Images de page
PDF
ePub

it up;

be red,

var.

by far

To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine. They all are belonging, dear baby, to thee. There are maidens in Scotland, more lovely by

O ho ro, i ri ri, cadil gu lo, far,

O ho ro, i ri ri, cadil gu lo. That would gladly be bride to the young

Lochinvar." O fear not the bugle, though loudly it blows,

It calls but the warders that guard thy repose; The bride kiss'd the goblet; the knight took Their bows would be bended, their blades would He quaff'd off the wine, and he threw down the Ere the step of a foeman draws near to thy bed. сир.

O ho ro, i ri ri, etc. She look'd down to blush, and she look'd up to

0 hush thee, my babie, the time soon will come, sigh,

When thy sleep shall be broken by trumpet and With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye.

drum; He took her soft hand ere her mother could bar:

Then hush thee, my darling, take rest while you "Now tread we a measure!” said young Lochin

may, For strife comes with manhood, and waking with

day. So stately his form, and so lovely her face,

O ho ro, i ri ri, etc.
That never a hall such a galliard did grace;
While her mother did fret, and her father did

fume,
And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet

and blume, And the bride-maidens whisper'd, “'Twere better

Hellvellyn.

I climb'd the dark brow of the mighty HellTo have match'd our fair cousin with young Lochinvar!”

vellyn,

Lakes and mountains beneath me gleam'd One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, All was still, save by fits when the eagle was

misty and wide; When they reach'd the hall-door, and the charger stood near;

yelling,

And starting around me the echoes replied, So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung,

On the right, Striden-edge round the Red-tarn So light to the saddle before her he sprung!

was bending, “She is won! we are gone, over bush, loch , and

And Catchedicam its left verge was defending, scaur;

One huge nameless rock in the front was ascendThey'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth

ing, young Lochinvar. When I mark'd the sad spot where the wan

derer had died: There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the Ne

therby clan,

Dark green was the spot mid the brown meadow Forsters, Tenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode

heather, and they ran;

Where the pilgrim of nature lay stretch'd in There was racing, and chasing, on Cannobie Lee,

decay, But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see, Like the corpse of an outcast abandon'd to So daring in love, and so dauntless in war,

weather, Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochin Till the mountain-winds wasted the tenant

less clay. Nor yet quite deserted, though lonely extended, For, faithful in death, his mute favourite at

tended,

The much-loved remains of her master defended, Lullaby of an Infant Chief.

And chased the hill-fox and the raven away. O hush thee, my babie, thy sire was a knight, How long didst thou think that his silence was Thy mother a lady, both lovely and bright;

slumber? The woods and the glens, from the towers which When the wind waved his garment, how oft we see,

didst thou start?

var?

Young Frank is chief of Errington,

And lord of Langley-dale; His step is first in peaceful ha',

His sword in battle keen," But aye she loot the tears down fa'

For Jock of Hazeldean.

"A chain o' gold ye sall not lack,

Nor braid to bind your hair; Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk,

Nor palfrey fresh and fair;
And you, the foremost o' them a',

Sall ride our forest queen,'
But aye she loot the tears down fa’

For Jock of Hazeldean.

The kirk was deck'd at morning-tide,

The tapers glimmerd fair; The priest and bridegroom wait the bride,

And dame and knight are there. They sought her both by bower and ha',

The ladie was not seen! She's o'er the Border, and awa'

Wi' Jock of Hazeldean.

Nora's Vow.

Hear what Highland Nora said,
“The earlie's son I will not wed,
Should all the race of nature die,
And none be left but he and I.
For all the gold, for all the gear,
And all the lands both far and near,
That ever valour lost or won,
I would not wed the earlie's son."

“A maiden's vows," old Callum spoke,
“Are lightly made, and lightly broke;
The heather on the mountain's height
Begins to bloom in purple light:
The frost-wind soon shall sweep away
That lustre deep from glen and brae;
Yet Nora, ere its bloom be gone,
May blithely wed the earlie's son."

“The swan,” she said, "the lake's clear breast
May barter for the eagle's nest;
The Awe's fierce stream may backward turn,
Ben-Cruaichan fall, and crush Kilchurn,
Our kilted clans, when blood is high,
Before their foes may turn and fly;
But I, were all these marvels done,
Would never wed the earlie's son."

How many long days and long weeks didst thou

number, Ere he faded before thee, the friend of thy

heart? And, oh! was it meet, that no requiem read

o'er him, No mother to weep, and no friend to deplore him, And thou, little guardian, alone stretch'd before

him Unhonour'd the pilgrim from life should de

part?

When a prince to the fate of the peasant has

yielded, The tapestry waves dark round the dim-lighted

hall; With scutcheons of silver the coffin is shielded,

And pages stand mute by the canopied pall: Through the courts, at deep midnight, the torches

are gleaming, In the proudly-arched chapel the banners are

beaming, Far adown the long aisle sacred music is stream

ing, Lamenting a chief of the people should fall.

But meeter for thee, gentle lover of nature,
To lay down thy head like the meek moun-

tain lamb; When, wilder'd, he drops from some cliff huge in

stature, And draws his last sob by the side of his

dam. And more stately thy couch by this desert lake

lying, Thy obsequies sung by the grey plover flying, With one faithful friend but to witness thy

dying,
In the arms of Hellvellyn and Catchedicam.

Jock of Hazeld ea n.
"Why weep ye by the tide, ladie?

Why weep ye by the tide ?
I'll wed ye to my youngest son,

And ye sall be his bride:
And ye sall be his bride, ladie,

Sae comely to be seen,”
But aye she loot the tears down fa'

For Jock of Hazeldean.

"Now let this wilful grief be done,

And dry that cheek so pale;

Still in the water-lily's shade
Her wonted nest the wild swan made;
Ben-Cruaichan stands as fast as ever,
Still downward foams the Awe's fierce river:

To shun the clash of foeman's steel,
No Highland brogue has turn’d the heel;
But Nora's heart is lost and won,
She's wedded to the earlie's son!

So the by.

William Sotheby ward am 9. November 1757 in London geboren, erhielt seine Bildung auf der Schule zu Harrow und trat dann, siebenzehn Jahr alt in die Armee. 1780 nahm er seinen Abschied und kaufte sich ein Landgut Beirs Mount, in der Nähe von Southampton, wo er seinen Wohnsitz aufschlug. Im Jahre 1791 liess er sich in London nieder, wurde Mitglied mehrerer gelehrter Gesellschaften und bereiste 1816 Italien. Zurückgekehrt gab er in einer Reihe von Gedichten unter dem Titel Italy die Früchte dieser Reise heraus. Er starb am 30. December 1833 in seiner Vaterstadt.

Ausser vielen poetischen Uebersetzungen wie z. B. von Wieland's Oberon, Virgils Georgica, Homer's Ilias und Odyssee, hat Sotheby eine lange Reihe eigener Dichtungen hinterlassen, von denen wir hier nur Poems consisting of a Tour through parts of North and South Wales, London 1790 in 4.; The Battle of the Nile, London 1799 in 4.; The Siege of Cuzco, a Tragedy, London 1800 in 8; Julian a Tragedy, London 1801 in 8.; Oberon or Huon de Bordeaux, a mask; and Orestes, a Tragedy, London 1802; Saul, a poem, London 1807 in 4.; Constance de Castille, a poem, London 1810 in 4.; Six Tragedies, London 1814 in 8.; Italy, London 1819. in 8. u. s. w. anführen. Nur das letztere Werk, sowie seine Uebersetzungen haben sich im Angedenken erhal. ten. Er war nicht immer glücklich in der Wahl seiner Stoffe, wusste sie aber mit Feinheit und Eleganz zu behandeln, obwohl ihm wiederum Tiefe und Energie abgeht, am Gelungensten sind seine Schilderungen, in diesen finden sich einzelne durch Schönheit und Kraft ausgezeichnete Stellen, welche grössere Verbreitung verdienen als sie in des Dichters Vaterlande gefunden haben:

Salvator.

That cross'd like night a sky of crimson flame,

Stream'd ceaselessly the fire-bolts' forked aim: Where stood Salvator, when with all his storms Around him winter rav'd,

While hurricanes, whose wings were frore with When being, none save man, the tempest brav'd? Cut sheer the vines, and o'er the harvest vale

hail, When on her mountain crest

Spread barrenness? Where was Salvator found, The eagle sank to rest,

When all the air a bursting sea became, Nor dar'd spread out her pennons to the blast:

Deluging earth? On Terni's cliff he stood, Nor, till the whirlwind passed, The' famish'd wolf around the sheep-cote prowl'd? I see him where the spirit of the storm

The tempest sweeping round. Where stood Salvator, when the forest howl'd,

His daring votary led : And the rock-rooted pine in all its length

Firm stands his foot on the rock's topmost head, Crash'd, prostrating its strength ?

That reels above the rushing and the roar

Of deep Vellino. - In the glen below, Where stood Salvator, when the summer cloud Again I view him on the reeling shore, At noon-day, to Ausonia direr far

Where the prone river, after length of course, Than winter, and its elemental war,

Collecting all its force, Gather'd the tempest, from whose ebon shroud, An avalanche cataract, whirl'd in thunder o'er

The promontory's height,

Then might be seen by the presageful eye Bursts on the rock: while round the mountain The vision of a rising realm unfold,

brow,

And temples roofd with gold.
Half, half the flood rebounding in its might, And in the gloom of that remorseless time,
Spreads wide a sea of foam evanishing in light. When Rome the sabine seiz'd, might be foreseen

In the first triumph of successful crime,
The shadowy arm of one of giant birth
Forging a chain for earth:

And tho' slow ages roll’d their course between,
Rome.

The form as of a Caesar, when he led

His war-worn legions on, I saw the ages backward rollid,

Troubling the pastoral stream of peaceful RuThe scenes long past restore:

bicon. Scenes that Evander bade his guest behold, Such might o'er clay-built Rome have been When first the Trojan stept on Tyber's shore

foretold The shepherds in the forum pen their fold; By word of human wisdom. But what word, And the wild herdsman, on his untamed steed, Save from thy lip, Jehovah's prophet! heard, Goods with prone spear the heifer's foaming When Rome was marble, and her temples gold,

speed,

And the globe Caesar's footstool, who, when Where Rome, in second infancy, once more

Rome
Sleeps in her cradle. But in that drear waste, View'd th' incommunicable name divine
In that rude desert, when the wild goat sprung Link a Faustina to an Antonine
From cliff to cliff, and the Tarpeian rock On their polluted temple; who but thou,
Lour'd o'er the untended flock,

The prophet of the Lord! what word, save thine, And eagles on its crest their aërie hung:

Rome's utter desolation had denounc'd ? And when fierce gales bow'd the high pines, when Yet, ere that destin'd time,

blaz'd

The love-lute, and the viol, song, and mirth, The lightning, and the savage in the storm Ring from her palace roofs. Hear'st thou not Some unknown godhead heard, and, awe-struck,

yet,

Metropolis of earth! On Jove's imagin'd form :

A voice borne back on every passing wind, And in that desert, when swoln Tyber's wave Wherever man has birth, Went forth the twins to save,

One voice, as from the lip of human kind, Their reedy cradle floating on his flood:

The echo of thy fame? Flow they not yet, While yet the infants on the she-wolf clung, As flow'd of yore, down each successive age While yet they fearless play'd her brow beneath, The chosen of the world, on pilgrimage, And mingled with their food

To commune with thy wrecks, and works sublime, The spirit of her blood,

Where genius dwells enthron'd?
As o'er them seen to breathe
With fond reverted neck she hung,
And lick'd in turn each babe, and formed with

fostering tongue: And when the founder of imperial Rome

Rome! thou art doom'd to perish, and thy Fix'd on the robber hill, from earth aloof,

days, His predatory home,

Like mortal man's, are numbered : number'd all, And hung in triumph round his straw-thatched Ere each fleet hour decays.

roof

Though pride yet haunt thy palaces, though art The wolf skin, and huge boar tusks, and the Thy sculptur'd marbles animate:

pride

Though thousands, and ten thousands throng Of branching antlers wide:

thy gate; And tower'd in giant strength, and sent afar Though kings and kingdoms with thy idol mart His voice, that on the mountain echoes roll’d, Yet traffic, and thy throned priest adore : Stern preluding the war :

Thy second reign shall pass, pass like thy And when the shepherds left their peaceful fold,

reign of yore. And from the wild wood lair, and rocky den, Round their bold chieftain rush'd strange forms

of barbarous men:

gaz'd

The Grotto of Egeria.
Can I forget that beauteous day,
When, shelter'd from the burning beam,
First in thy haunted grot I lay,
And loos’d my spirit to its dream,
Beneath the broken arch, o'erlaid
With ivy, dark with many a braid
That clasp'd its tendrils to retain
The stone its roots had writh'd in twain ?
No zephyr on the leaflet play'd,
No bent grass bow'd its slender blade,
The coiled snake lay slumber-bound:
All mute, all motionless around,
Save, livelier, while others slept,
The lizard on the sunbeam leapt,
And louder while the groves were still,
The unseen cigali, sharp and shrill,
As if their chirp could charm alone
Tir'd noontide with its unison.

Stranger! that roam'st in solitude !
Thou, too, 'mid tangling bushes rude,
Seek in the glen, yon heights between,
A rill more pure than Hippocrene,
That from a sacred fountain fed
The stream that fill'd its marble bed.

Its marble bed long since is gone,
And the stray water struggles on,
Brawling thro' weeds and stones its way.
There, when o'erpower'd at blaze of day,
Nature languishes in light,
Pass within the gloom of night,
Where the cool grot's dark arch o'ershades
Thy temples, and the waving braids
Of many a fragrant brier that weaves
Its blossom thro' the ivy leaves.
Thou, too, beneath that rocky roof,
Where the moss mats its thickest woof,
Shalt hear the gather'd ice-drops fall
Regular, at interval,
Drop after drop, one after one,
Making music on the stone,
While every drop, in slow decay,
Wears the recumbent nymph away.
Thou, too, if ere thy youthful ear
Thrill'd the Latian lay to hear,
Lull'd to slumber in that cave,
Shalt hail the nymph that held the wave;
A goddess, who there deign'd to meet,
A mortal from Rome's regal seat,
And o'er the gushing of her fount,
Mysterious truths divine to earthly ear recount.

K e a t s.

John Keats ward am 29. October 1796 in London geboren, der Sohn eines Lohnkutschers. Er erhielt eine gute Erziehung und kam dann zu einem Chirurgen in die Lehre, bei dem er jedoch nicht lange blieb, da eine kleine Erbschaft ihm ein unabhängiges Leben sicherte. 1817 gab er seine Jugendgedichte und gleich darauf seinen "Endymion” heraus, fand aber an Gifford einen so erbitterten und gehässigen Recensenten im Quarterly Review, dass sein Leben mit tiefem Gram erfüllt wurde und die Anlage zur Auszehrung, die er schon lange in sich trug', sich rasch und zerstörend entwickelte. Um Heilung zu suchen ging er nach Italien, aber sie ward ihm nicht; er starb am 24. Februar 1821 in Rom.

Seine hinterlassenen Gedichte sind: Endymion, Lamia, Isabella, The Eve of St. Agnes, Hyperion und Miscellaneous Poems. Er besass ein reiches, schönes Talent, voll tiefer und zarter Empfindung, schöpferischer Phantasie und Gedankenfülle und würde sich bei längerem Leben und unter günstigeren Verhältnissen gewiss herrlich entwickelt haben,

« PrécédentContinuer »