« PrécédentContinuer »
To what she wanted: I held down a branch
His name and life's brief date. And gather'd her soine blossoms, since their hour Pray for him, gentle souls, whoe'er you be, Was come, and bees had wounded them, and flies And, oh: pray, too, for me! Of harder wing were working their way through And scattering them in fragments under foot. So crisp were some, they rattled unevolved, Others, ere broken off, fell into shells,
To Corinth, For such appear the petals when detach’d, Queen of the double sea, beloved of him Unbending, brittle, lucid, white like snow, Who shakes the world's foundations, thou hast seen And like snow not seen through, by eye or sun: Glory in all her beauty, all her forms; Yet every one her gown received from me Seen her walk back with Theseus when he left Was fairer than the first — I thought not so, The bones of Sciron bleaching to the wind, But so she praised them to reward my care. Above the ocean's roar and cormorant's flight, I said: “You find the largest.'
So high that vastest billows from above
“This indeed," Shew but like herbage waving in the mead; Cried she, "is large and sweet."
Seen generations throng thy Isthmian games, She held one forth, And pass away
the beautiful, the brave, Whether for me to look at or to take
And them who sang their praises. She knew not, nor did I; but taking it
But, O Queen, Would best have solved (and this she felt) her Audible still, and far beyond thy cliffs,
As when they first were uttered, are those words
The Colchian babes.
"Stay! spare him! save the last! The boon she tendered, and then, finding not Medea: - is that blood ? again! it drops The ribbon at her waist to fix it in,
From my imploring hand upon my feet;
I will invoke the Eumenides no more.
Tell me, one lives."
“And shall I too deceive?” I loved him not; and yet, now he is gone,
Cries from the fiery car an angry voice; I feel I am alone.
And swifter than two falling stars descend I check'd him while he spoke; yet, could he speak, Two breathless bodies warm, soft, motionless, Alas! I would not check.
As flowers in stillest noon before the sun, For reasons not to love him once I sought,
They lie three paces from him — such they lie And wearied all my thought
As when he left thern sleeping side by side, To vex myself and him: I now would give A mother's arm round each, a mother's cheeks My love could he but live
Between them, flushed with happiness and love. Who lately lived for me, and, when he found He was more changed than they were — doomed 'Twas fain, in holy ground
to shew He hid his face amid the shades of death! Thee and the stranger, how defaced and scarred I waste for him my breath
Grief hunts us down the precipice of years, Who wasted his for me: but mine returns, And whom the faithless prey upon the last.
And this lorn bosom burns
Her loveliest forms was thine, to fix the gods Tears that had melted his soft heart: for years Within thy walls, and hang their tripods round Wept he as bitter tears !
With fruits and foliage knowing not decay. “Merciful God!" such was his latest prayer, A nobler work remains : thy citadel “These may she never share!”
Invites all Greece; o'er lands and floods remote Quieter is his breath, his breast more cold Many are the hearts that still beat high for thee: Than daisies in the mould,
Confide then in thy strength, and unappalled Where children spell, athwart the churchyard Look down upon the plain, while yokemate kings
Run bellowing, where their herdsmengoad them on; Instinct is sharp in them, and terror true
Ere you are sweet, but freed They smell the floor whereon their necks must lie. From life, you then are prized; thus prized are
In Clementina's artless mien
Lucilla asks me what I see,
And are the roses of sixteen
Enough for me?
Lucilla asks, if that be all,
Ah, yes, Lucilla : and their fall
I still deplore.
I now behold another scene,
Where pleasure beams with heaven's own light,
More pure, more constant, more serene,
And not less bright.
Faith, on whose breast the loves repose,
Whose chain of flowers no force can sever;
And Modesty, who, when she goes
Is gone for ever.
Ca m p b ell. Thomas Campbell ward im Jahre 1777 in Glasgow geboren, studirte hier und zu Edinburg, sich auf beiden Universitäten durch seine glänzenden Fähigkeiten und Leistungen auszeichnend. Im Jahre 1800 bereiste er den Continent, verlebte ein volles Jahr in Deutschland und ging dann, 1803 nach London, wo er Professor an der Royal Institution wurde. Er starb daselbst allgemein verehrt 1844.
Campbell hat ausser vielen sehr elegant geschriebenen prosaischen Arbeiten und einer ziemlichen Anzahl kleinerer Poesieen, drei grössere poetische Werke: The Pleasures of Hope, Gertrude of Wyoming und Theodric geliefert. Eine Sammlung seiner poetischen Werke erschien 1837 mit Illustrationen von Turner, in 2 Bänden.
Reichthum der Phantasie, Tiefe und Wahrheit der Gefühls, begeisterte Wärme für alles Gute und Grosse und der höchste Glanz der Diction sind die schönsten Blüthen in Campbell's Dichterkranze, doch trifft ihn ein Tadel, der bei manchem Anderen als Lob erscheinen würde, er strebt zu ängstlich nach Correctheit und giebt sich daher nie dem Drange seines Genius hin, sondern fesselt diesen nur zu oft mit den eigensinnigen Ketten der Regel. Er reiht sich den grössten Dichtern seiner und aller Nationen auf das Würdigste an, und sein Name wie seine Werke werden allen Freunden echter Poesie unvergesslich bleiben.
To the Evening-star. Star that bringest home the bee,
Come to the luxuriant skies, And sett'st the weary labourer free!
Whilst the landscape's odours rise, If any star shed peace, 'tis thou,
Whilst far-off lowing herds are heard, That send'st it from above;
And songs, when toil is done, Appearing when heaven's breath and brow From cottages, whose smoke unstirr'd, Are sweet as her's we love.
Curls yellow in the sun.