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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 !

Sonnets.

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;

Now Summer has one foot from out the
As he in radiant glory burns,
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 bis 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;

blest!

near:

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!

swell:

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

tell:

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

charms,

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!

Tennant.

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 Schönbeit. 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!

The saffron-elbowed Morning up the slope For, toilingly, each bitter beadle swung,

Of heaven canaries in her jewelled shoes, Even till he smoked with sweat, his greasy And throws o'er Kelly-law's sheep-nibbled top

rope, Her golden apron dripping kindly dews; And almost broke his bell-wheel, ushering in And never, since she first began to hop The morn of Anster Fair with tinkle-tankling Up heaven's blue causeway, of her beams

din. profuse, Shone there a dawn so glorious and so gay, And, from our steeple’s pinnacle ontspread, As shines the merry dawn of Anster mar

ket-day.
The town's long colours flare and flap on

high,

Whose anchor, blazoned fair in green and red, Round through the vast circumference of sky Whilst on the boltsprit, stern, and topmast

Curls, pliant to each breeze that whistles by; One speck of small cloud cannot eye

head behold, Save in the east some fleeces bright of dye, Streams the red gaudery of flags in air,

Of brig and sloop, that in the harbour lie, That stripe the hem of heaven with woolly All to salute and grace the morn of Anster gold,

Fair.
Whereon are happy angels wont to lie

Lolling, in amaranthine flowers enrolled,
That they may spy the precious light of Description of the Heroine.

God,

Her form was as the Morning's blithesome Flung from the blessed East o'er the fair Earth abroad.

star, That, capped with lustrous coronet of

beams,

less range,

Rides up the dawning orient in her car, The fair Earth laughs through all her bound

New-washed, and doubly fulgent from

the streams Heaving her green hills high to greet the

The Chaldee shepherd eyes her light afar, beam;

And on his knees adores her as she gleams; City and village, steeple, cot, and grange, Gilt as with Nature's purest leaf-gold seem; And so the admiring crowds pay homage

So shone the stately form of Maggie Lauder, The heaths and upland muirs, and fallows, change

and applaud her. Their barren brown into a ruddy gleam, And, on ten thousand dew-bent leaves and Each little step her trampling palfrey took,

Shaked her majestic person into grace,

sprays, Twinkle ten thousand suns, and fling their And as at times his glossy sides she strook

petty rays.

Endearingly with whip’s green silken lace, (The prancer seemed to court such kind

rebuke, Up from their nests and fields of tender corn

Loitering with wilful tardiness of pace), Full merrily the little skylarks spring,

By Jove, the very waving of her arm And on their dew-bedabbled pinions borne, Had power a brutish lout to unbrutify and

charm! Mount to the heaven's blue key-stone

Aickering; They turn their plume-soft bosoms to the Her face was as the summer cloud, where on

morn;

The dawning sun delights to rest his rays! And hail the genial light, and cheer’ly sing; Compared with it, old Sharon's vale, o'erEcho the gladsome hills and valleys round,

grown As half the bells of Fife ring loud and swell With flaunting roses, had resigned its the sound.

praise; For why? Her face with heaven's own roses

shone, For when the first upsloping ray was flung Mocking the morn, and witching men to On Anster steeple's swallow-harbouring

gaze; top,

And he that gazed with cold unsmitten soul, Its bell and all the bells around were rung That blockhead's heart was ice thrice baked Sonorous, jangling, loud, without a stop;

beneath the Pole.

Her locks, apparent tufts of wiry gold, Wo to the man on whom she unaware

Lay on her lily temples, fairly dangling, Did the dear witchery of her eye elance! And on each hair, so harmless to behold, \'Twas such a thrilling, killing, keen regard –

A lover's soul hung mercilessly strangling; May Heaven from such a look preserve each The piping silly zephyrs vied to unfold

tender bard! The tresses in their arms so slim and

tangling, And thrid in sport these lover-noosing snares,

So on she rode in virgin majesty, And played at hide-and-seek amid the golden And with the light and grandeur of her eye

Charming the thin dead air to kiss her lips, hairs.

Shaming the proud sun into dim eclipse; While round her presence clustering far and

nigh, Her eye was as an honoured palace, where On horseback some, with silver spurs and A choir of lightsome Graces frisk and

whips, dance;

And some afoot with shoes of dazzling buckles, What object drew her gaze, how mean soe’er, Attended knights, and lairds, and clowns Got dignity and honour from the glance;

with horny knuckles.

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Bernard Barton ward im Jahr 1784 geboren. Er stammte aus einer Quäkerfamilie, weshalb er seine erste Bildung in einem Quäkerseminar genoss, und der Quäkerdichter genannt wurde. Im J. 1806 schlug er seinen Wohnsitz zu Woodbridge in Suffolk auf, wo er in ein Wechselgeschäft trat. 1812 veröffentlichte er einen Band Gedichte anonym, unter dem Titel: Metrical Effusions, welchem 1818 ein anderer Band folgte: Poems by an Amateur. Von seinen Freunden aufgemuntert, wagte er es endlich, ein Bändchen Gedichte unter seinem Namen herauszugeben, welche, von den literarischen Zeitschriften günstig beurtheilt, mehrere Auflagen erhielten. Um das Jahr 1826 veröffentlichte er „Napoleon and other Poems“. Es sind seitdem mehrere Bände vermischte Gedichte von ihm erschienen, ohne jedoch seinen Ruf als Dichter zu erhöhen. Bernard Barton's Poesie trägt das Gepräge der Lauterkeit, eines frommen Gemüthes und der Milde der Secte an sich, welcher er angehört. Sein Styl ist etwas weitschweifig, im Allgemeinen aber anmuthig, fliessend und leicht, und obschon seine Sprache nicht reich an Gedanken oder originellen Bildern ist, so empfiehlt sie sich doch durch eine Wahrheit der Empfindung und einen natürlichen Ernst der Sitte, welche das Herz gewinnen und die Aufmerksamkeit fesseln.

Sleep.

Could I embody the thoughts which now What is it that stills the sigh of Sorrow,

Pass my soul's living tablet over,

No being more lovely and fair than thou
And forbids her tears to flow?
That allows the desolate-hearted to borrow Not deathly and pale, like a spectre stealing

Before mortal eye could hover:
A transient relief from woe?

On the slumb’rer, whose eyes thy power It is thou, sweet Sleep! Oh then listen to me!

is sealing; Be it but in thy dreams, while I sing of thee.

But a form full of beauty, of joy, and grace, I love at such an hour to mark

And features with kindness bright, Their beauty greet the night-breeze chill,
Such as a Raphael would love to trace ; And shine, 'mid shadows gathering dark,
A creature of glory and light,

The garden's glory still.
With a silvery cloud, to chasten each hue
Too radiant else, should arise to view.

For such, 'tis sweet to think the while,

When cares and griefs the breast invade,
Is friendship's animating smile

In sorrow's dark’ning shade.
Stanzas on the Sea.

o'er me,

Oh! I shall not forget, until memory depart, Thus it bursts forth, like thy pale cup, When first I beheld it, the glow of my heart;

Glist’ning amid its dewy tears, The wonder, the awe, the delight that stole And bears the sinking spirit up

Amid its chilling fears. When its billowy boundlessness opened be

fore me. I stood on its margin, or roamed on its strand, But still more animating far, I felt new ideas within me expand,

If meek Religion's eye may trace, Of glory and grandeur, unknown till that Even in the glimmering earth-born star,

hour,

The holier hope of Grace. And my spirit was mute in the presence of

power! In the surf-beaten sands that encircled it The hope, that as thy beauteous bloom

round,

Expands to glad the close of day, In the billow's retreat, and the breaker's So through the shadows of the tomb

. rebound,

May break forth Mercy's ray. In its white drifted foam, and its dark

heaving green, Each moment I gazed, some fresh beauty

The Solitary Tomb. And that, while I wandered on ocean's bleak

shore,

Not a leaf of the tree which stood near me And surveyed its vast surface, and heard

was stirred, its waves roar,

Though a breath might have moved it so I seemed wrapt in a dream of romantic

lightly; delight,

Not a farewell note from a sweet singing And haunted by majesty, glory, and might!

bird Bade adieu to the sun setting brightly.

was seen.

The sky was cloudless and calm, except To the Evening Primrose.

In the west, where the sun was descending;

And there the rich tints of the rainbow Fair flower, that shunn'st the glare of day,

slept, Yet lov'st to open, meekly bold,

As his beams with their beauty were To evening's hues of sober gray

blending. Thy cup of paly gold;

And the evening star, with its ray clear, Be thine the offering owing long

So tremulous, soft, and tender, To thee, and to this pensive hour, Had lit up its lamp, and shot down from Of one brief tributary song,

its sphere Though transient as thy flower.

Its dewy delightful splendour.

I love to watch, at silent eve,

Thy scattered blossoms' lonely light, And have my inmost heart receive

The influence of that sight.

And I stood all alone on that gentle hill,

With a landscape so lovely before me; And its spirit and tone, so serene and still,

Seemed silently gathering o'er me.

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