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Wolfe.

Charles Wolfe ward am 14. December 1791 in Dublin geboren, studirte in seiner Vaterstadt Theologie und wurde dann Pfarrer zu Castle-Caulfield in Irland. Seine leidende Gesundheit zwang ihn ein wärmeres Klima aufzusuchen und er lebte daher eine Zeitlang in Bordeaux. In sein Vaterland zurückgekehrt fand sichs bald dass seine Heilung nur eine scheinbare gewesen; er starb in Folge der Auszehrung am 21. Februar 1823.

Wolfe hat nur wenige in Zeitschriften verstreute Gedichte hinterlassen, aber diese wenigen, namentlich das hier zuerst mitgetheilte auf den Tod des General Moore, sind meisterhaft und werden sein Andenken bei allen Freunden der Poesie bis zu den spätesten Zeiten erhalten.

The Burial of Sir John Moore. We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone,

But left him alone with his glory. Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,

As his corse to the rampart we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

Song.
We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning,

If I had thought thou couldst have died,
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,

I might not weep for thee; And the lantern dimly burning.

But I forgot, when by thy side,

That thou couldst mortal be: No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

It never through my mind had past, Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him;

The time would e'er be o'er, But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,

And I on thee should look my last, With his martial cloak around him.

And thou shouldst smile no more!

And still upon that face I look, Few and short were the prayers we said,

And think 'twill smile again; And we spoke not a word of sorrow;

And still the thought I will not brook, But we stedfastly gazed on the face that was

That I must look in vain: dead,

But when I speak, thou dost no say And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

What thou ne'er left'st unsaid;

And now I feel, as well I may,
We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed,

Sweet Mary! thou art dead !
And smooth'd down his lonely pillow,
That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er If thou would'st stay, e'en as thou art,

his head,

All cold, and all serene, And we far away on the billow!

I still might press thy silent heart,

And where thy smiles have been! Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,

While e'en thy chill, bleak corse I have And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him;

Thou seemest still mine own; But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on

But there I lay thee in thy grave, In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

And I am now alone!

I do not think, where'er thou art,
But half of our heavy task was done,

Thou hast forgotten me;
When the clock struck the hour for retiring; And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart,
And we heard the distant and random gun, In thinking too of thee:
That the foe was sullenly firing.

Yet there was round thee such a dawn

Of light ne'er seen before, Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

As fancy never could have drawn, From the field of his fame fresh and gory: And never can restore!

L a n d or.

Walter Savage Landor ward am 30. Januar 1775 zu Ipsley-Court in Warwickshire auf dem väterlichen Landgute geboren, erhielt eine treffliche Erziehung, studirte darauf in Oxford, diente dann in Spanien und liess sich später in Italien auf einer von ihm erkauften Villa bei Fiesole nieder, wo er noch lebt, nur selten sein Vaterland besuchend.

Er hat viel in Prosa geschrieben, aber nur einen Band Poesieen unter dem Titel Geber, Count Julian and other Poems herausgegeben, welche zum Theil früher einzeln erschienen sind. Gedanken · fülle, Phantasie, Kraft, ausgebreitetes Wissen und reiche Menschenkenntniss verbunden mit Eleganz des Ausdruckes, weisen ihm einen sehr hohen Rang unter seinen poetischen Zeitgenossen an.

The Dragon-fly

Gaze on the mingled waste of sky and sea,

Think of my love, and bid her think of me. Life (priest and poet say) is but a dream;

I wish no happier one than to be laid

Beneath some cool syringa's scented shade;
Or wavy willow, by the running stream,

Brimful of moral, where the Dragon-fly
Wanders as careless and content as I.

Fa esulan Idyl.

Here, where precipitate Spring with one light Thanks for this fancy, insect king,

bound Of purple crest and meshy wing,

Into hot Summer's lusty arms expires; Who, with indifference, givest up

And where go forth at morn, at eve, at night, The water-lily's golden cup,

Soft airs, that want the lute to play with them, To come again and overlook

And softer sighs, that know not what they want; What I am writing in my book.

Under a wall, beneath an orange-tree Believe me, inost who read the line

Whose tallest flowers could tell the lowlier ones Will read with hornier eyes than thine;

Of sights in Fiesole right up above, And yet their souls shall live for ever,

While I was gazing a few paces off And thine drop dead into the river!

At what they seemed to show me with their nods God pardon them, O insect king,

Their frequent whispers and their pointing shoots, Who fancy so unjust a thing!

A gentle maid came down the garden steps,
And gathered the pure treasure in her lap.
I heard the branches rustle, and stept forth
To drive the ox away, or mule, or goat,

(Such I believed it must be); for sweet scents To Janthe.

Are the swift vehicles of still sweeter thoughts,

And nurse and pillow the dull memory While the winds whistle round my cheerless room, That would let drop without them her best stores. And the pale morning droops with winter's gloom; They bring me tales of youth and tones of love, While indistinct lie rude and cultured lands, And 'tis and ever was my wish and way The ripening harvest and the hoary sands: To let all flowers live freely, and all die, Alone, and destitute of every page

Whene'er their genius bids their souls depart, That fires the poet, or informs the sage, Among their kindred in their native place. Where shall my wishes, where my fancy rove, never pluck the rose; the violet's head Rest upon past or cherish promised love? Hath shaken with my breath upon its bank Alas! the past I never can regain,

And not reproacht me; the ever sacred cup Wishes may rise, and tears may flow in vain. Of the pure lily hath between my hands Fancy, that shews her in her early bloom, Felt safe, unsoil'd, nor lost one grain of gold. Throws barren sunshine o'er the unyielding tomb. I saw the light that made the glossy leaves What then would passion, what would reason do? More glossy; the fair arm, the fairer cheek Sure, to retrace is worse than to pursue, Warmed by the eye intent on its pursuit; Here will I sit, 'till heaven shall cease to lour, I saw the foot, that, although half erect And happier Hesper bring the appointed hour; From its grey slipper, could not lift her up

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To what she wanted: I held down a branch

His name and life's brief date.
And gather'd her soine blossoms, since their hour Pray for him, gentle souls, whoe'er you be,
Was come, and bees had wounded them, and flies And, oh: pray, too, for me!
Of harder wing were working their way through
And scattering them in fragments under foot.
So crisp were some, they rattled unevolved,
Others, ere broken off, fell into shells,

To Corinth,
For such appear the petals when detach'd, Queen of the double sea, beloved of him
Unbending, brittle, lucid, white like snow, Who shakes the world's foundations, thou hast seen
And like snow not seen through, by eye or sun: Glory in all her beauty, all her forms;
Yet every one her gown received from me Seen her walk back with Theseus when he left
Was fairer than the first - I thought not so, The bones of Sciron bleaching to the wind,
But so she praised them to reward my care. Above the ocean's roar and cormorant's flight,
I said: “You find the largest.”

So high that vastest billows from above

“This indeed," Shew but like herbage waving in the mead; Cried she, "is large and sweet."

Seen generations throng thy Isthmian games,

She held one forth, And pass away the beautiful, the brave, Whether for me to look at or to take

And them who sang their praises. She knew not, nor did I; but taking it

But, O Queen, Would best have solved (and this she felt) her Audible still, and far beyond thy cliffs,

doubts.

As when they first were uttered, are those words
I dared not touch it; for it seemed a part Divine which praised the valiant and the just;
Of her own self; fresh, full, the most mature And tears have often stopt, upon that ridge
Of blossoms, yet a blossom; with a touch So perilous, him who brought before his eye
To fall, and yet unfallen.

The Colchian babes.
She drew back

“Stay! spare him! save the last ! The boon she tendered, and then, finding not

Medea : is that blood ? again! it drops The ribbon at her waist to fix it in,

From my imploring hand upon my feet;
Dropt it, as loth to drop it, on the rest.

I will invoke the Eumenides no more.
I will forgive the bless the bend to thee
In all thy wishes do but thou, Medea,

Tell me, one lives."
The Maid's Lament.

“And shall I too deceive?" I loved him not; and yet, now he is gone,

Cries from the fiery car an angry voice; I feel I am alone.

And swifter than two falling stars descend I check'd him while he spoke; yet, could he speak, Two breathless bodies warm, soft, motionless, Alas! I would not check.

As flowers in stillest noon before the sun, For reasons not to love him once I sought, They lie three paces from him such they lie And wearied all my thought

As when he left them sleeping side by side, To vex myself and him: I now would give A mother's arm round each, a mother's cheeks My love could he but live

Between them, flushed with happiness and love. Who lately lived for me, and, when he found He was more changed than they were doomed 'Twas fain, in holy ground

to shew He hid his face amid the shades of death! Thee and the stranger, how defaced and scarred I waste for him my breath

Grief hunts us down the precipice of years, Who wasted his for me: but mine returns, And whom the faithless prey upon the last.

And this lorn bosom burns
With stifling heat, heaving it up in sleep, To give the inertest masses of our earth
And waking me to weep

Her loveliest forms was thine, to fix the gods Tears that had melted his soft heart: for years Within thy walls, and hang their tripods round Wept he as bitter tears!

With fruits and foliage knowing not decay. “Merciful God!” such was his latest prayer, A nobler work remains : thy citadel “These may she never share!”

Invites all Greece; o'er lands and floods remote Quieter is his breath, his breast more cold Many are the hearts that still beat high for thee: Than daisies in the mould,

Confide then in thy strength, and unappalled Where children spell, athwart the churchyard Look down upon the plain, while yokemate kings

gate,

Run bellowing, where their herdsmengoad them on;

Instinct is sharp in them, and terror true

Ere you are sweet, but freed They smell the floor whereon their necks must lie. From life, you then are prized; thus prized are

poets too.

Sixteen.
The Briar.

In Clementina's artless mien
My briar that smelledst sweet,

Lucilla asks me what I see,
When gentle spring's first heat

And are the roses of sixteen
Ran through thy quiet veins;
Thou that couldst injure none,

Enough for me?
But wouldst be left alone,

Lucilla asks, if that be all,
Alone thou leavest me, and nought of thine remains. Have I not cull'd as sweet before
What: hath no poet's lyre

Ah, yes, Lucilla : and their fall

I still deplore.
O'er thee, sweet breathing briar,
Hung fondly, ill or well?

I now behold another scene,
And yet, methinks with thee,

Where pleasure beams with heaven's own light,
A poet's sympathy,

More pure, more constant, more serene,
Whether in weal or woe in life or death, might dwell.

And not less bright.
Hard usage both must bear,

Faith, on whose breast the loves repose,
Few hands your youth will rear,

Whose chain of flowers no force can sever;
Few bosoms cherish you;

And Modesty, who, when she goes
Your tender prime must bleed

Is gone for ever.

Ca m p b ell. Thomas Campbell ward im Jahre 1777 in Glasgow geboren, studirte hier und zu Edinburg, sich auf beiden Universitäten durch seine glänzenden Fähigkeiten und Leistungen auszeichnend. Im Jahre 1800 bereiste er den Continent, verlebte ein volles Jahr in Deutschland und ging dann, 1803 nach London, wo er Professor an der Royal Institution wurde. Er starb daselbst allgemein verehrt 1844.

Campbell hat ausser vielen sehr elegant geschriebenen prosaischen Arbeiten und einer ziemlichen Anzahl kleinerer Poesieen, drei grössere poetische Werke: The Pleasures of Hope, Gertrude of Wyoming und Theodric geliefert. Eine Sammlung seiner poetischen Werke erschien 1837 mit Illustrationen von Turner , in 2 Bänden.

Reichthum der Phantasie, Tiefe und Wahrheit der Gefühls, begeisterte Wärme für alles Gute und Grosse und der höchste Glanz der Diction sind die schönsten Blüthen in Campbell's Dichterkranze, doch trifft ihn ein Tadel, der bei manchem Anderen als Lob erscheinen würde, er strebt zu ängstlich nach Correctheit und giebt sich daher nie dem Drange seines Genius hin, sondern fesselt diesen nur zu oft mit den eigensinnigen Ketten der Regel. Er reiht sich den grössten Dichtern seiner und aller Nationen auf das Würdigste an, und sein Name wie seine Werke werden allen Freunden echter Poesie unvergesslich bleiben.

To the Evening-star. Star that bringest home the bee,

Come to the luxuriant skies, And sett'st the weary labourer free!

Whilst the landscape's odours rise,
If any star shed peace, 'tis thou,

Whilst far-off lowing herds are heard,
That send'st it from above;

And songs, when toil is done,
Appearing when heaven's breath and brow From cottages, whose smoke unstirr'd,
Are sweet as her's we love.

Curls yellow in the sun.

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