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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.

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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.

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 brigbt 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

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.

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.

Stanza s.

Let me not have this gloomy view

About my room, around my bed;

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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.

Man may the sterner virtues know,

Determined justice, truth severe;
But female hearts with pity glow,

And woman holds affliction dear:
For guiltless woes her sorrows flow,

And suffering vice compels her tear,
'Tis hers to soothe the ills below,

And bid life's fairer views appear.
To woman's gentle kind we owe

What comforts and delights us here;
They its gay hopes on youth bestow,

And care they soothe and age they cheer.

"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;

Phoebe Dawson.
Yet misery marks him of our kind,
We see him lost, alone, afraid !

Next at our altar stood a luckless pair,
And pangs of body, griefs in mind, Brought by strong passions and a warrant there;
Pronounce him man, and ask our aid. By long rent cloak, hung loosely, strove the

bride, "Perhaps in some far distant shore,

From ev'ry eye what all perceived to hide. There are who in these forms delight; While the boy-bridegroom, shuffling in his pace, Whose milky features please them more

Now hid awhile and then exposed his face; Than ours of jet, thus burnish'd bright: As shame alternately with anger strove, Of such may be his weeping wife, The brain confused with muddy ale to move:

Such children for their sire may call : In haste and stammering he perform'd his part, And if we spare his ebbing life,

And look'd the rage that rankled in his heart; Our kindness may preserve them all." (So will each lover inly curse his fate,

Too soon made happy and made wise too late :) Thus her compassion woman shows,

I saw his features take a savage gloom, Beneath the line her acts are these;

And deeply threaten for the days to come. Nor the wide waste of Lapland snows

Low spake the lass, and lisp'd and minced the Can her warm flow of pity freeze;

while, "From some sad land the stranger comes, Look'd on the lad, and faintly tried to smile;

Where joys like ours are never found; With soften’d speech and humbled tone she Let's soothe him in our happy homes,

strove Where freedom sits, with plenty crown'd. To stir the embers of departed love:

While he, a tyrant, frowning walk'd before, “'Tis good the fainting soul to cheer,

Felt the poor purse and sought the public door, To see the famish'd stranger fed;

She sadly following in submission went, To milk for him the mother-deer,

And saw the final shilling foully spent; To smooth for him the furry bed.

Then to her father's hut the pair withdrew,

fled;

And bade to love and comfort long adieu ! There he pronounced adieu! and yet would stay, Ah! Ay temptation, youth, refrain! refrain! Till chidden soothed entreated forced I preach for ever; but I preach in vain.

away; Two summers since, I saw, at Lammas-Fair, He would of coldness, though indulged, complain, The sweetest flower that ever blossom'd there, And oft retire and oft return again; When Phoebe Dawson gaily cross'd the Green, When, if his teazing vex'd her gentle mind, In haste to see and happy to be seen:

The grief assumed compellid her to be hind! Her air, her manners, all who saw, admired; For he would proof of plighted kindness crave, Courteous though coy, and gentle though retired; That she resented first and then forgave, The joy of youth and health her eyes display'd, And to his grief and penance yielded more And ease of heart her every look convey'd; Than his presumption had required before. A native skill her simple robes express'd, Ah! fly temptation, youth ; refrain! refrain, As with untutor'd elegance she dress'd;

Each yielding maid and each presuming swain ! The lads around admired so fair a sight,

Lo! now with red rent cloak and bonnet black, And Phoebe felt, and felt she gave, delight. And torn green gown loose hanging at her back, Admirers soon of every age she gain'd,

One who an infant in her arms sustains, Her beauty won them and her worth retain'd: And seems in patience striving with her pains; Envy itself could no contempt display,

Pinch'd are her looks, as one who pines for They wish'd her well, whom yet they wish'd

bread, away.

Whose cares are growing and whose hopes are Correct in thought, she judged a servant's place Preserved a rustic beauty from disgrace; Pale her parch'd lips, her heavy eyes sunk low, But yet on Sunday-eve, in freedom's hour, And tears unnoticed from their channels flow; With secret joy she felt that beauty's power, Serene her manner, till some sudden pain When some proud bliss upon the heart would Frets the meek soul, and then she's calm again;

steal,

Her broken pitcher to the pool she takes, That, poor or rich, a beauty still must feel.

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,

But nearer cause, her anxious soul alarms. Before the swains with bolder spirit press'd; With water burthen'd then she picks her way, With looks less timid made his passion known, Slowly and cautious, in the clinging clay; And pleased by manners most unlike her own; Till, in mid-green, she trusts a place unsound, Loud though in love, and confident though And deeply plunges in th' adhesive ground;

young;

Thence, but with pain, her slender foot she Fierce in his air, and voluble of tongue;

takes, By trade a tailor, though, in scorn of trade, While hope the mind as strength the frame forHe served the 'Squire, and brush'd the coat he

made:

For when so full the cup of sorrow grows, would Phoebe her consent afford, Add but a drop, it instantly o’erflows. Her slave alone, again he'd mount the board; And now her path but not her peace she gains, With her should years of growing love be spent, Safe from her task, but shivering with her pains; And growing wealth: she sigh'd and look'd Her home she reaches, open leaves the door,

consent.

And placing first her infant on the floor, Now, through the lane, up hill and 'cross the She bares her bosom to the wind, and sits,

green,

And sobbing struggles with the rising fits: (Seen by but few, and blushing to be seen In vain, they come, she feels th' inflating grief, Dejected, thoughtful, anxious, and afraid,) That shuts the swelling bosom from relief; Led by the lover, walk'd the silent maid: 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

The neighbour-matron leaves her wheel and flies Toy'd by each bank and trifled at each stile; With all the aid her poverty supplies; Where, as he painted every blissful view, Unfee'd, the calls of Nature she obeys, And highly colour'd what he strongly drew, Not led by profit, not allured by praise; The pensive damsel, prone to tender fears; And waiting long, till these contentions cease, Dimm'd the false prospect with prophetic tears. She speaks of comfort, and departs in peace. Thus pass'd th' allotted hours, till lingering late, Friend of distress! the mourner feels thy aid, The lover loiter'd at the master's gate;

She cannot pay thee, but thou wilt be paid.

sakes;

Yet now,

care ?

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

Too late her loss the marriage-rite repaired; 'Tis Phoebe Dawson, pride of Lammas-Fair; The faithless flatterer then his vows forgot, Who took her lover for his sparkling eyes, A captious tyrant or a noisy sot: Expressions warm, and love-inspiring lies : If present, railing, till he saw her pain'd; Compassion first assail'd her gentle heart, If absent, spending what their labours gain'd; For all his suffering, all his bosom's smart: Till that fair form in want and sickness pined, And then his prayers! they would a savage And hope and comfort fled that gentle mind.

move,

Then fly temptation, youth; resist, refrain! And win the coldest of the sex to love:

Nor let me preach for ever and in vain!

Scott.

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" Cunningham a. a. 0. "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.

sagt Allan

Farewell to the Muse. Enchantress, farewell! who so oft has decoy'dl Explore the wild scenes he was quitting for me,

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

speaking, Where the forester, lated, with wonder espied me The language alternate of rapture and woe;

to roam,

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'Twas thou that once taught me, in accents be

wailing, To sing how a warrior lay stretch'd on the

Lochin var. plain;

O, young Lochinvar has come out of the west, And a maiden hung o'er him with aid unavailing Through all the wide Border his steed was the And held to his lips the cold goblet in vain :

best; As vain those enchantments, O queen of wild And, save his good broadsword, he weapons numbers,

had none, To a bard when the reign of his fancy is o’er, He rode all unarın'd, and he rode all alone. And the quick pulse of feeling in apathy slum- So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,

bers,

There never was knight like the young Lochinvar. Farewell then, enchantress! I meet thee no

more!
He stayed not for brake, and he stopp'd not for

stone;
He swam the Eske river where ford there was

none; But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate,

The bride had consented the gallant came Hunting Song

late

For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war, Waken, lords and ladies gay,

Was to wed the fair Helen of brave Lochinvar. On the mountain dawns the day, All the jolly chase is here,

So boldly he entered the Netherby-hall, With hawk, and horse, and hunting-spear:

Among bride's-men, and kinsmen, and brothers, Hounds are in their couples yelling,

and all; Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling;

Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his Merrily, merrily, mingle they,

sword, “Waken, lords and ladies gay."

(For the poor craven bridegrooin said never a

word) Waken, lords and ladies gay,

“O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, The mist has left the mountain grey;

Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?” Springlets in the dawn are steaming, Diamonds on the brake are gleaming : "I long woo'd your daughter, my suit you And foresters have busy been,

denied ; To track the buck in thicket green;

Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its Now we come to chaunt our lay,

tide, “Waken, lords and ladies gay.”

And now am I come, with this lost love of mine

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