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The loveliest star of evening's train
Sets early in the western main,

And leaves the world in night.
The brightest star of morning's host:
Scarce risen, in brighter beams is lost,
Thus sunk his form in ocean's coast,

Thus sprang his soul to light.

Revolving his mysterious lot,
I mourn him, but I praise him not,

To God the praise be given,
Who sent him like the radiant bow,
His covenant of peace to shew,
Athwart the passing storm to glow,

To vanish into heaven.


Henry Kirke White ward am 21. August 1785 zu Nottingham geboren, wo sein Vater als Metzger lebte und sollte anfangs dessen Gewerbe, dann das eines Strumpfwirkers ergreifen; da der Knabe aber ungewöhnliche Fähigkeiten zeigte, so gelang es seiner Mutter ihn bei einem Sachwalter unterzubringen. Er arbeitete nun unablässig um die Universität besuchen zu können und gab zu diesem Zwecke 1803 eine Sammlung seiner Poesieen heraus. Eine sehr scharfe Kritik derselben in einem Journal schien alle seine Hoffnungen zerstören zu wollen, da nahm sich Southey gerade durch dieselbe aufmerksam gemacht, des talentvollen Jünglings edelmüthig an und es gelang White nun nach Cambridge zu gehen, wo er sehr bald alle akademischen Ehrengrade erwarb. Sein rastloser Fleiss hatte jedoch seine Gesundheit untergraben; er starb am 27. October 1806 an der Auszehrung.

White's Hinterlassenschaft wurde von Southey zum Druck befördert und mit einer Biographie des früh Geschiedenen ausgestattet. Sie erschien unter dem Titel: The poetical Remains of Henry Kirke White with an account of his Life, London 1807, 2 Bde in 8. und hat seitdem wiederholt neue Auflagen erlebt. Alle darin enthaltenen Poesieen mit Ausnahme einiger Fragmente sind vor dem neunzehnten Lebensjahre ihres Verfassers geschrieben, meist lyrischer oder descriptiver Gattung, voll tiefen und zarten Gefühls, reicher Anschauung und edler, wahrhaft frommer Gesinnung und lassen es um desto lebhafter bedauern, dass einem so reichbegabten Geiste nicht vergönnt worden, sich hienieden in seiner ganzen Kraft vollständig zu entfalten.

Description of a Summer's Eve. Down the sultry arc of day

Here comes shepherd Jack at last The burning wheels have urged their way, He has penn'd the sheepcot fast; And Eve along the western skies

For 'twas but two nights before Spreads her intermingling dyes;

A lamb was eaten on the moor: Down the deep, the miry lane,

His empty wallet Rover carries, Creaking comes the empty wain,

Now for Jack, when near home, tarries; And driver on the shaft-horse sits,

With lolling tongue he runs to try Whistling now and then by fits ;

If the horse-trough be not dry. And oft, with his accustomed call,

The milk is settled in the pans, Urging on the sluggish Ball.

And supper messes in the cans; The barn is still, the master's gone,

In the hovel carts are wheel'd, And thresher puts his jacket on;

And both the colts are drove a-field : While Dick upon the ladder tall,

The horses are all bedded up, Nails the dead kite to the wall.

And the ewe is with the tup.

Oh, welcome is yon little cot,

Where I shall rest - no more to roam !
Oh, I have travell’d far and wide,

O'er many a distant foreign land;
Each place, each province I have tried,

And sung and danced my saraband !
But all their charms could not prevail
To steal my heart from yonder vale.

The snare for Mister Fox is set,
The leaven laid, the thatching wet,
And Bess has slink'd away to talk
With Roger in the holly walk.
Now on the settle all but Bess
Are set, to eat their supper mess;
And little Tom and roguish Kate
Are swinging on the meadow gate.
Now they chat of various things,
Of taxes, ministers, and kings;
Or else tell all the village news,
How madam did the 'squire refuse,
How parson on his tithes was bent,
And landlord oft distrain'd for rent.
Thus do they, till in the sky
The pale-eyed moon is mounted high;
And from the ale-house drunken Ned
Had reel'd; then hasten all to bed.
The mistress sees that lazy Kate,
The happing coal on kitchen grate
Has laid, while master goes throughout,
Sees shutters fast, the mastiff out;
The candles safe, the hearths all clear,
And nought from thieves or fire to fear:
Then both to bed together creep,
And join the general troop of sleep.

Of distant climes the false report,

Allured me from my native land;
It bade me rove my sole support

My cymbals and my saraband.
The woody dell, the hanging rock,

The chamois skipping o'er the heights;
The plain adorn’d with many a flock,

And oh! a thousand more delights
That grace yon dear belov'd retreat,
Have backward won my weary feet.

Now safe return'd with wandering tired,

No more my little home I'll leave;
And many a tale of what I've seen

Shall wile away the winter's eve.
Oh! I have wander'd far and wide,

O’er many a distant foreign land;
Each place, each province I have tried,

And sung and danced my saraband!
But all their charms could not prevail
To steal my heart from yonder vale.

The Savoyard's Return. 0! yonder is the well-known spot,

My dear, my long-lost native home;


John Wilson ward 1789 zu Paisley in Schottland geboren, studirte in Glasgow und Oxford, wo er mehrere Preisaufgaben löste und wurde 1820 Professor der Moral an der Universität zu Edinburg. Seine Ferien bringt er meist auf seinem Landgute Elleray am See von Winander

mere zu.

Neben mehreren sehr geschätzten Romanen hat Wilson einige grössere romantisch-epische Gedichte veröffentlicht wie z. B. The Isle of Palms (1812), the City of the Plague 1816, ferner the Angler's Tent, ein descriptives Poem, viele kleinere lyrische Poesien u. A. m. Warme Menschenliebe, reiche Naturanschauung, Phantasie und Begeisterung für alles Schöne und Gute, Gedankenfülle und seltene Anmuth der Darstellung weisen ihm einen sehr hohen Rang unter den lebenden englischen Dichtern an.

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Is shining o'er the church-yard lone;

Stedfastly as a star doth look While circling her as in a zone,

Upon a little murmuring brook, Delighted dance five cherubs fair,

She gazed upon the bosom And round their native urn shake wide their And fair brow of her sleeping son;

golden hair.

“O merciful Heaven! when I am gone,

Thine is this earthly blossom!"
Oh! children they are holy things,

While thus she sat
In sight of earth and heaven;

a sunbeam broke
Into the room;

the babe awoke, An angel shields with guardian wings The home where they are given.

And from his cradle smiled! Strong power there is in children's tears,

Ah me! what kindling smiles met there, And stronger in their lisped prayers;

I know not whether was more fair But the vulture stoops down from above,

The mother or her child ! And, 'mid her orphan brood, bears off the pa

rent dove.

With joy fresh sprung from short alarms,
The smiler stretched his rosy arms,

And to her bosom leapt;
the youthful, the mature

All tears at once were swept away, Have smiled and all past by,

And, said a face as bright as day, As if nought lovely could endure

"Forgive me that I wept!" Beneath the envious sky; While bow'd with age, and age's woes yet still far off the close

Sufferings there are from Nature sprung, Of weary life, yon aged crone

Ear hath not heard, nor Poet's tongue Can scarce with blind eyes find her husband's May venture to declare;

funeral-stone. But this as Holy Writ is sure,

“The griefs she bids us here endure,

She can herself repair!”
All dead the joyous, bright, and free,

To whom this life was dear!
The green leaves shiver'd from the tree,

And dangling left the sere!
O dim wild world! but from the sky
Down came the glad lark waveringly;
And, startled by his liquid mirth,

The three Seasons of Love. I rose to walk in faith the darkling paths of With laughter swimming in thine eye,


That told youth's heart felt revelry!
And motion changeful as the wing
Of swallow waken'd by the spring;
With accents blithe as voice of May,
Chaunting glad Nature's roundelay;

Circled by joy like planet bright
The widowed Mother.

That smiles 'mid wreaths of dewy light,

Thy image such, in former time, Beside her babe, who sweetly slept,

When thou, just entering on thy prime,
A widow'd mother sat and wept

And woman's sense in thee combined
O'er years of love gone by;

Gently with childhood's simplest mind,
And as the sobs thick-gathering came,

First taught'st my sighing soul to move She murmur'd her dead husband's name

With hope towards the heaven of love! 'Mid that sad lullaby.

Now years have given my Mary's face Well might that lullaby be sad,

A thoughtful and a quiet grace; For not one single friend she had

Though happy still — yet chance distress On this cold-hearted earth;

Hath left a pensive loveliness! The sea will not give back its prey,

Fancy hath tamed her fairy gleams, And he was wrapt in foreign clay

And thy heart broods o'er home-born dreams! Who gave the orphan birth.

Thy smiles, slow-kindling now and mild,

Shower blessings on a darling child;
Thy motion slow, and soft thy tread,
As if round thy hush'd infant's bed!
And when thou speak'st, thy melting tone,
That tells thy heart is all my own,
Sounds sweeter, from the lapse of years,
With the wife's love, the mother's fears !

To calm that wisdom steals from woe;
The holy pride of high intent,
The glory of a life well spent.
When earth's affections nearly o'er
With Peace behind, and Faith before,
Thou render'st up again to God,
Untarnish'd by its frail ode,
Thy lustrous soul, then harp and hymn,
From bands of sister seraphim,
Asleep will lay thee, till thine eye
Open in immortality!

By thy glad youth, and tranquil primo
Assured, I smile at hoary time!
For thou art doom'd in age to know

Cr a b b e.

George Crabbe ward am 24. December 1754 zu Aldborough in Suffolk, wo sein Vater Zollaufseher war, geboren. Zum Chirurgus bestimmt, entsagte er jedoch diesem Beruf und ging um in der literarischen Welt sein Glück zu versuchen nach London. Hier nahm sich der berühmte Edmund Burke seiner an. Crabbe widmete sich auf dessen Rath dem geistlichen Stande, wurde 1782 ordinirt, dann Pfarrvicar in seinem Geburtsort, darauf Caplan des Herzogs von Rutland und später nach einander Prediger an verschiedenen Orten, zuletzt zu Trowbridge in Wiltshire. Er starb daselbst am 3. Februar 1832.

Die vollständigste Ausgabe von Crabbe's poetischen Werken besorgte sein Sohn unter dem Titel: The poetical works of the Rever. George Crabbe with his letters and journals and his life. By his son. London 1834. 6 Bde in 8. Sie enthalten: The Village; the Library; Tales of the Hall; the Parish Register ; the Borough, kleinere Poesieen u. A. m.

Crabbe ist der Genremaler unter den englischen Dichtern; scharfe Beobachtungsgabe, genaue Kenntniss des menschlichen Herzens, warmes Gefühl und eine ruhige treffliche Darstellungsgabe sind ihm eigen, aber er gefällt sich zu sehr darin menschliches Elend und menschliche Verderbtheit zu schildern und hält sich nicht immer frei von Uebertreibung; der Arme kann nicht anders als schlecht sein nach seinen Begriffen, selbst die Schönheiten der Natur dienen ihm nur dazu den Jammer der Zerstörung durch ihre blinden Gewalten recht hervorzuheben. So sieht er Alles nur durch eine trübe Brille und so meisterhaft auch seine Schilderungen, so interessant auch seine Erfindungen sind, man wird von ihm stets angezogen aber nie befriedigt, und legt sein Werk stets mit einem schmerzlichen Gefühl wieder aus der Hand, denn das versöhnende beruhigende Element vermisst man schmerzlich fast überall bei ihm.

The Sands.

Turn to the watery world! - hut who to thee Its colours changing, when from clouds and san (A wonder yet unview'd) shall paint - the sea? Shades after shades upon the surface run; Various and vast, sublime in all its forms, Embrown's and horrid now, and now serene, When lull’d by Zephyrs, or when rous'd by In limpid blue, and evanescent green;


And oft the foggy banks on ocean lie,

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