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Ebenezer Elliott.ward am 17. März 1781 zu Masbro, einem Dorfe in der Nähe von Sheffield geboren. Er hat dasselbe nie verlassen und lebt daselbst als Schmied, nebenbei einen Eisenhandel treibend. Seine Bildung verdankt er sich selbst durch anhaltende Lectüre. Seine Gedichte erschienen gesammelt in drei Bänden, London 1835.

Elliott wird gewöhnlich the Corn-Law Rhymer genannt, weil er in einer Sammlung Poesieen, welche unter dem Titel Corn-Law-Rhymes im Jahre 1832 an das Licht trat, heftig und mit grosser Kraft die Sache des durch die englischen zum Vortheil der Landbesitzer bestehenden Korngesetze unterdrückten Volkes führte. Hier wie in allen seinen politischen Gedichten ist er schroff, hart und unversöhnlich voll Hass gegen die Bevorzugten und Alles von der schwärzesten Seite auffassend. Im Allgemeinen aber besitzt er tiefes Gefühl, reiche Naturanschauung, Phantasie und seltene Herrschaft über die Sprache und schliesst, obwohl nur ein Naturdichter, sich Männern wie Crabbe, Wordsworth, Cowper und Burns als ein würdiger und reichbegabter Genosse an.

The Wonders of the Lane.

Strong climber of the mountain's side,
Though thou the vale disdain,

Yet walk with me where hawthorns hide
The wonders of the lane.

High o'er the rushy springs of Don
The stormy gloom is roll'd;
The moorland hath not yet put on

His purple, green, and gold.
But here the titling spreads his wing,

Where dewy daisies gleam;
And here the sun-flower of the spring
Burns bright in morning's beam.
To mountain winds the famish'd fox

Complains that Sol is slow,

O'er headlong steeps and gushing rocks
His royal robe to throw.

But here the lizard seeks the sun,

Here coils in light the snake;

And here the fire-tuft hath begun
Its beauteous nest to make.
Oh, then, while hums the earliest bee
Where verdure fires the plain,
Walk thou with me, and stoop to see

The glories of the lane!

For, oh, I love these banks of rock,

This roof of sky and tree,

These tufts, where sleeps the gloaming clock,
And wakes the earliest bee!

As spirits from eternal day

Look down on earth secure;
Gaze thou, and wonder, and survey

A world in miniature;

A world not scorn'd by Him who made
Even weakness by his might;
But solemn in his depth of shade,

And splendid in his light.
Light! not alone on clouds afar

O'er storm-lov'd mountains spread,

Or widely teaching sun and star
Thy glorious thoughts are read;
Oh, no! thou art a wondrous book,
To sky, and sea, and land

A page on which the angels look,
Which insects understand!
And here, oh, Light! minutely fair,
Divinely plain and clear,
Like splinters of a erystal hair,

Thy bright small hand is here.

Yon drop-fed lake, six inches wide,
Is Huron, girt with wood;
This driplet feeds Missouri's tide
And that, Niagara's flood.

What tidings from the Andes brings

Yon line of liquid light,

That down from heav'n in madness flings

The blind form of its might?

Do I not hear his thunder roll
The roar that ne'er is still?

'Tis mute as death!

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but in my soul It roars, and ever will.

What forests tall of tiniest moss

Clothe every little stone!

What pigmy oaks their foliage toss
O'er pigmy valleys lone!

With shade o'er shade, from ledge to ledge,
Ambitious of the sky,

They feather o'er the steepest edge

Of mountains mushroom high. Oh, God of marvels! who can tell What myriad living things

On these grey stones unseen may dwell!

What nations, with their kings!

I feel no shock, I hear no groan
While fate perchance o'erwhelms
Empires on this subverted stone
A hundred ruin'd realms!

Lo! in that dot, some mite, like me,
Impell'd by woe or whim,

May crawl, some atoms' cliffs to see
A tiny world to him!

Lo! while he pauses, and admires
The works of nature's might,
Spurn'd by my foot, his world expires,
And all to him is night!

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The dying Boy to the Sloe-blossom. Before thy leaves thou com'st once more, White blossom of the sloe! Thy leaves will come as heretofore; But this poor heart, its troubles o'er, Will then lie low.

A month at least before thy time Thou com'st, pale flower, to me; For well thou know'st the frosty rime Will blast me ere my vernal prime, No more to be.

Why here in winter? No storm lours
O'er nature's silent shroud!

But blithe larks meet the sunny showers,
High o'er the doomed untimely flowers
In beauty bowed.

Sweet violets in the budding grove Peep where the glad waves run; The wren below, the thrush above, Of bright to-morrow's joy and love Sing to the sun.

And where the rose-leaf, ever bold,

Hears bees chaunt hymns to God, The breeze-bowed palm, mossed o'er with gold, Smiles o'er the well in summer cold,

And daisied sod.

But thou, pale blossom, thou art come,
And flowers in winter blow,

To tell me that the worm makes room
For me,
her brother, in the tomb,
And thinks me slow.

For as the rainbow of the dawn
Foretels an eve of tears,

A sunbeam on the saddened lawn
I smile, and weep to be withdrawn
In early years.

Thy leaves will come! but songful spring Will see no leaf of mine;

Her bells will ring, her bride's-maids sing, When my young leaves are withering Where no suns shine.

Oh, might I breathe morn's dewy breath,
When June's sweet Sabbaths chime!
But, thine before my time, oh, death!
I go where no flow'r blossometh,

Before my time.

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A Poet's Epitaph.

Stop, mortal! Here thy brother lies,
The Poet of the poor,

His books were rivers, woods, and skies,
The meadow, and the moor;

His teachers were the torn heart's wail,
The tyrant, and the slave,
The street, the factory, the jail,
The palace and the grave!
Sin met thy brother every where!
And is thy brother blamed?

From passion, danger, doubt, and care,
He no exemption claim'd.

The meanest thing, earth's feeblest worm,
He fear'd to scorn or hate;

But, honouring in a peasant's form
The equal of the great.

He bless'd the Steward, whose wealth make
The poor man's little more;

Yet loath'd the haughty wretch that takes
From plunder'd labour's store.

A hand to do, a head to plan,

A heart to feel and dare

Tell man's worst foes, here lies the man
Who drew them as they are.

To the Bramble-flower.

Thy fruit full well the school-boy knows,
Wild bramble of the brake!

So, put thou forth thy small white rose;
I love it for his sake.
Though woodbines flaunt, and roses glow
Q'er all the fragrant bowers,
Thou need'st not be ashamed to show
Thy satin-threaded flowers;
For dull the eye, the heart is dull
That cannot feel how fair,
Amid all beauty beautiful,

Thy tender blossoms are!
How delicate thy gauzy frill!

How rich thy branchy stem!

How soft thy voice, when woods are still,
And thou sing'st hymns to them;
While silent showers are falling slow,
And 'mid the general hush,

A sweet air lifts the little bough,
Lone whispering through the bush!
The primrose to the grave is gone;
The hawthorn flower is dead;

The violet by the moss'd grey stone

Hath laid her weary head;

But thou wild bramble! back dost bring,
In all their beauteous power,
The fresh green days of life's fair spring,

And boyhood's blossomy hour.

Scorn'd bramble of the brake! once more
Thou bid'st me be a boy,

To gad with thee the woodlands o'er,
In freedom and in joy.


Charles Lamb ward am 11. Februar 1775 in London geboren, erhielt seine wissenschaftliche Bildung im Christ's Hospital, bekleidete darauf ein Amt bei dem South-Sea-House und später bei der ostindischen Compagnie. Im Jahre 1825 wurde er mit einer ansehnlichen Pension in den Ruhestand versetzt. Er starb am 27. December 1831.

Lamb's Schriften kamen zuerst gesammelt heraus London 1818, 2 Bde in 8. Dann nach seinem Tode Prose-Works, London 1836, 3 Bde in 8.; Poetical Works, London 1836, 1 Bd in 8. So vorzüglich Lamb auch als Prosaist sich zeigte, so haben wir hier uns doch nur mit der letzteren Sammlung zu beschäftigen. Sie sind meist lyrischen Inhaltes, mehr tändelnd als begeistert, aber voll inniger Zartheit und Anmuth, Beweise jener hohen eigenthümlichen Liebenswürdigkeit, welche von Allen, die je mit ihm in Berührung standen, auf das Lebhafteste gerühmt wird. Sprache und Weise derselben nähern sich mehr den Dichtern aus der Periode der Elisabeth als denen der Gegenwart, aber gerade das verleiht den Poesieen Lamb's einen ganz besonderen Reiz.

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My sprightly neighbour, gone before
To that unknown and silent shore,
Shall we not meet, as heretofore

Some summer morning,

When from thy cheerful eyes a ray
Hath struck a bliss upon the day,
A bliss that would not go away,
A sweet fore-warning?

Shrouding her beauties in the lone retreat.
No more I hear her footsteps in the shade:
Her image only in these pleasant ways
Meets me self-wandering, where, in happier

I held free converse with the fair-hair'd maid.
I passed the little cottage which she lov'd,
The cottage which did once my all contain;
It spake of days which ne'er must come again,
Spake to my heart, and much my heart was

"Now fair befal thee, gentle maid!" said I,
And from the cottage turned me with a sigh.

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Methinks how dainty sweet it were, reclin'd
Beneath the vast out-stretching branches high
Of some old wood, in careless sort to lie,
Nor of the busier scenes we left behind

On an Infant dying as soon as born.

I saw where in the shroud did lurk
A curious frame of Nature's work.
A flow'ret crushed in the bud,
Was in her cradle-coffin lying:
A nameless piece of babyhood,

Extinct, with scarce the sense of dying:
So soon to exchange the imprisoning womb
For darker closets of the tomb!

She did but ope an eye, and put

A clear beam forth, then straight up shut
For the long dark: ne'er more to see

Through glasses of mortality.

Riddle of destiny, who can show

What thy short visit meant, or know

What thy errand here below?

Shall we say, that Nature blind

Check'd her hand, and changed her mind,
Just when she had exactly wrought
A finish'd pattern without fault?

Or lack'd she the Promethean fire

Aught envying. And, O Anna! mild eyed maid! Could she flag, or could she tire,
Beloved! I were well content to play
With thy free tresses all summer's day,
Losing the time beneath the greenwood shade.
Or we might sit and tell some tender tale
Of faithful vows repaid by cruel scorn,
A tale of true love, or of friend forgot;
And I would teach thee, lady, how to rail
In gentle sort, on those who practise not
Or love or pity, though of woman born.

(With her nine moons' long workings sicken'd)
That should thy little limbs have quicken'd?
Limbs so firm, they seem'd to assure
Life of health, and days mature:
Woman's self in miniature!
Limbs so fair, they might supply
(Themselves now but cold imagery)
The sculptor to make beauty by.
Or did the stern-eyed Fate descry,
That babe, or mother, one must die;
So in mercy left the stock,
And cut the branch; to save the shock

When last I roved these winding wood walks Of young years widow'd; and the pain,


Green winding walks, and shady pathways sweet,
Oft times would Anna seek the silent scene,

When single state comes back again
To the lone man, who, 'reft of wife,
Thenceforward drags a maimed life?

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