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And silver cords again to earth have won me, “Therefore, farewell! I go! my soul may And like a vine thou claspest my full heart,
fail me, How shall I hence depart?
As the stag panteth for the water-brooks,
Yearning for thy sweet looks!
But thou, my firstborn! droop not, nor bewail “How the lone paths retrace, where thou wert
Thou in the shadow of the Rock shalt dwell, So late along the mountains at my side?
The Rock of Strength, farewell!"
Beholding thee so fair!
“And, oh! the home whence thy bright smile
The Captive Knight.
hath parted! Will it not seem as if the sunny day
'Twas a trumpet's pealing sound ! Turned from its door away,
And the knight look'd down from the Paynim's While, through its chambers wandering, weary
And a Christian host, in its pride and power, I languish for thy voice, which past me still,
Through the pass beneath him wound. Went like a singing rill?
Cease awhile, clarion! clarion wild and shrill,
“I knew 'twas a trumpet's note! With the full water-urn!
And I see my brethren's lances gleam, Nor will thy sleep's low, dove-like murmurs And their pennons wave, by the mountain stream,
And their plumes to the glad wind float! As 'midst the silence of the stars I wake, Cease awhile, clarion! clarion wild and shrill, And watch for thy dear sake!
Cease! let them hear the captive's voice, be
still! "And thou, will slumber's dewy cloud fall round
“I am here, with my heavy chain! Without thy mother's hand to smooth thy bed?
And I look on a torrent, sweeping by, Wilt thou not vainly spread
And an eagle, rushing to the sky, Thine arms, when darkness as a veil hath wound
And a host, to its battle plain! thee,
Cease awhile, clarion! clarion wild and shrill, To fold my neck; and lift up, in thy fear,
Cease! let them hear the captive's voice, - be
still! A cry which none shall hear ?
“Must I pine in my fetters here? "What have I said, my child? 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 the trumpet in mine ear? And, in the hush of holy midnight near thee,
Cease awhile, clarion! clarion wild and shrill, Breathe o'er thy soul, and fill its dreams with Cease! let them hear the captive's voice, be joy?
still! Thou shalt sleep soft, my boy!
"They are gone! they have all pass'd by! "I give thee to thy God! the God that gave They in whose wars I had borne my part,
They that I loved with a brother's heart, A well-spring of deep gladness to my heart!
They have left me here to die! And, precious as thou art,
Sound again, clarion! clarion, pour thy blast! And pure as dew of Hermon, He shall have thee, Sound! for the captive's dream of hope is past!" My own, my beautiful, my undefiled!
And thou shalt be His child!
Light up the beacon-pyre!
And waved the sign of fire!
Their gorgeous folds have cast;
A king to war went past!
The Treasures of the Deep.
Thou hollow-sounding and mysterious main!
shells, Bright things which gleam unrecked of and in
vain. Keep, keep thy riches, melancholy sea !
We ask not such from thee.
The chief is arming in his hall,
The peasant by his hearth;
And rises from the earth!
Looks with a boding eye;
Whose young hearts leap so high.
Yet more, the depths have more! what wealth
untold, Far down, and shining through their stillness,
Won from ten thousand royal argosies.
The bard hath ceased his song, and bound Yet more, the depths have more! thy waves The falchion to his side;
have rolled E'en for the marriage altar crowned,
Above the cities of a world gone by! The lover quits his bride!
Sand hath filled up the palaces of old, And all this haste, and change, and fear, Sea-weed o’ergrown the halls of revelry! By earthly clarion spread!
Dash o'er them, ocean! in thy scornful play, How will it be when kingdoms hear
Man yields them to decay!
Yet more, the billows and the depths have more!
The battle thunders will not break their rest. The Return to Poetry.
Keep thy red gold and gems, thou stormy grave!
Give back the true and brave! Once more the eternal melodies from far, Woo me like songs of home: once more discern- Give back the lost and lovely!- those for whom
The place was kept at board and hearth so Through fitful clouds the pure majestic star,
long; Above the poet's world serenely burning, The prayer went up through midnight's breathThither my soul, fresh-winged by love, is turn
less gloom, ing,
And the vain yearning woke’midst festal song! As o'er the waves the wood-bird seeks her nest, Hold fast thy buried isles, thy towers o'erFor those green heights of dewy stillness yearning,
thrown, Whence glorious minds o'erlook the earth's un
But all is not thine own! rest. Now be the spirit of Heaven's truth my guide To thee the love of woman hath gone down; Through the bright land! that no brief gladness, Dark flow thy tides o'er manhood's noble found
head, In passing bloom, rich odour, or sweet sound, O’er youth's bright locks and beauty's flowery May lure my footsteps from their aim aside:
crown! Their true, high quest to seek, if ne'er to Yet must thou hear a voice, -- Restore the dead!
Earth shall reclaim her precious things from thee! The inmost, purest shrine of that august domain.
Restore the dead, thou sea!
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 Jalır 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 town! for thee, alas!
Glad Nature spreads nor flowers nor grass. Child of the country! free as air
Birds build no nests, nor in the sun Art thou, and as the sunshine fair;
Glad streams come singing as they run: Born, like the lily, where the dew
A Maypole is thy blossom'd tree, Lies odorous when the day is new;
A beetle is thy murmuring bee; Fed ’mid the May-flowers like the bee,
Thy bird is cag'd, thy dove is where Nurs'd to sweet music on the knee,
Thy poulterer dwells, beside thy hare;
Thy fruit is pluck'd, and by the pound
No roses, twinborn on the stalk,
Perfume thee in thy evening walk; Child of the town! for thee I sigh;
No voice of birds, but to thee comes A gilded roof's thy golden sky,
The mingled din of cars and drums, A carpet is thy daisied sod,
And startling cries, such as are rife A narrow street thy boundless road,
When wine and wassail waken strife. Thy rushing deer's the clattering tramp
Child of the country! on the lawn Of watchmen, thy best light's a lamp,
I see thee like the bounding fawn, Through smoke, and not through trellised vines Blithe as the bird which tries its wing And blooming trees, thy sunbeam shines: The first time on the winds of spring; I sing of thee in sadness; where
Bright as the sun when from the cloud Else is wreck wrought in aught so fair. He comes as cocks are crowing loud; Child of the country! thy small feet
Now running, shouting, 'mid sunbeams, Tread on strawberries red and sweet;
Now groping trouts in lucid streams,
Now spinning like a mill-wheel round,
Now climbing up some old tall tree
For climbing sake. 'Tis sweet to thee The den beneath the sloe-thorn, where
To sit where birds can sit alone, She bred her twins the timorous hare;
Or share with thee thy venturous throne. The knoll, wrought o'er with wild bluebells, Child of the town and bustling street, Where brown bees build their balmy cells; What woes and snares await thy feet! The greenwood stream, the shady pool,
Thy paths are paved for five long miles, Where trouts leap when the day is cool; Thy groves and hills are peaks and tiles; The shilfa's nest that seems to be
Thy fragrant air is yon thick smoke, A portion of the sheltering tree,
Which shrouds thee like a mourning cloak; And other marvels which my verse
And thou art cabin'd and confined, Can find no language to rehearse.
At once from sun, and dew, and wind;
Or get thy tottering feet but on
Fly from the town, sweet child! for health
The Lass of Gleneslan-mill.
The laverock loves the dewy light,
The bee the balmy fox-glove fair;
When song and sunshine fill the air :
With all her stars, pure streaming still;
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, Awake, my love! ere morning's ray
And of her ripe lips have my will!
Was she by green Gleneslan-mill.
Mute was the wind, soft fell the dew,
O'er Blackwood brow bright glow'd the moon; Or birds upon the boughs awake,
Rills murmur'd music, and the stars Till green Arbigland's woodlands shake.
Refused to set our heads aboon:
Ye might have heard our beating hearts, She comb'd her curling ringlets down,
Our mixing breaths, all was so still, Lac'd her green jupes, and clasp'd her shoon;
Till morning's light shone on her locks,
Farewell, lass of Gleneslan-mill.
Had I the eye of worldish care, The goldspink answer'd from the bush;
I could not think thee half so sweet, The plover, fed on heather crop,
Look on thee so, or love thee mair. Call’d from the misty mountain top.
Till death's cold dewdrop dim mine eye,
This tongue be mute, this heart lie still, 'Tis sweet, she said, while thus the day
Thine every wish of joy and love,
My lass of green Gleneslan-mill!
The Poet's Bridal-day Song. Yes, lovely one! and dost thou mark
O! my love's like the steadfast sun, The moral of yon carolling lark ?
Or streams that deepen as they run; Tak'st thou from Nature's counsellor tongue Nor hoary hairs, nor forty years, The warning precept of her song?
Nor moments between sighs and fears;