strike with furious

force,

And then, reflowing, take their grating course, Raking the rounded flints, which ages past Roll'd by their rage, and shall to ages last.

Stanzas.

Let me not have this gloomy view About my room, around my bed;

But morning roses, wet with dew,
To cool my burning brows instead.
As flow'rs that once in Eden grew,
Let them their fragrant spirits shed;
And every day the sweets renew,
Till I, a fading flower, am dead.

Oh! let the herbs I loved to rear

Give to my sense their perfum'd breath; Let them be placed about my bier And grace the gloomy house of death. I'll have my grave beneath a hill, Where only Lucy's self shall know; Where runs the pure pellucid rill Upon its gravelly bed below: There violets on the borders blow And insects their soft light display, Till, as the morning sunbeams glow, The cold phosphoric fires decay.

That is the grave to Lucy shown, The soil a pure and silver sand, The green cold moss above it grown, Unpluck'd of all but maiden hand: In virgin earth, till then unturn'd,

There let my maiden form be laid. Nor let my changed clay be spurn'd, Nor for new guest that bed be made.

There will the lark, - the lamb, in sport, In air, on earth, securely play, And Lucy to my grave resort,

As innocent, - but not so gay. I will not have the churchyard ground, With bones all black and ugly grown, To press my shivering body round,

Or on my wasted limbs be thrown.

With ribs and skulls I will not sleep,
In clammy beds of cold blue clay,
Through which the ringed earth-worms creep,
And on the shrouded bosom prey;
I will not have the bell proclaim

When those sad marriage rites begin,
And boys, without regard or shame,
Press the vile mouldering masses in.

Say not, it is beneath my care;

I cannot these cold truths allow: These thoughts may not afflict me there, But, oh! they vex and tease me now. Raise not a turf, nor set a stone,

That man a maiden's grave may trace;

But thou, my Lucy, come alome,
And let affection find the place.

O! take me from a world I hate, -
Men cruel, selfish, sensual, cold;
And, in some pure and blessed state,
Let me my sister minds behold:
From gross and sordid views refined,
Our heaven of spotless love to share,
For only generous souls design'd,
And not a man to meet us there.

Woman.

Place the white man on Afric's coast,
Whose swarthy sons in blood delight,
Who of their scorn to Europe boast,
And paint their very demons white:
There, while the sterner sex disdains
To soothe the woes they cannot feel,
Woman will strive to heal his pains,
And weep for those she cannot heal.
Hers is warm pity's sacred glow,

From all her stores she bears a part; And bids the spring of hope re-flow, That languish'd in the fainting heart.

"What though so pale his haggard face,
So sunk and sad his looks," - she cries;
"And far unlike our nobler race,
With crisped locks and rolling eyes;
Yet misery marks him of our kind,
We see him lost, alone, afraid!
And pangs of body, griefs in mind,
Pronounce him man, and ask our aid.

"Perhaps in some far distant shore,

There are who in these forms delight; Whose milky features please them more Than ours of jet, thus burnish'd bright: Of such may be his weeping wife,

Such children for their sire may call: And if we spare his ebbing life,

Our kindness may preserve them all."

Thus her compassion woman shows, Beneath the line her acts are these; Nor the wide waste of Lapland snows Can her warm flow of pity freeze;

"From some sad land the stranger comes, Where joys like ours are never found; Let's soothe him in our happy homes, Where freedom sits, with plenty crown'd.

""Tis good the fainting soul to cheer,
To see the famish'd stranger fed;
To milk for him the mother-deer,
To smooth for him the furry bed.

Next at our altar stood a luckless pair,
Brought by strong passions and a warrant there;
By long rent cloak, hung loosely, strove the

bride,
From ev'ry eye what all perceived to hide.
While the boy-bridegroom, shuffling in his pace,
Now hid awhile and then exposed his face;
As shame alternately with anger strove,

The brain confused with muddy ale to move:
In haste and stammering he perform'd his part,
And look'd the rage that rankled in his heart;
(So will each lover inly curse his fate,
Too soon made happy and made wise too late:)
I saw his features take a savage gloom,
And deeply threaten for the days to come.
Low spake the lass, and lisp'd and minced the
while,

Look'd on the lad, and faintly tried to smile;
With soften'd speech and humbled tone she

strove

To stir the embers of departed love:
While he, a tyrant, frowning walk'd before,
Felt the poor purse and sought the public door,
She sadly following in submission went,
And saw the final shilling foully spent;
Then to her father's hut the pair withdrew,

And bade to love and comfort long adieu!
Ah! fly temptation, youth, refrain! refrain!
I preach for ever; but I preach in vain.

Two summers since, I saw, at Lammas-Fair,
The sweetest flower that ever blossom'd there,
When Phoebe Dawson gaily cross'd the Green,
In haste to see and happy to be seen:
Her air, her manners, all who saw, admired;
Courteous though coy, and gentle though retired;
The joy of youth and health her eyes display'd,
And ease of heart her every look convey'd;
A native skill her simple robes express'd,
As with untutor'd elegance she dress'd;
The lads around admired so fair a sight,
And Phoebe felt, and felt she gave, delight.
Admirers soon of every age she gain'd,
Her beauty won them and her worth retain'd:
Envy itself could no contempt display,
They wish'd her well, whom yet they wish'd

away.

Correct in thought, she judged a servant's place
Preserved a rustic beauty from disgrace;
But yet on Sunday-eve, in freedom's hour,
With secret joy she felt that beauty's power,
When some proud bliss upon the heart would

steal,

That, poor or rich, a beauty still must feel.

There he pronounced adieu! and yet would stay,
Till chidden
soothed entreated forced

away;

He would of coldness, though indulged, complain,
And oft retire and oft return again;
When, if his teazing vex'd her gentle mind,
The grief assumed compell'd her to be hind!
For he would proof of plighted kindness crave,
That she resented first and then forgave,
And to his grief and penance yielded more
Than his presumption had required before.
Ah! fly temptation, youth; refrain! refrain,
Each yielding maid and each presuming swain!

Lo! now with red rent cloak and bonnet black,
And torn green gown loose hanging at her back,
One who an infant in her arms sustains,
And seems in patience striving with her pains;
Pinch'd are her looks, as one who pines for
bread,
Whose cares are growing and whose hopes are
fled;

Pale her parch'd lips, her heavy eyes sunk low,
And tears unnoticed from their channels flow;
Serene her manner, till some sudden pain
Frets the meek soul, and then she's calm again;
Her broken pitcher to the pool she takes,
And every step with cautious terror makes;

At length, the youth, ordain'd to move her For not alone that infant in her arms,

breast,

Before the swains with bolder spirit press'd;
With looks less timid made his passion known,
And pleased by manners most unlike her own;
Loud though in love, and confident though

young;

Fierce in his air, and voluble of tongue;
By trade a tailor, though, in scorn of trade,
He served the 'Squire, and brush'd the coat he

made:

Yet now, would Phoebe her consent afford,
= Her slave alone, again he'd mount the board;

With her should years of growing love be spent,
And growing wealth: she sigh'd and look'd

consent.

■ Now, through the lane, up hill and 'cross the

green,

(Seen by but few, and blushing to be seen Dejected, thoughtful, anxious, and afraid,) Led by the lover, walk'd the silent maid:

But nearer cause, her anxious soul alarms.
With water burthen'd then she picks her way,
Slowly and cautious, in the clinging clay;
Till, in mid-green, she trusts a place unsound,
And deeply plunges in th' adhesive ground;
Thence, but with pain, her slender foot she
takes,
While hope the mind as strength the frame for-
sakes;
For when so full the cup of sorrow grows,
Add but a drop, it instantly o'erflows.

And now her path but not her peace she gains,
Safe from her task, but shivering with her pains;
Her home she reaches, open leaves the door,
And placing first her infant on the floor,
She bares her bosom to the wind, and sits,
And sobbing struggles with the rising fits:
In vain, they come, she feels th' inflating grief,
That shuts the swelling bosom from relief;
That speaks in feeble cries a soul distress'd

Slow through the meadows roved they, many a Or the sad laugh that cannot be repress'd.

mile

Toy'd by each bank and trifled at each stile;
Where, as he painted every blissful view,
And highly colour'd what he strongly drew,
The pensive damsel, prone to tender fears;
Dimm'd the false prospect with prophetic tears.
Thus pass'd th' allotted hours, till lingering late,
The lover loiter'd at the master's gate;

The neighbour-matron leaves her wheel and flies
With all the aid her poverty supplies;
Unfee'd, the calls of Nature she obeys,
Not led by profit, not allured by praise;
And waiting long, till these contentions cease,
She speaks of comfort, and departs in peace.
Friend of distress! the mourner feels thy aid,
She cannot pay thee, but thou wilt be paid.

But who this child of weakness, want, and But ah! too soon his looks success declared,

Walter Scott ward am 15. August 1771 zu Edinburg geboren, studirte die Rechte, wurde 21 Jahr alt Advocat in seiner Vaterstadt, verheirathete sich 1798 mit Miss Carpenter, erhielt 1806 das Amt eines principal Clerk of the sessions of Scotland, zog sich später von den öffent lichen Geschäften zurück und sah sich 1820 zum Baronet erhoben. Er starb auf seinem Landsitze Abbotsford am 21. September 1832.

Die Characteristik von Scott's eben so berühmten als zahlreichen Romanen, durch welche er der Romanliteratur der ganzen civilisirten Welt eine neue Wendung gab, gehört nicht hieher, obwohl aber dieselben seine poetischen Productionen verdunkelten, so stehen diese doch denselben in keiner Hinsicht an innerem Werthe nach und es ist noch sehr die Frage ob sie nicht am Ende aller Dinge jene überlebt haben werden. W. Scott's gesammelte Werke in streng poetischer Form, von denen auch eine gute deutsche Ausgabe vorhanden ist (Frankfurt 1826, 1 Bd in 8), enthalten: the Lay of the last Minstrel, Marmion, the Lady of the Lake, the Lord of the Isles, Rokeby, the Bridal of Triermain, Harold, the Vision of Don Roderick, sämmtlich romantisch epische Dichtungen, Halidon Hill ein Drama, Balladen, Lieder, vermischte Gedichte u. A. m. "Scott" - sagt Allan Cunningham a. a. O. "ist ein wahrhaft nationaler und heroischer Dichter. Sein Schauplatz ist sein Vaterland, seine Helden und Heldinnen sind der britischen Geschichte und Sage entlehnt. In seinen Versen herrscht eine erstaunenswürdige Leichtigkeit, Kraft und Klarheit. Seine Dichtungen sind eine Reihe historischer Figuren, nach den genauesten Verhältnissen der Bildhauerkunst verfertigt, nur mit dem Unterschiede dass sie nach des Dichters Willen handeln und sprechen. Allein ungeachtet sie an Eleganz der Formen und Genauigkeit des Umfanges Werken der bildenden Kunst gleichen, besitzen sie doch weniger von ihrer Ruhe wie irgend eine andere Dichtung neuerer Zeit." Fügen wir noch hinzu, dass auch in W. Scotts kleineren lyrischen Gedichten eine Naturfrische, verbunden mit Energie wie mit Zartheit, je nachdem der Gegenstand es erfordert, vorherrscht, welche ihnen eben einen so grossen Reiz als bleibenden Werth verleiht.

Farewell to the Muse.

Enchantress, farewell! who so oft has decoy'd Explore the wild scenes he was quitting for

At the close of the evening through woodlands Farewell! and take with thee thy numbers wild

to roam, Where the forester, lated, with wonder espied me

speaking, The language alternate of rapture and woe;

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Hausschatz englischer Poesie: Auswahl aus den Werken der bedeutendsten ...