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Mrs Southey, welche auch häufig unter dem Namen Caroline Bowles gefunden wird, hat sich als sehr fruchtbare Schriftstellerin ausgezeichnet. Unter ihren zahlreichen poetischen Schriften mögen hier nur einige angeführt werden: Ellen Fitzarthur 1820; The Widow's Tale and other Poems 1822; The Birthday and other Poems 1836; Solitary Hours 1838 u. a.

Caroline Southey ist eine der beliebtesten Dichterinnen der Gegenwart. Ihre poetischen Leistungen zeichnen sich durch Natürlichkeit, durch Reichthum der Gedanken und schönen Versbau aus.

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How! gains the leak so fast?

Clean out the hold
Hoist up thy merchandise,

Heave out thy gold;

let the ingots go
Now the ship rights;
Húrra! the harbour's near

Lo! the red lights!

Slacken not the sail yet

At inlet or island;
Straight for the beacon steer,

Straight for the high land;
Crowd all thy canvass on,

Cut through the foam
Christian! cast anchor now -

Heaven is thy home!

B a rret t.

Miss Elizabeth Barrett, welche jetzt meist unter dem Namen Mrs Browning schreibt, lebt gegenwärtig in London. Sie hat sich nicht allein durch mehrere eigene poetische Schriften, wie „The Seraphim and other Poems“ 1838, so wie Poetical Works in zwei Bänden 1844, sondern auch durch ihre Gelehrsamkeit und Uebersetzung des Prometheus von Aeschylus: Prometheus Bound and other Poems 1833, berühmt gemacht.

Barrett's Dichtungen sind nicht ohne Tiefe der Gedanken und ohne Wärme der Empfindung geschrieben.

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What do we give to our beloved ?
A little faith, all un red

A little dust, to overweep
And bitter memories, to make
The whole earth blasted for our sake!

'He giveth His beloved sleep.'

Ha! men may wonder while they scan
A living, thinking, feeling man,

In such a rest his heart to keep; He shall be strong to sanctify But angels say

and through the word The poet's high vocation, I ween their blessed smile is heard And bow the meekest Christian down 'He giveth His beloved sleep!

In meeker adoration;
Nor ever shall he be in praise

By wise or good forsaken;
And, friends! dear friends! when it Named softly as the household name

shall be

Of one whom God hath taken! That this low breath is gone from me,

And round my bier ye come to weep Let me, most loving of you all,

With sadness that is calm, not gloom, Say, not a tear must o'er her fall

I learn to think upon him; He giveth His beloved sleep!'

With meekness that is gratefulness,

On God, whose heaven hath won him.
Who suffered once the madness-cloud

Towards his love to blind him;
But gently led the blind along,

Where breath and bird could find him;
Cowper's Grave.

And wrought within his shattered brain It is a place where poets crowned

Such quick poetic senses, May feel the heart's decaying –

As hills have language for, and stars It is a place where happy saints

Harmonious influences !
May weep amid their praying

The pulse of dew upon the grass
Yet let the grief and humbleness,
As low as silence languish;

His own did calmly number;

And silent shadow from the trees Earth surely now may give her calm

Fell o'er him like a slumber. To whom she gave her anguish.

O poets! from a maniac's tongue

Was poured the deathless singing! O Christians! at your cross of hope,

A hopeless hand was clinging.
O men! this man in brotherhood,

Your weary paths beguiling,
Groaned inly while he taught you peace,

And died while ye were smiling.

The very world, by God's constraint,

From falsehood's chill removing,
Its women and its men became

Beside him true and loving!
And timid hares were drawn from woods

To share his home-caresses,
Uplooking in his human eyes,

With sylvan tendernesses.

And now,

what time ye all may read But while in darkness he remained, Through dimming tears his story

Unconscious of the guiding, How discord on the music fell,

And things provided came without And darkness on the glory

The sweet sense of providing, And how, when, one by one, sweet sounds He testified this solemn truth, And wandering lights departed,

Though frenzy desolated He wore no less a loving face,

Nor man nor nature satisfy Because so broken-hearted.

Whom only God created.

M o i r.

D. M. Moit lebte und wirkte als Arzt zu Musselburg, nicht fern von Edinburg. Im verflossenen Jahre ist er gestorben, nachdem er lange Zeit unter dem Namen Delta einer der bedeutendsten Mitarbeiter am Blackwood Magazin gewesen war. Ausser The Legend of Genevieve and other Tales and Poems 1825 und Domestic Verses 1843, hat er Mehreres in Zeitschriften (to the periodical Literature of the Day) so wie andere, namentlich medicinische Werke geschrieben, wie Outlines of the ancient History of Medecine.

Moir's Dichtungen zeichnen sich durch tiefe, innige Empfindung, Anmuth, Phantasie und treffliche Sprache sehr vortheilhaft aus, und sichern ihm ein dauerndes Andenken bei seiner Nation.


The realms where sorrow dare not come,

Where life is joy?
How beautiful the evening beams are falling Pure at thy death as at thy birth,

on the sea,

Thy spirit caught no taint from earth; Where many a white sail pleasantly is mov-Even by its bliss we mete our death, ing up and down;

Casa Wappy! There is not a cloud the sun to shroud, the sky

from speck is free, And as on a painted landscape, sleep forest, Despair was in our last farewell, tower, and town.

As closed thine eye; So freshly fair, and everywhere, the feature Tears of our anguish may not tell of the scene,

When thou didst die; That earth appears a resting place where Words may not paint our grief for thee,

angels might alight; Sighs are but bubbles on the sea As if Sorrow ne'er a visitant in human breast of our unfathomed agony, had been,

Casa Wappy! And the verdure of the summer months had

never suffered blight. Now sinks the sun - a twilight haze enwraps Thou wert a vision of delight the sea and shore

To bless us given; The small waves murmur on the beach, as

Beauty embodied to our sight,

't were a dirge for day; The blackbird from yon poplar green, its ditty So dear to us thou wert, thou art

A type of heaven: warbles o'er,

Even less thine own self than a part And the evening star peeps south afar above Of mine and of thy mother's heart, the hills of grey.

Casa Wappy! In the glory of the sunset glow, my thoughts

abroad had flown, I only saw the landscape, in its splendid

hues array'd, Thy bright brief day knew no decline, But the dreams of long-lost pleasures, and of

"Twas cloudless joy; friends for ever gone, Sunrise and night alone were thine, Came to me with the pensive hour of Beloved boy! loneliness and shade. This morn beheld thee blithe and gay,

That found thee prostrate in decay,
And e'er a third shone, clay was clay,

Casa Wappy! Casa Wappy. (Casa Wappy was the self-conferred pet name of an infant son of the poet, snatched away after a very Gem of our hearth, our household pride, brief illness.)

Earth's undefiled; And hast thou sought thy heavenly home, Could love have saved, thou hadst not died, Our fond, dear boy

Our dear, sweet child !

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We mourn for thee when blind blank night
The chamber fills;

Yet 'tis sweet balm to our despair,
We pine for thee when morn's first light Fond, fairest boy,
Reddens the hills :

That heaven is God's, and thou art there, The sun, the moon, the stars, the sea,

With him in joy: All, to the wall-flower and wild pea, There past are death and all its woes, Are changed--we saw the world through thee, There beauty's stream for ever flows, Casa Wappy! And pleasure's day no sunset knows,

Casa Wappy!

And though, perchance, a smile may gleam
Of casual mirth,

Farewell, then
It doth not own, whate'er may seem,

Pride of


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