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To a wounded singing Bird.


Poor singer! hath the fowler's gun,

Or the sharp winter done thee harm? We'll lay thee gently in the sun,

And breathe on thee, and keep thee warm; Perhaps some human kindness still May make amends for human ill.

We'll take thee in, and nurse thee well,

And save thee from the winter wild, Till summer fall on field and fell,

And thou shalt be our feather d child; And tell us all thy pain and wrong, When thou canst speak again in song.

Come, all ye feathery people of mid air,
Who sleep 'midst rocks, or on the mountain

summits Lie down with the wild winds; ye

who build Your homes amidst green leaves by grottos cool, And ye, who on the flat sands hoard your eggs For suns to ripen, come! O phoenix rare! If death hath spared, or philosophic search Permit thee still to own thy haunted nest, Perfect Arabian, lonely nightingale! Dusk creature, who art silent all day long, But when pale eve unseals thy clear throat, loosest Thy twilight music on the dreaming boughs, Until they waken; and thou, cuckoo bird, Who art the ghost of sound, having no shape Material, but dost wander far and near, Like untouch'd echo whom the woods deny Sight of her love, come all to my slow charm! Come thou, sky-climbing bird, wakener of morn, Who springest like a thought unto the sun, And from his golden floods dost gather wealth (Epithalamium and Pindarique song), And with it enrich our ears ; come all to me, Beneath the chamber where my lady lies, And, in your several musics, whisper Love!

Fear not, nor tremble, little bird,

We'll use thee kindly now;
And sure there's in a friendly word

An accent even thou shouldst know; For kindness which the heart doth teach Disdaineth all peculiar speech :

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William Lisle Bowles ward am 4. September 1762 im Dorfe King's Sutton in Northamptonshire geboren, erhielt seine wissenschaftliche Bildung zu Winchester und Oxford und verwaltete dann nacheinander mehrere Pfarrämter, zuletzt das Rectorat von Bremhill in Wiltshire, wo er noch in hohem Alter lebt. Er hat viele Poesieen veröffentlicht, unter denen seine Sonnette und seine grössere Dichtung the Spirit of Discovery, London 1805 u. ö., sich den meisten Beifall erwarben. Die Herausgabe von Pope's Werken verwickelte ihn in einen literarischen Streit mit Byron, in welchem er zwar den Kürzeren zog, sich aber als Kritiker dennoch grosse Achtung erwarb.

Reinheit der Gesinnung, Einfachheit, Würde und anmuthige Behandlung verleihen seinen poetischen Leistungen einen bleibenden Werth und weisen ihrem Verfasser einen ehrenvollen Rang unter seinen Zeitgenossen an.

St. Michael's Mount.

Those massy-cluster'd columns, whose long rows, Mountain! no pomp of waving woods hast thou, Amid the silent sanctity of death,

E'en at noon-day, in shadowy pomp repose That deck with varied shade thy hoary brow;

Like giants, seem to guard the dust beneath: No sunny meadows at thy feet are spread,

Those roofs re-echo (though no altars blaze) No streamlets sparkle o'er their pebbly bed. But thou canst boast thy beauties,

The prayer of penitence, the hymn of praise; ample

Whilst meek Religion's self, as with a smile, views

Reprints the tracery of the hoary pile,
That catch the rapt eye of the pausing Muse:
Headlands around new-lighted; sails, and seas

Worthy its guest, the temple. What remains ?

Oh, mightiest Master! thy immortal strains Now glassy smooth, now wrinkling to the

These roofs demand. Listen, with prelude reeze;

slow, And when the drizzly winter, wrapt in sleet,

Solemnly sweet, yet full, the organs blow. Goes by, and winds and rain thy ramparts And, hark! again, heard ye the choral chaunt


Peal through the echoing arches, jubilant? Fancy can see thee standing thus aloof, And frowning, bleak and bare, and tempest- Wafted to heaven, and mingling with the sighs

More softly now, imploring litanies,

proof, Look, as with awful confidence, and brave

Of penitence, from yon high altar rise: The howling hurricane, the dashing wave;

Again the vaulted roof “Hosannah” rings More graceful when the storm's dark vapours Rent, but not prostrate,

“Hosannah! Lord of lords, and King of kings!"

stricken, yet sublime, frown, Than when the summer suns in pomp go down! Reckless alike of injuries or time;

Thou unsubdued, in silent majesty,
The tempest hast defied, and shalt defy!
The temple of our Sion so shall mock
The inuttering storm, the very earthquake's


Founded, O Christ, on thy eternal rock!
Restoration of Malmesbury Abbey.
Monastic and time-consecrated fane!
Thou hast put on thy shapely state again,
Almost august, as in thy early day,
Ere ruthless Henry rent thy pomp away.
No more the mass on holidays is sung,
The host high-raised, or fuming censer swung;

Summer Evening, at Home.
No more, in amice white, the fathers, slow, Come, lovely Evening, with thy smile of peace
With lighted tapers, in long order go;

Visit my humble dwelling, welcomed in, Yet the tall window lifts its arched height, Not with loud shouts, and the throng'd As to admit heaven's pale but purer light;

city's din,

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But with such sounds as bid all tumult cease | On thee I rest my only hope at last,

Of the sick heart; the grasshopper's faint pipe And think, when thou hast dried the bitter Beneath the blades of dewy grass unripe,

tear The bleat of the lone lamb, the carol rude That flows 'in vain o'er all my soul held dear,

Heard indistinctly from the village green, I may look back on every sorrow past,
The bird's last twitter from the hedge-row And meet life's peaceful evening with a smile, -


As some lone bird, at day's departing hour Where, just before, the scatter'd crumbs I strew'd, Sings in the sunbeam of the transient shower, To pay him for his farewell song, all these Forgetful, though its wings are wet the while:Touch soothingly the troubled ear, and please Yet, ah! how much must that poor heart endure The stilly-stirring fancies, though my hours Which hopes from thee, and thee alone, a cure ! (For I have droop'd beneath life's early show'rs) Pass lonely oft, and oft my heart is sad; Yet I can leave the world, and feel most glad To meet thee, Evening here; here my own hand Has deck'd with trees and shrubs the slopes

Dover Cliffs. around, And whilst the leaves by dying airs are fann'd,

On these white cliffs, that calm above the flood,

Uplift their shadowing heads, and, at their Sweet to my spirit comes the farewell sound,

feet, That seems to say, “Forget the transient tear

Scarce hear the surge that has for ages beat, Thy pale youth shed, repose and peace are

Sure here."

many a lonely wand'rer has stood; And, whilst the lifted murmur met his ear,

And o'er the distant billows the still eve
Sail'd slow, has thought of all his heart must

To-morrow; of the friends he loved most dear;

Of social scenes, from which he wept to part: Winter Evening, at Home.

But, if like me, he knew how fruitless all Fair moon! that at the chilly day's decline The thoughts that would full fain the past Of sharp December, through my cottage pane

recall, Dost lovely look, smiling, though in thy wane; Soon would he quell the risings of his heart, In thought, to scenes, serene and still as thine, And brave the wild winds and unhearing tide

Wanders my heart, whilst I by turns survey The world his country, and his God his guide.

Thee slowly wheeling on thy evening way; And this my fire, whose dim, unequal light,

Just glimmering, bids each shadowy image fall

Sombrous and strange upon the dark’ning wall, Ere the clear tapers chase the deep'ning night! As one, who, long by wasting sickness worn, Yet thy still orb, seen through the freezing haze, Weary has watch'd the ling'ring night,

and Shines calm and clear without; and whilst I gaze

heard, I think around me in this twilight room

Heartless the carol of the matin bird I but remark mortality's sad gloom;

Salute his lonely porch; now first at morn Whilst hope, and joy, cloudless and soft appear Goes forth, leaving his melancholy bed; In the sweet beam that lights thy distant sphere! He the green slope and level meadow views,

Delightful bathed in slow-ascending dews;
Or marks the clouds, that o'er the mountain's

In varying forms fantastic wander white;

Or turns his ear to every random song,

Heard the green river's winding marge along,

The whilst each sense is steep'd in still delight: Time.

With such delight o'er all my heart I feel,

Sweet Hope! thy fragrance pure and healing O time! who know'st a lenient hand to lay

incense steal! Softest on sorrow's wound, and slowly thence

(Lulling to sad repose the weary sense) The faint pang stealest, unperceived, away ;

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Netley Abbey. Whose was the gentle voice, that, whispering Fall’n pile! I ask not what has been thy fate;


But when the weak winds, wafted from the Promised, methought, long days of bliss

main, sincere?

Through each rent arch, like spirits that comSoothing it stole on my deluded ear,

plain, Most like soft music, that might sometimes cheat Come hollow to my ear, I meditate Thoughts dark and drooping! 'Twas the voice of On this world's passing pageant, and the lot


Of those who once full proudly in their prime Of love and social scenes, it seem'd to speak, And beauteous might have stood, till bow'd Of truth, of friendship, of affection meek;

by time That oh! poor friend, might to life's downward Or injury, their early beast forgot,


They may have fallen like thee: pale and forlorn, Lead us in peace, and bless our latest hours. Their brows, besprent with thin hairs, white Ah me! the prospect sadden'd as she sung;

as snow, Loud on my startled ear the death-bell rung; They lift, majestic yet, as they would scorn Chill darkness wrapt the pleasurable w'rs, This short-lived scene of vanity and woe; Whilst horror, pointing to yon breathless clay, Whilst on their sad looks, smilingly, they bear "No peace be thine,” exclaim'd, "away! away!" The trace of creeping age, and the dim hue of


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I shall look back, when on the main,

Back to my native isle,
And almost think I hear again

Thy voice, and view thy smile.

How shall I meet thee, Summer, wont to fill
My heart with gladness, when thy pleasant

First came, and on each coomb's romantic

side Was heard the distant cuckoo's hollow bill ? Fresh flow'rs shall fringe the wild brink of the

As with the song of joyance and of hope,
The hedge-rows shall ring aloud, and on the

The poplars sparkle on the transient beam,
The shrubs and laurels which I love to tend,
Thinking their May-tide fragrance might de-

With many a peaceful charm, thee, my best

friend, Shall put forth their green shoot, and cheer

the sight! But I shall mark their hues with sick’ning eyes, And weep for her who in the cold grave lies!

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Tig h e.


Mary Tighe, die Tochter des Pfarrers Blachford, ward 1773 in Irland geboren, vermählte sich in früher Jugend mit einem Herrn Tighe und brachte den grössten Theil ihres übrigen Lebens in Woodstock zu,

wo sie am 24. März 1810 starb, während ihrer letzten sieben Jahre durch Läh. mung an das Lager gefesselt. Ihre Gedichte erschienen erst nach ihrem Tode; unter diesen ist Psyche als das Bedeutendste zu betrachten, doch athmen auch ihre kleinen Poesieen viel Anmuth und Zartheit, und wurden zu ihrer Zeit gern gelesen, bis die grossartigen poetischen Erscheinungen der nächsten Periode dieselben zurückdrängten.

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