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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,

His own did calmly number; As low as silence languish;

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 0 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 hy 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;

A type of heaven:
The blackbird from yon poplar green, its ditty so dear to us thou wert, thou art

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 for a while, farewell. It doth not own, whate'er may seem, Pride of my heartl.


It cannot be that long we dwell,

Thus torn apart:
Time's shadow like the shuttle flee:
And, dark howe'er life's night may be,
Beyond the grave I'll meet with thee,

Casa Wappy

Where those who were severed re-meet in joy,
Which death can never more destroy;
Where scenes without, and where souls within,
Are blanched from taint and touch of sin;

Where speech is music and breath is balm ;
And broods an everlasting calm ;
And flowers wither not, as in worlds like this;
And hope is swallowed in perfect bliss;

The White Rose.


Rose of the desert! thou art to me

Where all is peaceful, for all is pure;
An emblem of stainless purity,
Of those who, keeping their garments white,

And all is lovely, and all endure;

ind day is endless, and ever bright; Walk on through life with steps aright!

And no more sea is, and no more night;

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Thy fragrance breathes of the fields above, Where round the throne, hues like thine,
Whose soil and air are faith and love; The raiments of the ransom'd shine;
And where, by the murmur of silver springs, And o’er each brow a halo glows
The Cherubim fold their snow-white wings; – Of glory, like the pure White Rose!

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Robert Montgomery hat sich bereits seit 1828 durch das „The Omnipotence of the Deity hervorgethan, dem bald einige andere Gedichte folgten, die seinen Dichterruf bleibend begründet haben, wie Satan 1830, The Messiah 1832, Luther u. a.

Montgomery's literarische Thätigkeit scheint sich gänzlich dem Dienste der Religion and den Wahrheiten gewidmet zu haben, deren begabter und beredter Verkünder er auf der Kanzel ist.

Seine poetischen Leistungen sind in ähnlichem Geiste wie die des älteren Montgomery, und zeichnen sich namentlich durch poetischen Erguss und leichten Versbau aus, ohne jedoch mit der Selbständigkeit in der Erfindung und der Reinheit in der Sprache geschrieben zu sein, wodurch die Dichtungen des letzterwähnten sich unterscheiden.

The Starry Heavens. And round the lattice creep your midnight

beams, Ye quenchless stars! so eloquently bright, How sweet to gaze upon your placid eyes, Untroubled sentries of the shadowy night, In lambent beauty looking from the skies ! While half the world is lapped in downy And when, oblivious of the world, we stray


At dead of night along some noiseless way,

I gazed on that star last night — it shook, We sit by the Miser's treasure-chest,
And though it still faintly gleams,

And near his bed
It looks not as it wont to look,

And we watch his anxious heart's unrest, And a mist is over its beams.

And in mockery tread
With a seeming heavy step about;

And laugh when we hear his frightened shout I have read thy fate in a flowery braid;

Of dread I hung it on a tree

Lest the gnomes, who once o'er his gold I saw one bright rose fall and fade,

did reign, 'Twas the blossom I named for thee!

To his hoards, to claim it back again,

Have sped. But mostly thy fortune I can tell,

From thy happiness and mirth,
For when did bliss so perfect dwell But a sunnier scene and a brighter sky
More than an instant on earth?

To-day is ours;
We have seen a youthful Poet lie

By a fountain's showers,

With his up-turned eyes and his dreamy The Song of Dreams.

Reading the April sky's sweet book,

Written by the hours,
In the rosy glow of the evening cloud,
In the twilight's gloom

Thinking those glorious thoughts that grow

Untutored up in life's fresh glow,
In the sultry noon, when the flowers are

Like flowers.
And the streams are dumb
In the morning's beam, when the faint stars


We will catch the richest, brightest hue

Of the rainbow's rim;
On the brightening flood of the azure sky
We come!

The purest cloud that 'midst the blue

Of Heaven doth swim;
Weavers of shadowy hopes and fears,
Darkeners of smiles, brighteners of tears,

The clearest star-beam that shall be
We come!

In a dew-drop shrined, when the twilight sea

Grows dim;

And a spirit of love about them breathe, We come where the Babe, on its mother's And twine them all in a magic wreath breast,

For him!
Lies in slumber deep
We flit by the maiden's couch of rest,

And o'er her sleep
We float, like the honey-laden bees,
On the soft, warm breath of the languid


The Messenger Thought. Hues, more beautiful than we bring,

I send a thought to thee, From her lip and her cheek, for each wander- The deep, unspoken' essence of my love;

ing wing

I send it like a home-returning dove
To kеер.

Far over land and sea;
Ah! shall it reach thee? shall it find a nest,

Beloved! in thy breast?
We linger about the Lover's bower,

Hovering mute,
When he looks to the west for the sunset hour, I send it forth with all
And lists for the foot

The winged and burning power the lightning That falls so lightly on the grass,

hath; We scarcely hear its echo pass;

Through night and storm and tempest is its And we put

path; In his heart all hopes, the radiant-crowned, Ah! shall its radiance fall And hang sweet tones, and voices round Upon thy soul and wake a thrilling start His lute.

Of memory in thy heart?

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And weep

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