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Yet in this rude school had his heart still

The Sky-Lark. kept

Bird of the free and fearless wing, All the freshness of gentle feeling;

Up, up, and greet the sun's first ray, Nor in woman's warm eye has a tear ever Until the spacious welkin ring


With thy enlivening matin lay: More of softness and kindness revealing. I love to track thy heaven-ward lay:

Till thou art lost to aching sight, And here, when the bustle of youth was past,

And hear thy numbers blithe and gay,

Which set to music morning's light. He lived, and he loved, and he died too; Oh! why was affection, which death could

outlast, A more lengthened enjoyment denied to? Songster of sky and cloud! to thee

Hath Heaven a joyous lot assign'd;

And thou, to hear those notes of glee, But here he slumbers! and many there are Wouldst seem there in thy bliss to find:

Who love that lone tomb and revere it ; Thou art the first to leave behind And one far off who, like eve's dewy star, At day's return this lower earth, Though at distance, in fancy dwells near it. And, soaring as on wings of wind,

To spring where light and life have birth.


Bird of the sweet and taintless hour,

When dew-drops spangle o'er the lea,
Ere yet upon the bending flower

to William and Mary Howitt.
Has lit the busy humming-bee;
Pure as all nature is to thee

The breath of Spring is stirring in the wood, Thou, with an instinct half divine,

Whose budding boughs confess the genial Wingest thy fearless flight so free

gale; Up toward a yet more glorious shrine.

And thrush and blackbird tell their tender Bird of the morn! from thee might man,

The hawthorn tree, that leafless long has Creation's lord, a lesson take:

stood, If thou, whose instinct always scan Shows signs of blossoming; the streamlet's The glories that around thee break,

flood Thus bidd'st a sleeping world awake

Hath shrunk into its banks, and in each

vale To joy and praise; oh! how much more Should mind immortal earth forsake,

The lowly violet, and the primrose pale, A man look upward to adore !

Have lured the bee to seek his wonted

food. Bird of the happy heaven-ward song!

Then up! and to your forest hunts repair, Could but the poet act thy part,

Where Robin Hood once held his revels His soul, up-borne on wings as strong

gay; As thought can give, from might start,

Yours is the greensward smooth, and vocal And with a far diviner art

spray; Than ever genius can supply,

And I, as on your pilgrimage ye fare, As thou the ear, might glad the heart, In all your sylvan' luxuries shall share And scatter music from the sky.

When I peruse them in your minstrel



William Knox wurde 1793 zu Edinburg geboren, wo sein Vater ein angesehener Yeoman (Freisasse) war. Unter dem Herzoge Buccleuch gelang es dem jungen Knox, bedeutenden Pachtereien vorzustehen, so dass er leider zu frühzeitig und unerfahren sein eigner Herr ward, und durch Verschwendung dem Verderben entgegeneilte. Er verlebte seine letzten Jahre in seines Vaters Hause zu Edinburg, wo er schon 1825 starb. Inmitten seiner jugendlichen Verirrungen hatte er sich doch stets als achtungsvoller Sohn und treuliebender Bruder erwiesen.

Knox war ein Dichter von bedeutendem Talent, wie sich dies aus folgenden seiner geistigen Erzeugnisse ergiebt: The Lonely Hearth; Songs of Israel; The Harp of Zion u. a. m. Diese seine Dichtungen athmen biblische Einfachheit und Innigkeit der Empfindung. Namentlich giebt der junge Dichter ein schönes Zeugniss von der Tiefe und Fülle seines Herzens, bei einem besonderen Entscheidungspunkt seiner Familiengeschichte, in folgenden Versen:

Opening of the 'Songs of Israel. They died - and this a world of wo,

Of anxious doubt and chilling fear; Harp of Zion, pure and holy,

I wander onward to the tomb, Pride of Iudah's eastern land,

With scarce a hope to linger here: May a child of guilt and folly

But with a prospect to rejoin Strike thee with a feeble hand?

The friends beloved, that once were mine. May I to my bosom take thee,

Trembling from the prophet's touch, And with throbbing heart awake thee To the strains I love so much?

Dirge of Rachel.
I have loved thy thrilling numbers,

(Genesis, XXXV. 19.)
Since the dawn of childhood's day;
Since a mother soothed my slumbers And Rachel lies in Ephrath's land,
With the cadence of thy lay;

Beneath her lonely oak of weeping;
Since a little blooming sister

With mouldering heart and withering hand, Clung with transport round my knee, The sleep of death for ever sleeping. And my glowing spirit blessed her With a blessing caught from thee!

The spring comes smiling down the vale,

The lilies and the roses bringing; Mother sister both are sleeping

But Rachel never more shall hail Where no heaving hearts respire,

The flowers that in the world are springing. Whilst the eve of age is creeping

Round the widowed spouse and sire. He and his, amid their sorrow,

The summer gives his radiant day, Find enjoyment in the strain:

And Jewish dames the dance are treading; Harp of Zion, let me borrow

But Rachel on her couch of clay, Comfort from thy chords again! Sleeps all unheeded and unheeding.

The autumn's ripening sunbeam shines,

And reapers to the field is calling;
But Rachel's voice no longer joins

The choral song at twilight's falling.
Conclusion of the 'Songs of Israel.'

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The accents fall from Tamar’s lip

Her song comes o'er my thrilling breast Like dewdrops from the rose-leaf dripping, Even like the harp-strings holies measures, When honey-bees all crowd to sip,

When dreams the soul of lands of rest And cannot cease their sipping.

And everlasting pleasures.

The shadowy blu that tints her cheek,

For ever coming ever going, May well the spotless fount bespeak

That sets the stream aflowing.

Then ask not what hath changed my heart,

Or where hath fled my youthful folly
I tell thee, Tamar's virtuous art

Hath made my spirit holy.


Thomas Pringle wurde in Roxburgshire, im Jahre 1788 geboren. Obschon er wegen Lamheit nicht für ein Leben voll Beschwerden und Mühseligkeiten geschaffen war, so wanderte er doch mit seinem Vater und mehreren Brüdern im J. 1820 nach dem Cap der guten Hoffnung aus, und gründete dort unter dem Namen Glen Lynden eine kleine Niederlassung. Pringle begab sich später in die Kapstadt, allein müde seines Aufenthaltes im Kaffernlande und mit dem Statthalter zerfallen, kehrte er nach England zurück, wo er seinen Unterhalt durch schriftstellerische Arbeiten erwarb. Er war einige Zeit lang Herausgeber einer literarischen Zeitschrift, unter dem Titel „Friendship's Offering“. Auch war er an der Begründung des Blackwood Magazine betheiligt und der Verfasser von „Scenes of Teviotdale, Ephemerides, and other Poems,. Der Afrikanischen Gesellschaft (African Society) stand er als Secretair vor, welches Amt er bis wenige Monate vor seinem Tode, den 5. Dec. 1834, mit grosser Pflichttreue und mit dem Geiste der Humanität und mit glühender Liebe für die Sache, der er sich unterzog, verwaltete. Seine letzte Arbeit war eine Reihe von „African Sketches“, mit Versen verwebt.

Pringle's poetische Werke zeichnen sich durch Wärme und Innigkeit des Gefühls, so wie durch einen feingebildeten Geschmack aus.

A far in the Desert.

Attachments by fate or by falsehood reft

Companions of early days lost or left A far in the Desert I love to ride,

And my Native Land! whose magical name With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side: Thrills to my heart like electric flame; When the sorrows of life the soul o'ercast, The home of my childhood the haunts of And, sick of the present, I turn to the past;

my prime; And the eye is suffused with regretful tears, All the passions and scenes of that rapturous From the fond recollections of former years;

time, And the shadows of things that have long When the feelings were young and the world since fled,

was new, Flit over the brain like the ghosts of the Like the fresh bowers of Paradise opening dead

to view! Bright visions of glory that vanished too All — all now forsaken, forgotten, or gone;

And I, a lone exile, remembered of none, Day-dreams that departed ere manhood's My high aims abandoned, and good acts




Aweary of all that is under the sun; Where the zebra wantonly tosses his mane, With that sadness of heart which no stranger In fields seldom freshened by moisture or rain;

may scan,

And the stately koodoo exultingly bounds, I fly to the Desert afar from man.

Undisturbed by the bay of the hunter's hounds;
And the timorous quagha's wild whistling

neigh A far in the Desert I love to ride,

Is heard by the brak fountain far away; With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side;

And the fleet-footed ostrich over the waste When the wild turmoil of this wearisome life, With its scenes of oppression, corruption and Speeds like a horseman who travels in haste;

And the vulture in circles wheels high overstrife;

head, The proud man's frown, and the base man's


Greedy to scent and to gorge on the dead; And the scorner's laugh, and the sufferer's Howl for their prey at the evening fall;

And the grisly wolf, and the shrieking jackal,

tear; And malice, and meanness, and falsehood, Fearfully startles the twilight dim.

And the fiend-like laugh of hyena's grim,

and folly, Dispose me to musing and dark melancholy; Afar in the Desert I love to ride, When my bosom is full, and my thoughts are with the silent Bush-boy alone by my side;

high, And my soul is sick with the bondman's Away – away in the wilderness vasť,

Where the white man's foot hath never

sigh Oh, then! there is freedom, and joy, and And the quivered Koranna or Bechuan

passed, pride,

Hath rarely crossed with his roving clan: A far in the Desert alone to ride! There is rapture to vault on the champing Which man hath abandoned from famine and

A region of emptiness, howling and drear,

steed, And to bound away with the eagle's speed, which the snake and the lizard inhabit alone,

fear; With the death-fraught firelock in my hand (The only law of the Desert land);

And the bat flitting forth from his old hollow

But 'tis not the innocent to destroy,
For I hate the huntsman's savage joy.

Where grass, nor herb, nor shrub takes root,
Save poisonous thorns that pierce the foot:

And the bitter melon, for food and drink, A far in the Desert I love to ride,

Is the pilgrim's fare, by the Salt Lake's brink : With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side;

A region of drought, where no river glides, A way

away from the dwellings of men, Nor rippling brook with osiered sides; - By the wild deer's haunt, and the buffalo's Nor reedy pool, nor mossy fountain,


Nor shady tree, nor cloud-capped mountain, By valleys remote, where the oribi plays;

Are found to refresh the aching eye: Where the gnoo, the gazelle, and the harte- But the barren earth and the burning sky,

beest graze ;

And the black horizon round and round, And the gemsbok and eland unhunted recline Without a living sight or sound, By the skirts of gray forests o'ergrown with Tell to the heart, in its pensive mood,

wild vine;

That this is Nature's Solitude. And the elephant browses at peace in his


And here while the night-winds round me And the river-horse gambols unscared in the

sigh, flood;

And the stars burn bright in the midnight sky, And the mighty rhinoceros wallows at will As I sit apart by the caverned stone, In the Vley, where the wild ass is drinking Like Elijah at the Horeb’s cave alone,

his fill.

And feel as a moth in the Mighty Hand
That spread the heavens and heaved the

land A far in the Desert I love to ride,

A 'still small voice' comes through the wild With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side: (Like a father consoling his fretful child), O’er the brown Karroo where the bleating cry Which banishes bitterness, wrath and fear Of the springbok’s fawn sounds plaintively; Saying ‘Man is distant, but God is near!

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