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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 Full to the breeze she unbosoms her sail,

Where the dreams of our childhood are vanished

and o'er, And her pennant streams onward, like hope, in

the gale!
The winds come around her, in murmur and

And the surges rejoice, as they bear her along !
Upward she points to the golden-edged clouds,
And the sailor sings gaily, aloft in the shrouds!

I am all alone.
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,
Hung, like a gem, on the brow of the sky;

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! Alone on the deep as the moon in the sky, A phantom of beauty! could deem, with a sigh,

And the song goes round, and the glowing That so lovely a thing is the mansion of sin,

smile, And souls that are smitten lie bursting, within!

But I am desolate all the while !
Who, as he watches her silently gliding, And faces are bright, and bosoms glad,
Remembers that wave after wave is dividing

And nothing, I think, but my heart is sad! Bosoms that sorrow and guilt could not sever, - 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 ! Or deems that he watches, afloat on the wave, The death-bed of hope, or the young spirit's I wander about, like a shadow of pain,


With a worm in my breast, and a spell on my


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 un

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,
She sleeps, that still and placid sleep. And sounds that seemed like truth;

And loved the music which they gave,
She sleeps that still and placid sleep

Like that which perished in the grave.
For which the weary pant in vain;
And, where the dews of evening weep,
I may not weep again;

And I have left the cold and dead,
Oh! never more upon her grave,

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,
Look on her tomb, with loving eye,

With thee, dead Ellen, in thy tomb!
And I have heard the breeze of June
Sweep o'er it
like a sigh!

Age sits upon my breast and brain,
And the wild river's wailing song

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,
And I have dreamt, in many dreams,

Than all the false and living crowd!
Of her who was a dream to me;
And talked to her, by summer streams,
In crowds, and on the sea,

Rise, gentle vision of the hours,
Till, in my soul she grew enshrined,

Which go

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 Aung their beauty o'er my youth; To "flee away, and be at rest!”

B a yly.

Thomas Haynes Bayly ward zu Anfange dieses Jahrhunderts in Bath geboren, nnd 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.

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The Gipsies' Haunt.

Yet she might mingle in the dance, where mai

dens gaily trip, Why curls the blue smoke o'er the trees ? So bright is still her hazel eye, so beautifu. What words are borne upon the breeze?

her lip. Some cottage in yon lonely glen Lies nestled from the eyes of men; Unconsciously we've wandered near The faded form is often marked by sorrow Some rutal play-place, for I hear,

more than years, The sound in which my heart rejoices, The wrinkle on the cheek may be the course The melody of infant voices.

of secret tears; The mournful lip may murmur of a love it ne'er

confest, Alas! in that green nook we see

And the dimness of the eye betray a heart No dwelling-place of industry;

that cannot rest. No dame, intent on household cares, The neat but frugal meal prepares: No sire, his labour o'er, will come

But she hath been a happy wife: the lover of To brighten and to share her home;

her youth No children from their mother learn

May proudly claim the smile that pays the An honest way their bread to earn.

trial of his truth; A sense of slight, – of loneliness, – hath never

banished sleep: The gipsies, wild and wandering race,

Her life hath been a cloudless one; then whereAre masters of the sylvan chase;

fore doth she weep? Beneath the boughs their tents they raise, Upon the turf their faggots blaze: In coarse profusion they prepare

She looked upon herraven locks, what thoughts The feast obtained, -how, when, and where?

did they recal? While swarthy forms, with clamour loud,

Oh! not of nights when they were decked for Around the smoking cauldron crowd.

banquet or for ball; They brought back thoughts of early youth, e'er

she had learnt to check, Forth trips a laughing dark-eyed lass,

With artificial wreaths, the curls that sported To intercept us as we pass;

o'er her neck. Upon your right hand let her look, And there she'll read, as in a book, Your future fortune; and reveal

She seemed to feel her mother's hand passlightly The joy or woe you're doom'd to feel: Your course of love she will unfold,

through her hair, If you the picture dare behold!

And draw it from her brow, to leave a kiss of

kindness there! She seemed to view her father's smile, and feel

the playful touch

That sometimes feigned to steal away the curls The First Grey Hair.

she prized so much.

The måtron at her mirror, with her hand upon And now she sees her first grey hair! oh, deem her brow,

it not a crime Sits gazing on her lovely face, - aye, lovely For her to weep, when she beholds the first even now;

footmark of Time! Why doth she lean upon her hand with such a she knows that, one by one, those mute memenlook of care?

tos will increase, Why steals that tear across her cheek?she sees and steal youth, beauty, strength away, till life her first grey hair.

itself shall cease.

Time from her form hath ta'en away but little 'Tis not the tear of vanity for beauty on the

wanes of its grace; His touch of thought hath dignified the beauty Yet, though the blossom may not sigh to bud and

bloom again of her face;

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Edward Hovel Thurlow (Lord Thurlow) wurde um's Jahr 1784 geboren. Er ist der Sohn des verstorbenen Dr. Thomas Thurlow, Bischof von Durham, Bruder des grossen Lord Kanzler Thurlow. Seine Studien machte er zu Cambridge. Später trat er zuerst öffentlich als Lobredner einiger bedeutender Männer auf, welche er in Sonetten erhob; sodann gab er ein Gedicht unter dem Titel „Moonlight" heraus, in welchem er sich Milton zum Vorbilde genommen. Ausserdem hat er noch mehreres Poetische veröffentlicht, wie Select Poems 1821; Poems on several occasions; Angelica, or the Fate of Proteus; Arcita and Palamon, u. a.

Abschon einige Beurtheiler Thurlow einer scharfen, ja sarkastischen Kritik unter: worfen haben, so ist dennoch wahre Poesie in den Werken dieses Edelmannes nicht zu verkennen. Er besitzt eine Frische der Phantasie und der Empfindung, einen Reichthum im Ausdrucke, und eine Anmuth, welche an Herrick, oder auch an Moore erinnern.

Song to May.
May! queen of blossoms,

And fulfilling flowers,
With what pretty music

Shall we charm the hours ?
Wilt thou have pipe and reed,
Blown in the open mead?
Or to the lute give heed

In the green bowers?

Thou hast no need of us,

Or pipe or wire,
That hast the golden bee

Ripened with fire;
And many thousand more
Songsters, that thee adore,
Filling earth's grassy floor

With new desire.

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