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Edward Lytton Bulwer wurde 1803 zu Haydon-Hall in der Grafschaft Norfolk geren. Er ist der dritte und jüngste Sohn des Generals Bulwer. Seine Studien machte er zu Cambridge, wo er durch einen Freund, der sich längere Zeit in Weimar aufgehalten, mit der deutschen Literatur, insbesondere mit Göthe’s Dichtungen bekannt wurde. Mehrere Reisen, welche er während der Ferien in England, Schottland und Frankreich machte, erweiterten seine Anschauungen. Im Jahre 1834 trat er durch Wahl in's Unterhaus, entsprach jedoch keineswegs den Erwartungen als Redner. Bei Gelegenheit der Krönung der Königin Victoria, ward er zum Baronet erhoben.

Als Dichter zeichnete sich Lytton Bulwer schon auf der Universität zu Cambridge aus, wo er durch ein Gedicht auf die Sculptur den Preis davontrug. So waren seine ersten Werke Gedichte, welche unter dem Titel: Weeds and Wild Flowers 1826 und O'Neil or the Rebel and other Poems 1827 erschienen. Um 1842 erschienen Eva, the ill-omned Marriage and other Tales and Poems; Ismael and other Poems, The Siamese Twins, und on, Poem. Auch verdient seine treffliche Uebersetzung von Schiller's Gedichten und Balladen erwähnt zu werden, welche 1844 erschien.

In England ist sein Ruf nicht so allgemein und unangefochten, als im übrigen Europa. Der deutschen Lesewelt ist er besonders als fruchtbarer und anziehender Romanschreiber bekannt. Nächst S. Knowles ist er auch einer der beliebtesten englischen Schauspieldichter, und hat seinen Ruhm in dieser Beziehung besonders durch folgende Stücke begründet: The Lady of Lyons, Valliere, Richelieu u. Cromwell.

Wenn Bulwer in seinen frühern Werken nur hier und da zerstreute, halbgeöffnete Blätter und unausgebildete Knospen gebracht hat, so bietet er in den letzten Werken volle Blüthen seiner Poesie, welche nicht so leidenschaftlich wie die Lord Byron's, nicht so keusch sinnend wie die Wordsworth’s, noch so ideal wie die Shelley's ist.

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Those eyes

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The Language of the Eyes. Beautiful Parable!

Typing in golden thoughts the death and birth those eyes-how full of heaven Of that which glads and sanctifies the earth they are,

On which we dwell,
When the calm twilight leaves the heaven Leaving in scatheless youth,

most holy, A Music-Image, with enchanted voices Tell me, sweet eyes, from what divinest star, Answering the Light that on his front reDid ye drink in your liquid melancholy?

joices Tell me, beloved Eyes ?

The Christian's Memnon-Truth!

Was it from yon lone orb, that ever by
The quiet moon, like Hope on Patience,


The Beautiful descends not. The Star to which hath sped so many a sigh, Since lutes in Lesbos hallowed it to lovers In Cyprus, looking on the lovely sky, Was that your Fount, sweet Eyes ? Lone by the marge of music-hunted streams,

A youthful Poet prayed --“Descend from high,

Thou of whose face each youthful Poet Ye Sibyl Books in which the truths foretold,

dreams. Inspire the Heart, your dreaming Priest, O Venus! once more to the Earth be given

with gladness, The Beauty that makes beautiful the Heaven." Bright Alchemists that turn to Thoughts of

Gold The leaden cares ye steal away from Swift to a silver cloudlet, floating o'er,


A rushing Presence rapt him as he pray'd. Teach only, sweet Eyes!

What He beheld I know not; but once more

The midnight him sighing to the shade, “Again

again unto the Earth be given Hush! when I ask ye how, at length, to gain The Beauty that makes beautiful the Heaven." The cell where Love the Sleeper yet lies

hidden, Loose not those arch lips from their rosy A sweet voice answered from the distant star


“Vainly did Venus grace on thee bestow Be every answer, save your own, forbidden, Unworthy he the loftier realms afar, Feelings are words for Eyes!

Who woes the gods above to earth below; Rapt to the Beautiful thy soul must be,

And not the Beautiful debased to thee!" M em non.

Where Morning first appears,
Waking the rathe flowers in their Eastern bed,
Aurora still, with her ambrosial tears,
Weeps for her Memnon dead.

Him, the Hesperides
Nurs'd on the margent of their golden shore,
And still the smile that then the Mother wore

Bright laughs the sun, the Birds that are to

Air Dimples the orient seas.

Like Song to Life, are gaily on the wing,

In every mead the handmaid Hours prepare He died, and, lo! the while

The delicates of Spring;
The fire consumed his ashes, glorious things, But, if she love me not!
With joyous song and wonder-tinted wings,

Rose from the funeral pile,
He died,
and yet became

To me at this fair season still hath been
A music, and his Theban image broke In every wild-flower an exhaustless treasure,
Into sweet sounds that, with each sunrise, And, when the young-eyed violet first was seen,


Methought to breath was pleasure, The Mighty Mother's name.

But, if she love me not!

How, in thy twilight, Doubt, at each un- Well; I will know the worst, and leave the known

Dim shape, the superstitious Love will start; To drift on drown the venture on the wave;
How Hope itself will tremble at its own Life has two friends in grief itself most kind
Light shadow on the heart;

Remembrance and the Grave
Ah, if she love me not!

Mine, if she love me not'

Nico 11.

Robert Nicoll, der Sohn eines armen Tagelöhners, wurde zu Auchtergaven in Perthshire in Schottland 1814 geboren. In der drückendsten Armuth aufgewachsen, musste er schon vom achten Jahre an für seinen Lebensunterhalt allein sorgen. Seine Erziehung verdankte er einzig seiner Mutter, welché als eine wahrhaft heroische Frau geschildert wird. Noch während er die Kühe hütete, las er englische Classiker. Später trat er bei einem Krämer zu Perth in die Lehre, wo er vom dreizehnten bis zum neunzehnten Jahre blieb. Hierauf versuchte er es mit einer Leihbibliothek und lieferte nebenbei Gedichte und Aufsätze in Zeitschriften. Kaum 21 Jahr alt, gab er eine Sammlung seiner Gedichte heraus, welche zu Edinburg 1845 erschien und so viel Aufsehen machte, dass er diesen poetischen Leistungen die Redaction der Leeds Times zu verdanken hatte. Er widmete sich diesem Amte mit Eifer, starb aber schon im Jahre 1837, allgemein betrauert.

Nicoll war ein Dichter von edler Gesinnung, tiefem Gefühl und hohem Streben, dessen würdige Sprache den Leser mit sich fortreisst.

Thoughts of Heaven. High thoughts!

They are with me, High thoughts!

When, deep within the bosom of the They come and go,

forest, Like the soft breathings of a listening Thy morning melody maiden,

Å broad into the sky, thou, throstle, pouWhile round me flow

rest. The winds, from woods and fields with When the young sunbeams glance among

the gladness laden:

trees When the corn's rustle on the ear doth come — When on the ear comes the soft song of bees — When the eve's beetle sounds its drowsy When every branch has its own favourite hum

bird When the stars, dewdrops of the summer sky, And songs of summer, from each thicket Watch over all with soft and loving eye

While the leaves quiver

Where the owl fitteth,
By the lone river,

Where the roe sitteth,
And the quiet heart

And holiness
From dephts doth call

Seems sleeping there,
And garners all —

While nature's prayer
Earth grows a shadow

Goes up the heaven
Forgotten whole,

In purity,
And Heaven lives

Till all is glory
In the blessed soul!

And joy to me!

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High thoughts !

The gentle wind that like a ghost doth pass, They are my own

But waving shadow on the corn-field keeps; When I am resting on a mountain's AI, who love them all, shall never be


A gain among the woods, or on the moorland And see below me strown

lea! The huts and homes where humble vir

tues blossom; When I can trace each streamlet through the

The sun shines sweetly

sweeter may it meadow

shine! When I can follow every fitful shadow

Blessed is the brightness of a summer day; When I can watch the winds among the corn, It cheers lone hearts; and why should I reAnd see the waves along the forest borne ;

pine, Where blue-bell and heather,

Although among green fields I cannot stray! Are blooming together,

Woods! I have grown, since last I heard you And far doth come

wave, The Sabbath bell,

Familiar with death, and neighbour to the O’er wood and fell;

I hear the beating

Of nature's heart;
Heaven is before me
God! Thon art!

These words have shaken mighty human

souls Like a sepulchre's echo drear they sound

E’en as the owl's wild whoop at midnight High thoughts!

rolls They visit us

The ivied remnants of old ruins round. In moments when the soul is dim and


Yet wherefore tremble? Can the soul decay?

Or that which thinks and feels in aught e’er They come to bless,

fade away? After the vanities to which we hearkened: When weariness hath come upon the spirit (Those hours of darkness which we all in


Are there not aspirations in each heart Bursts there not through a glint of warm sun

After a better, brighter world than this? shine,

Longings for beings nobler in each part A winged thought, which bids us not repine?

Things more exalted steeped in deeper In joy and gladness,

bliss ? In mirth and sadness,

Who gave us these? What are they? Soul, Come signs and tokens ;

in thee
Life's angel brings

The bud is budding now for immortality!
Upon its wings.
Those bright communings

The soul doth keep
Those thoughts of heaven,

Death comes to take me where I long to be;
So pure and deep!

One pang, and bright blooms the immortal

Death comes to lead me from mortality,
To lands which know not one unhappy

I have a hope, a faith · from sorrow here
D e a t h.
I'm led by Death away — why should I start

and fear?

[This poem is supposed to have been the last, or among the last, of Nicoll's compositions.) If I have loved the forest and the field,

Can I not love them deeper, better there? The dew is on the summer's greenest grass, If all that Power hath made, to me doth yield Through which the modest daisy blushing Something of good and beauty-something peeps ;


Freed from the grossness of mortality, The souls that long ago from mine were riven May I not love them all, and better all enjoy? May meet again! Death answers many a


Bright day, shine on! be glad: days brighter A change from wo to joy from earth to

far heaven,

Are stretched before my eyes than those of Death gives me this — it leads me calmly

mortals are ! where

M il n e s.

Richard Monckton Milnes wurde in Yorkshire um 1806 geboren. Nachdem er seine Studien auf der Universität Cambridge beendigt hatte, begab er sich für längere Zeit auf das Festland. In den Jahren 1842 und 1843 unternahm er auch eine Reise nach Aegypten und Kleinasien.

Milnes hat sich in seinen dichterischen Schöpfungen namentlich Wordsworth zum Vorbild genommen, und durch seine zahlreichen Dichtungen einen wohlbegründeten und bleibenden Ruf erworben. Wir führen hier einige an: Memorials of Many Scenes 1832, Memorials of a Tour in Greece 1834, Poems of Many Years 1838; Poetry for the People 1840; Palm Leaves 1843.

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