To what she wanted: I held down a branch "This indeed," Cried she, "is large and sweet." His name and life's brief date. To Corinth, Queen of the double sea, beloved of him She held one forth, doubts. I dared not touch it; for it seemed a part She drew back The boon she tendered, and then, finding not The Maid's Lament. I loved him not; and yet, now he is gone, I feel I am alone. But, O Queen, As when they first were uttered, are those words "And shall I too deceive?" Cries from the fiery car an angry voice; I check'd him while he spoke; yet, could he speak, Two breathless bodies warm, soft, motionless, Alas! I would not check. For reasons not to love him once I sought, To vex myself and him: I now would give Who lately lived for me, and, when he found He hid his face amid the shades of death! Who wasted his for me: but mine returns, With stifling heat, heaving it up in sleep, Tears that had melted his soft heart: for years "Merciful God!" such was his latest prayer, "These may she never share!" Quieter is his breath, his breast more cold Where children spell, athwart the churchyard As flowers in stillest noon before the sun, To give the inertest masses of our earth Invites all Greece; o'er lands and floods remote 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. The Briar. My briar that smelledst sweet, Alone thou leavest me, and nought of thine remains. What: hath no poet's lyre O'er thee, sweet breathing briar, Whether in weal or woe in life or death, might dwell. Hard usage both must bear, Sixteen. In Clementina's artless mien Enough for me? Lucilla asks, if that be all, Have I not cull'd as sweet before Ah, yes, Lucilla: and their fall I now behold another scene, Where pleasure beams with heaven's own light, Faith, on whose breast the loves repose, Campbell. 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. Never again shall my brothers embrace me? They died to defend me, or live to deplore! Where is my cabin door, fast by the wild wood? Sisters and sire! did ye weep for its fall? Where is the mother that look'd on my childhood? And where is the bosom-friend, dearer than all? Oh, my sad heart! long abandon'd by pleasure, Why did it doat on a fast-fading treasure? Tears, like the rain-drop, may fall without measure, But rapture and beauty they cannot recal. The last Man. All worldly shapes shall melt in gloom, The sun himself must die, Before this mortal shall assume Its immortality! I saw a vision in my sleep, That gave my spirit strength to sweep I saw the last of human mould, The sun's eye had a sickly glare, In plague and famine some! Earth's cities had no sound nor tread: And ships were drifting with the dead To shores where all was dumb! Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood, Saying, "We are twins in death, proud Sun, 'Tis mercy bids thee go. For thou ten thousand thousand years "What though beneath thee man put forth Yet mourn I not thy parted sway, |