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,

doubts.

As when they first were uttered, are those words
I dared not touch it; for it seemed a part Divine which praised the valiant and the just;
Of her own self; fresh, full, the most mature And tears have often stopt, upon that ridge
Of blossoms, yet a blossom; with a touch So perilous, him who brought before his eye
To fall, and yet unfallen.

The Colchian babes.
She drew back

"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;
Dropt it, as loth to drop it, on the rest.

I will invoke the Eumenides no more.
I will forgive the bless the bend to thee
In all thy wishes do but thou, Medea,

Tell me, one lives."
The Maid's Lament.

“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,

Ι

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
With stifling heat, heaving it up in sleep, To give the inertest masses of our earth
And waking me to weep

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

gate,

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

poets too.

Sixteen.
The Briar.

In Clementina's artless mien
My briar that smelledst sweet,

Lucilla asks me what I see,
When gentle spring's first heat

And are the roses of sixteen
Ran through thy quiet veins;
Thou that couldst injure none,

Enough for me?
But wouldst be left alone,

Lucilla asks, if that be all,
Alone thou leavest me, and nought of thine remains. Have I not cull'd as sweet before
What: hath no poet's lyre

Ah, yes, Lucilla : and their fall

I still deplore.
O'er thee, sweet breathing briar,
Hung fondly, ill or well?

I now behold another scene,
And yet, methinks with thee,

Where pleasure beams with heaven's own light,
A poet's sympathy,

More pure, more constant, more serene,
Whether in weal or woe in life or death, might dwell.

And not less bright.
Hard usage both must bear,

Faith, on whose breast the loves repose,
Few hands your youth will rear,

Whose chain of flowers no force can sever;
Few bosoms cherish you;

And Modesty, who, when she goes
Your tender prime must bleed

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.