And silver cords again to earth have won me, 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, "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- I languish for thy voice, which past me still, "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 "And thou, will slumber's dewy cloud fall round thee, Without thy mother's hand to smooth thy bed? And I look on a torrent, sweeping by, "What have I said, my child? And an eagle, rushing to the sky, "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, joy? Thou shalt sleep soft, my boy! "I give thee to thy God! And the trumpet in mine ear? still! "They are gone! they have all pass'd by! the God that gave They in whose wars I had borne my part, thee, be They that I loved with a brother's heart, 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 Child of the town! for thee I sigh; A gilded roof's thy golden sky, A carpet is thy daisied sod, 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, 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; Child of the town and bustling street, Or set thy tottering feet but on Fly from the town, sweet child! for health Awake, my Love! Awake, my love! ere morning's ray Till green Arbigland's woodlands shake. She comb'd her curling ringlets down, Each bird that shakes the dewy grove The Lass of Gleneslan-mill. The laverock loves the dewy light, The bee the balmy fox-glove fair; With all her stars, pure streaming still; The violets lay their blossoms low, Mute was the wind, soft fell the dew, Rills murmur'd music, and the stars Ye might have heard our beating hearts, now loud, now Wert thou an idol all of gold, hush, The goldspink answer'd from the bush; 'Tis sweet, she said, while thus the day Yes, lovely one! and dost thou mark Had I the eye of worldish care, Look on thee so, or love thee mair. The Poet's Bridal-day Song. O! my love's like the steadfast sun, |