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“For I thought that God would hear his prayer, I heard the dismal, drowning cries,
Of their last agony.
“There was a curse in the wind that blew,
A curse in the boiling wave;
And the captain knew that vengeance came "Yet I told him not wherefore he prayed,
From the old man's ocean grave.
"And 'I heard him say, as he sate apart, To a soul so innocent.
In a hollow voice and low,
''Tis a cry of blood doth follow us, "At length I saw a little cloud
And still doth plague us so!'
With desperate strength took he,
Did cast them into the sea.
“And out from the bottom of the sea, And water-spouts, with a rushing sound,
There came a hollow groan; Like giants, passed us by.
The captain by the gunwale stood,
And he looked like icy stone, “And all around, 'twixt sky and sea,
And he drew in his breath with a gasping sob, A hollow wind did blow;
And a spasm of death came on. And the waves were heaved from the ocean
"And a furious boiling wave rose up, And the ship rocked to and fro.
With a rushing, thundering roar;
But I never saw him more.
"Two days before, when the storm began, And I saw the plagues of wind and storm
We were forty men and five; Their missioned work pursuing.
But ere the middle of that night
There were but two alive. “There was a yell in the gathering winds, A groan in the heaving sea;
“The child and I, we were but two,
Oh! it was pitiful to see
And his little prayers to hear! "He seized each rope with a madman's haste,
And he set the helm to go; And every sail he crowded on
"At length, as if his prayers were heard, As the furious winds did blow.
The clear sun shone, and warm and low, “And away they went, like autumn leaves A steady wind from the west did blow, Before the tempest's rout;
And drove us gently on.
“And on we drove, and on we drove,
That fair young child and I;
And he uttered not a cry.
"There was no bread within the wreck,
And water we had none; “And 'mid the creaking timber's din,
Yet he murmured not, and cheered me And the roaring of the sea,
When my last hopes were gone :
Ye sit upon the earta
Children of pleasant song
And a pure mighty influence, 'mid your mirth For hoary legends to your wilds belong, Moulds your unconscious spirits silently. And yours are haunts where inspiration broods.
Hence is it that the lands
Profusely, like the summer flowers that lie Were of the hills like you, ye little ones! In the green path, beneath your gamesome tread!
Thomas R. Hervey ward um 1816 in der Nähe von Paisley geboren, erhielt seine Erziehung in Manchester und lebt hier als practischer Jurist. Er veröffentlichte the Poetical Sketch-Book 1835, the Book of Christmas und einzelne Gedichte in Zeitschriften. Seine Poesieen wenn gleich nicht ersten Ranges zeichnen sich durch reiche Phantasie und treffliche Diction sehr vor theilhaft aus.
A Twilight Landscape.
Along the green meadows, when life was in
prime, Oh! come at this hour, love! the daylight is And worshipped its face in the stream:
When our hopes were as sweet, and our life-path And the heavens weep dew on the flowers;
as bright, And the spirit of loneliness steals, with a moan, And as cloudless, to fancy's young eye, Through the shade of the eglantine bowers: As the star-spangled course of that phantom of For, the moon is asleep on her pillow of clouds,
light, And her curtain is drawn in the sky;
Along the blue depths of the sky! And the gale, as it wantons along the young Then come in this hour, love! when twilight has buds,
hung Falls faint on the ear like a sigh!
Its shadowy mantle around; The summer-day sun is too gaudy and bright And no sound, save the murmurs that breathe For a heart that has suffered like mine;
from thy tongue, And, methinks, there were pain, in the noon of Or thy footfall scarce heard on the ground!
Shall steal on the silence, to waken a fear To a spirit so broken as thine!
When the sun that is gone, with its heat,
Then, hearts that are broken should meet!
speak of the time When we wandered beneath its soft gleam,
As the smiles we pat on - just to cover our The Convict Ship.
tears; Morn on the waters ! — and purple and bright, And the withering thoughts which the world
cannot know Bursts on the billows the flushing of light ! O'er the glad waves, like a child of the sun,
Like heart-broken exiles, lie burning below; See the tall vessel goes gallantly on:
While the vessel drives on to that desolate shore
Where the dreams of our childhood are vanished Full to the breeze she unbosoms her sail,
and o'er, And her pennant streams onward, like hope, in
the gale! The winds come around her, in murmur and
song, And the surges rejoice, as they bear her along ! Upward she points to the golden-edged clouds,
I am all alone. And the sailor sings gaily, aloft in the shrouds ! Onwards she glides, amid ripple and spray, I am all alone! and the visions that play Over the waters away, and away.
Round life's young days, have passed away; Bright as the visions of youth, ere they part, And the songs are hushed that gladness sings Passing away, like a dream of the heart!
And the hopes that I cherished have made them Who – as the beautiful pageant sweeps by,
wings; Music around her, and sunshine on high And the light of my heart is dimmed and gone, Pauses to think, amid glitter and glow,
And I sit in my sorrow,
and all alone! Oh! there be hearts that are breaking, below! And the forms which I fondly loved are flown, Night on the waves!
and the moon is on And friends have departed one by one;
And memory sits whole lonely hours,
And weaves her wreath of hope's faded flowers, Treading its depths, in the power of her might, And weeps o'er the chaplet, when no one is near And turning the clouds, as they pass her, to To gaze on her grief, or to chide her tear !
light Look to the waters, asleep on their breast,
And the home of my childhood is distant far, Seems not the ship like an island of rest? And I walk in a land where strangers are; Bright and alone on the shadowy main,
And the looks that I meet, and the sounds that Like a heart-cherished home on some desolate
I hear, plain!
Are not light to my spirit, nor song to my ear; Who as she smiles in the silvery light, And sunshine is round me, which I cannot see, Spreading her wings on the bosom of night,
And eyes that beam kindness, but not for me!
And nothing, I think, but my heart is sad!
And I seem like a blight in a region of bloom, Hearts that are parted and broken for ever!
While I dwell in my own little circle of gloom!
And I list, with a start, to the gushing of glad'Tis thus with our life, while it passes along,
ness, Like a vessel at sea, amid sunshine and song:
Oh! how it grates on a bosom all sadness! Gaily we glide, in the gaze of the world,
So I turn from a world where I never was With streamers afloat, and with canvass unfurled ;
known, To sit in my sorrow,
and all alone! All gladness and glory to wandering eyes, Yet chartered by sorrow, and freighted with
sighs ? Fading and false is the aspect it wears,
And I have hung on other sighs,
And loved the music which they gave,
Like that which perished in the grave.
And I have left the cold and dead,
To mingle with the living cold; Shall I behold the wild flower wave!
There is a weight around my head,
My heart is growing old; They laid her where the sun and moon
Oh! for a refuge and a home,
With thee, dead Ellen, in thy tomb!
Age sits upon my breast and brain,
My spirit fades before its time; Grow dirge-like, as it stole along!
But they are all thine own again,
Lost partner of their prime!
And thou art dearer, in thy shroud,
Than all the false and living crowd!
Rise, gentle vision of the hours,
like birds that come not back! A young Egeria of the mind!
And fling thy pale and funeral flowers
On memory's wasted track! 'Tis years ago! and other eyes
Oh! for the wings that made thee blest, Have fung their beauty o'er my youth; To "fee away, and be at rest!”
B a yly.
Thomas Haynes Bayly ward zu Anfange dieses Jahrhunderts in Bath geboren, und widmete sich, da seine Eltern sehr wohlhabend waren, ganz den schönen Wissenschaften. 1826 verheirathete er sich und nahm seinen Wohnsitz an der Küste von Sussex; 1831 hatte er aber das Unglück sein Vermögen zu verlieren und musste nun von dem Ertrage seiner Feder leben. Er starb 1844 in dürftigen Verhältnissen.
Bayly hat mehrere dramatische Werke wie z. B. Perfection, sold for a Song, The Witness u. A. m., welche sich grossen Erfolges erfreuten, sowie viele prosaische Aufsätze und Erzählungen in Zeitschriften u. s. w. hinterlassen, welche noch eine besondere Sammlung und Herausgabe erwarten. Am Zahlreichsten und Verbreitetsten jedoch sind seine bis jetzt ebenfalls in Journalen verstreuten Lieder, die sich durch reiche Phantasie, warmes Gefühl, glücklichen Humor, Lebendigkeit und gefällige Form höchst vortheilhaft auszeichnen und in ganz England überall gesungen werden.