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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, - ofloneliness, – 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, To intercept us as we pass;

With artificial wreaths, the curls that sported

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 'T'is not the tear of vanity for beauty on the of its grace;

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

bloom again

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I'd love thee, laud thee, trust thee You cannot know a father's woe


You cannot dry a father's tears; Upon thy truth relying.

The girl who rears a sickly plant,

Or cherishes a wounded dove, E'en those who smile to see us part, Will love them most while most they want Shall see us meet with wonder;

The watchfulness of love!
Such trials only make the heart

That truly loves grow fonder.
Our sorrows past shall be our pride,

Time must have changed that fair young When with each other vying:

brow, Thou wilt confide in him, who lives

Time might have changed that spotless Upon thy truth relying.

heart; Tears might have brought deceit, but


Oh say not 't were a keener blow.
Oh say not 'twere a keener blow,

To lose a child of riper years,

In love's confiding dawn we part!
Ere pain and grief had sown decay,

My babe is cradled in the tomb,
Like some fair blossom torn away

In all its purest bloom.


Edward Hovel Thurlow (Lord Thurlow) wurde um's Jahr 178} 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.

Thou hast thy mighty herds,

And circled me with sacred rays,
Tame, and free livers ;

To be a poet in his sight:
Doubt not, thy music too

Then, thus I give the crown to thee,
In the deep rivers;

Whose impress is fidelity.
And the whole plumy flight,
Warbling the day and night
Up at the gates of light,
See, the lark quivers !


The Summer, the divinest Summer burns, When with the jacinth

The skies are bright with azure and with Coy fountains are tressed;

gold; And for the mournful bird

The mavis, and the nightingale by turns, Greenwoods are dressed,

Amid the woods a soft enchantment hold: That did for Tereus pine;

The flowering woods, with glory and delight, Then shall our songs be thine,

Their tender leaves unto the air have To whom our hearts incline :

spread; May, be thou blessed!

The wanton air, amid their alleys bright,

Doth softly fly, and a light fragrance shed: The nymphs within the silver fountains play,

The angels on the golden banks recline, Wherein great Flora, in her bright array,

Hath sprinkled her ambrosial sweets divine: The Sun -Flower.

Or, else, I gaze upon that beauteous face,

O Amoret! and think these sweets have Behold, my dear, this lofty flower,

place. That now the golden sun receives; No other deity has power,

But only Phoebus, on her leaves ; As he in radiant glory burns,

Now Summer has one foot from out the From east to west her visage turns.

world, Her golden mantle floating in the air;

And her love-darting eyes are backward The dial tells no tale more true,

hurled, Than she his journal on her leaves,

To bid adieu to this creation fair: When morn first gives him to her view, A flight of swallows circles her before, Or night, that her of him bereaves,

And Zephyrus, her jolly harbinger, A dismal interregnum bids

Already is a-wing to Heaven's door, Her weeping eyes to close their lids.

Whereat the Muses are expecting her; And the three Graces in their heavenly ring,

Are dancing with delicious harmony; Forsaken of his light, she pines

And Hebe doth her flowery chalice bring, The cold, the dreary night away,

To sprinkle nectar on their melody: Till in the east the crimson sings

Jove laughs to see his angel, Summer, come, Betoken the great god of day;

Warbling his praise, to her immortal home. Then, lifting up her drooping face, She sheds around a golden grace.


The crimson Moon, uprising from the sea, O Nature, in all parts divine!

With large delight foretells the harvest What moral sweets her leaves disclose! Then in my verse her truth shall shine, Ye shepherds, now prepare your melody, And be immortal, as the rose,

To greet the soft appearance of her sphere! Anacreon's plant; arise, thou flower, And, like a page, enamoured of her train, That hast fidelity thy dower!

The star of evening glimmers in the west: Then raise, ye shepherds, your observant

strain, Apollo, on whose beams you gaze, That so of the Great Shepherd here are Has filled my breast with golden light;


Our fields are full with the time-ripened grain, How am I with thy sad delight beguiled, Our vineyards with the purple clusters How hold with fond imagination play!


By the broad taper I call up the time Her golden splendour glimmers on the main, When Harold on the bleeding verdure lay, And vales and mountains her bright glory Though great in glory, overstained with crime


And fallen by his fate from kingly sway! Then sing, ye shepherds! for the time is come On bleeding knights, and on war-broken When we must bring the enriched harvest

arms, home. Torn banners and the dying steeds you

shone, When this fair England, and her peerless


And all, but honour, to the foe were gone! O Moon, that shinest on this heathy wild, Here died the king, whom his brave subjects And light'st the hill of Hastings with thy

chose, ray,

But, dying, lay amid his Norman foes!


William Tennant wurde 1785 zu Unstruther in der schottischen Grafschaft Fife geboren. Er hatte das Unglück, schon in seiner Kindheit den Gebrauch seiner Füsse zu verlieren, so dass er stets an Krücken gehen musste. Den ersten Unterricht erhielt er in der Unstruther Stadtschule und studirte von 1799 an, zwei Jahre auf der Universität St. Andrews. Da er in Folge beschränkter Mittel seine Studien nicht beendigen konnte, wurde er Schreiber, dann Kornfactor zu Glasgow und später zu Unstruther, wo er Muse fand, seine Studien fortzusetzen und sich mit Homer und Virgil, so wie mit Ariosto, Camoens und Wieland bekannt zu machen. Ausserdem widmete er sich auch dem Hebräischen mit Vorliebe. Im Jahr 1813 wurde er Schulmeister zu Denins bei St. Andrews. Hier benutzte er seine Musezeit zur Erlernung des Arabischen, Spanischen und Persischen. Im Jahre 1835 kam er als Professor der morgenländischen Literatur an Mary's College in St. Andrews, welche Stelle er noch vor wenigen Jahren bekleidete.

Als Dichter trat Tennant schon 1812 mit seinem komisch-epischen Gedichte „Anster Fair“, in Ottaverime auf, welche Versart er in England wieder in Aufnahme brachte. Es behandelt nämlich die Heirath der Maggie Louder, einer in Balladen und Ueberlieferungen gefeierten Heldin des schottischen Gesanges und der jungfräulichen Schönheit. Dieses Gedicht zeugt von einer reichbegabten Phantasie des Dichters, der selbst gewöhnlichen Dingen den Reiz der Neuheit durch schöne Bilder und lebensvolle Schilderungen zu verleihen wusste. Diesem Gedichte sind noch mehrere poetische Werke gefolgt, wie Cardinal Beaton, ein Trauerspiel, ferner zwei Gedichte: the Thane of five und the Dinging Down of the Cathedral, so wie Hebrew Dramas 1846.

From Anster Fair.

And when the low Sun's glory-buskined

feet The Morning of Anster Fair.

Walk on the blue wave of the Ægean I wish I had a cottage snug and neat

tide Upon the top of many fountained Ide, Oh! I would kneel me down, and worship That I might thence, in holy fervour, greet

there The bright-gowned Morning tripping up The God who garnished out a world so her side:

bright and fair!

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