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And silver cords again to earth have won me,
And like a vine thou claspest my full heart,

How shall I hence depart?

"How the lone paths retrace, where thou wert playing

So late along the mountains at my side?

And I, in joyous pride,

By every place of flowers my course delaying,

Wove, even as pearls, the lilies round thy hair,
Beholding thee so fair!

"And, oh! the home whence thy bright smile hath parted!

Will it not seem as if the sunny day

Turned from its door away,

While, through its chambers wandering, weary-
hearted,

I languish for thy voice, which past me still,
Went like a singing rill?

"Under the palm-trees thou no more shalt meet me, When from the fount at evening I return,

With the full water-urn!

Nor will thy sleep's low, dove-like murmurs
greet me,
As 'midst the silence of the stars I wake,
And watch for thy dear sake!

"And thou, will slumber's dewy cloud fall round

thee,

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Without thy mother's hand to smooth thy bed? And I look on a torrent, sweeping by,
Wilt thou not vainly spread
Thine arms, when darkness as a veil hath wound
thee,
To fold my neck; and lift up, in thy fear,
A cry which none shall hear?

"What have I said, my child?

And an eagle, rushing to the sky,
And a host, to its battle plain!
Cease awhile, clarion! clarion wild and shrill,
Cease! let them hear the captive's voice,
still!

"Must I pine in my fetters here?

be

be

will He not With the wild wave's foam, and the free bird's

hear thee

flight, Who the young ravens heareth from their nest? And the tall spears glancing on my sight,

Will He not guard thy rest,
And, in the hush of holy midnight near thee,
Breathe o'er thy soul, and fill its dreams with

joy? Thou shalt sleep soft, my boy!

"I give thee to thy God!

And the trumpet in mine ear?
Cease awhile, clarion! clarion wild and shrill,
Cease! let them hear the captive's voice,

still!

"They are gone! they have all pass'd by! the God that gave They in whose wars I had borne my part,

thee,
A well-spring of deep gladness to my heart!
And, precious as thou art,
And pure as dew of Hermon, He shall have thee,
My own, my beautiful, my undefiled!
And thou shalt be His child!

be

They that I loved with a brother's heart,
They have left me here to die!
Sound again, clarion! clarion, pour thy blast!
Sound! for the captive's dream of hope is past!"

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Cunningham.

Allan Cunningham ward am 7. December 1784 nicht weit von Dumfries geboren. Er war der Sohn eines Pächters, erhielt eine dürftige Schulbildung und musste dann, eilf Jahr alt, Maurerlehrling werden. Später ging er nach London und ward 1814 Aufseher im Atelier des berühmten Bildhauers Chantrey, eine Stelle, die er noch bekleidet. Später trat er mit seiner dramatischen Dichtung Sir Marmaduke Maxwell hervor; Walter Scott lenkte die Aufmerksamkeit des Publicums darauf und seit dieser Zeit war ihm eine Stelle unter den Dichtern Englands gesichert, die er würdig

ausfüllt.

Neben mehreren prosaischen Werken hat er nur wenige Dichtungen veröffentlicht; noch bedeutender als jene obengenannte ist seine Maid of Elvar und seine Balladen und Lieder. In vielen der Letzteren hat er den Ton echter Volkspoesie so glücklich angeschlagen, dass sie selbst Kenner täuschten. Warmes Gefühl, Anmuth, Einfachheit, Eleganz und Wohlklang sind ihm eigen.

The Town and Country Child.

Child of the country! free as air
Art thou, and as the sunshine fair;
Born, like the lily, where the dew
Lies odorous when the day is new;
Fed 'mid the May-flowers like the bee,
Nurs'd to sweet music on the knee,
Lull'd in the breast to that glad tune
Which winds make 'mong the woods of June:
I sing of thee; 'tis sweet to sing
Of such a fair and gladsome thing.

Child of the town! for thee I sigh;

A gilded roof's thy golden sky,

A carpet is thy daisied sod,
A narrow street thy boundless road,
Thy rushing deer's the clattering tramp

Child of the town! for thee, alas! Glad Nature spreads nor flowers nor grass. Birds build no nests, nor in the sun Glad streams come singing as they run: A Maypole is thy blossom'd tree, A beetle is thy murmuring bee; Thy bird is cag'd, thy dove is where Thy poulterer dwells, beside thy hare; Thy fruit is pluck'd, and by the pound Hawk'd clamorous all the city round; No roses, twinborn on the stalk, Perfume thee in thy evening walk; No voice of birds, but to thee comes The mingled din of cars and drums, And startling cries, such as are rife When wine and wassail waken strife. Child of the country! on the lawn I see thee like the bounding fawn,

Of watchmen, thy best light's a lamp,
Through smoke, and not through trellised vines Blithe as the bird which tries its wing

And blooming trees, thy sunbeam shines: I sing of thee in sadness; where

Else is wreck wrought in aught so fair.

Child of the country! thy small feet Tread on strawberries red and sweet; With thee I wander forth to see The flowers which most delight the bee; The bush o'er which the throstle sung In April, while she nursed her young; The den beneath the sloe-thorn, where She bred her twins the timorous hare; The knoll, wrought o'er with wild bluebells, Where brown bees build their balmy cells; The greenwood stream, the shady pool, Where trouts leap when the day is cool; The shilfa's nest that seems to be A portion of the sheltering tree, And other marvels which my verse Can find no language to rehearse.

The first time on the winds of spring;
Bright as the sun when from the cloud
He comes as cocks are crowing loud;
Now running, shouting, 'mid sunbeams,
Now groping trouts in lucid streams,
Now spinning like a mill-wheel round,
Now hunting echo's empty sound,
Now climbing up some old tall tree
For climbing sake. 'Tis sweet to thee
To sit where birds can sit alone,
Or share with thee thy venturous throne.

Child of the town and bustling street,
What woes and snares await thy feet!
Thy paths are paved for five long miles,
Thy groves and hills are peaks and tiles;
Thy fragrant air is yon thick smoke,
Which shrouds thee like a mourning cloak;
And thou art cabin'd and confined,
At once from sun, and dew, and wind;

Or set thy tottering feet but on
Thy lengthen'd walks of slippery stone;
The coachman there careering reels,
With goaded steeds and maddening wheels;
And Commerce pours each poring son
In pelf's pursuit and hollos' run:
While flush'd with wine, and stung at play,
Men rush from darkness into day.
The stream's too strong for thy small bark;
There nought can sail, save what is stark.

Fly from the town, sweet child! for health
Is happiness, and strength, and wealth.
There is a lesson in each flower,
A story in each stream and bower;
On every herb on which you tread
Are written words which, rightly read,
Will lead you from earth's fragrant sod,
To hope, and holiness, and God.

Awake, my Love!

Awake, my love! ere morning's ray
Throws off night's weed of pilgrim grey;
Ere yet the hare, cower'd close from view,
Licks from her fleece the clover dew:
Or wild swan shakes her snowy wings,
By hunters roused from secret springs:
Or birds upon the boughs awake,

Till green Arbigland's woodlands shake.

She comb'd her curling ringlets down,
Lac'd her green jupes, and clasp'd her shoon;
And from her home, by Preston-burn,
Came forth the rival light of morn.
The lark's song dropp'd,

Each bird that shakes the dewy grove
Warms its wild note with nuptial love;
The bird, the bee, with various sound,
Proclaim the sweets of wedlock round.

The Lass of Gleneslan-mill.

The laverock loves the dewy light,

The bee the balmy fox-glove fair;
The shepherd loves the glowing morn,
When song and sunshine fill the air:
But I love best the summer moon,

With all her stars, pure streaming still;
For then, in light and love I meet,
The sweet lass of Gleneslan-mill.

The violets lay their blossoms low,
Beneath her white foot, on the plain;
Their fragrant heads the lilies wave,
Of her superior presence fain.
O might I clasp her to my heart,
And of her ripe lips have my will!
For loath to woo, and long to win,
Was she by green Gleneslan-mill.

Mute was the wind, soft fell the dew,
O'er Blackwood brow bright glow'd the moon;

Rills murmur'd music, and the stars
Refused to set our heads aboon:

Ye might have heard our beating hearts,
Our mixing breaths,
all was so still,
Till morning's light shone on her locks,
Farewell, lass of Gleneslan-mill.

now loud, now Wert thou an idol all of gold,

hush,

The goldspink answer'd from the bush;
The plover, fed on heather crop,
Call'd from the misty mountain top.

'Tis sweet, she said, while thus the day
Grows into gold from silvery grey,
To hearken heaven, and bush, and brake,
Instinct with soul of song awake;
To see the smoke, in many a wreath,
Stream blue from hall and bower beneath,
Where yon blithe mower hastes along
With glittering scythe and rustic song.

Yes, lovely one! and dost thou mark
The moral of yon carolling lark?
Tak'st thou from Nature's counsellor tongue
The warning precept of her song?

Had I the eye of worldish care,
I could not think thee half so sweet,

Look on thee so, or love thee mair.
Till death's cold dewdrop dim mine eye,
This tongue be mute, this heart lie still,
Thine every wish of joy and love,
My lass of green Gleneslan-mill!

The Poet's Bridal-day Song.

O! my love's like the steadfast sun,
Or streams that deepen as they run;
Nor hoary hairs, nor forty years,
Nor moments between sighs and fears;

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