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It cannot be that long we dwell,

Thus torn apart:
Time's shadow like the shuttle flee:
And, dark howe'er life's night may be,
Beyond the grave I'll meet with thee,

Casa Wappy!

Where those who were severed re-meet in joy,
Which death can never more destroy;
Where scenes without, and where souls within,
Are blanched from taint and touch of sin;

Where speech is music and breath is balm;
And broods an everlasting calm;
And flowers wither not, as in worlds like this;
And hope is swallowed in perfect bliss;

The White Rose.


Rose of the desert! thou art to me

Where all is peaceful, for all is pure;
An emblem of stainless purity,
Of those who, keeping their garments white, And day is endless,

And all is lovely, and all endure;

ever bright; Walk on through life with steps aright!

And no more sea is, and no more night;


VI. Thy fragrance breathes of the fields above, Where round the throne, hues like thine, Whose soil and air are faith and love; The raiments of the ransom'd shine; And where, by the murmur of silver springs, And o’er each brow a halo glows The Cherubim fold their snow-white wings; - Of glory, like the pure White Rose!


Robert Montgomery hat sich bereits seit 1828 durch das „The Omnipotence of the Deity hervorgethan, dem bald einige andere Gedichte folgten, die seinen Dichterruf bleibend begründet haben, wie Satan 1830, The Messiah 1832, Luther u. a.

Montgomery's literarische Thätigkeit scheint sich gänzlich dem Dienste der Religion and den Wahrheiten gewidmet zu haben, deren begabter und beredter Verkünder er auf der Kanzel ist.

Seine poetischen Leistungen sind in ähnlichem Geiste wie die des älteren Montgomery, und zeichnen sich namentlich durch poetischen Erguss und leichten Versbau aus, ohne jedoch mit der Selbständigkeit in der Erfindung und der Reinheit in der Sprache geschrieben zu sein, wodurch die Dichtungen des letzterwähnten sich unterscheiden.

The Starry Heavens.

| And round the lattice creep your idnight

beams, Ye quenchless stars! so eloquently bright, How sweet to gaze upon your placid eyes, Untroubled sentries of the shadowy night, In lambent beauty looking from the skies ! While half the world is lapped in downy And when, oblivious of the world, we stray


At dead of night along some noiseless way,

How the heart mingles with the moonlit hour, Like young waves racing in the morning sun,
As if the starry heavens suffused a power! That rear and leap with reckless fury on!
Full in her dreamy light, the moon presides,
Shrined in a halo, mellowing as she rides;
And far around, the forest and the stream But mark yon war-worn man, who looks on
Bathe in the beauty of her emerald beam;

high, The lulled winds, too, are sleeping in their With thought and valour mirrored in his eye!


Not all the gory revels of the day No stormy murmurs roll upon the waves; Can fright the vision of his home away; Nature is hushed, as if her works adored, The home of love, and its associate smiles, Stilled by the presence of her living Lord' His wife's endearment, and his baby's wiles: And now, while through the ocean-mantling Fights he less brave through recollected bliss,


With step retreating, or with sword remiss? A dizzy chain of yellow lustre plays, Ah no! remembered home's the warrior's And moonlight loveliness hath veiled the land,

charm, Go, stranger, muse thou by the wave-worn Speed to his sword, and vigour to his arm;

strand :

For this he supplicates the god afar, Centuries have glided o’er the balanced earth, Fronts the steeled foe, and mingles in the Myriads have blessed, and myriads cursed

war! their birth; Still, yon sky-beacons keep a dimless glare, Unsullied as the God who throned them there! The cannon's hushed !- nor drum, nor clarion 'Though swelling earthquakes heave the as

sound; tounded world, Helmet and hauberk gleam upon the ground; And king and kingdom from their pride are Horseman and horse lie weltering in their gore;


Patriots are dead, and heroes dare no more; Sublimely calm, they run their bright career, While solemnly the moonlightshrouds the plain, Unheedful of the storms and changes here. And lights the lurid features of the slain. We want no hymn to hear, or pomp to see, For all around is deep divinity!

And see! on this rent mound, where daisies

A battle-steed beneath his rider flung;

Oh! never more he'll rear with fierce delight,
Picture of War.

Roll his red eyes, and rally for the fight!.

Pale on his bleeding breast the warrior lies, Spirit of light and life! when battle rears While from his ruffled lids the white swelled Her fiery brow and her terriflic spears;

eyes When red-mouthed cannon to the clouds Ghastly and grimly stare upon the skies!

uproar, And gasping thousands make their beds in


Afar, with bosom bared unto the breeze, While on the billowy bosom of the air White lips, and glaring eyes, and shivering Roll the dead notes of anguish and despair!

knees, Unseen thou valk'st upon the smoking plain, A widow o'er her martyred soldier moans, And hear'st each groan that gurgles from the Loading the night-wind with delirious groans!


Her blue-ered babe, uneonscious orphan he!
So sweetly prattling in his cherub glee,

Leers on his lifeless sire with infant wile,
List! war-peals thunder on the battle-field: And plays and plucks him for a parent's smile!
And many a hand grasps firm the glittering,

shield, As on, with helm and plume, the warriors But who, upon the battle-wasted plain,


Shall count the faint, the gasping, and the And the glad hills repeat their stormy drum!

slain? And now are seen the youthful and the gray, Angel of Mercy! ere the blood-foant chill, With bosoms firing to partake the fray; And the brave heart be spiritless and still, The first, with hearts that consecrate the deed, Amid the baroc thou art horering nigh, All esger rush to vanquish or to bleed! To calm each groan and close each dying eve,

And waft the spirit to that halcyon shore, And fresh and fair no longer lie
Where war's loud thunders lash the winds Joy-tints upon the cheek.

no more!

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Mary Ann Browne, später Mrs Gray, ist nicht, wie Griswold in seinem Werke „Poets and Poetry of England“ S. 286 behauptet, eine Schwester der bekannten Dichterin Felicia Hemans. Mrs Gray starb wahrscheinlich im Jahre 1847. Sie ist die Verfasserin mehrerer poetischen Werke, von welchen namentlich folgende hier erwähnt werden mögen: Mont Blanc and other Poems; Ada and other_Poems; Repentance and other Poems, London 1828; ferner Ignatia and other Poems, London 1838. Ausserdem hat sie auch mehrere prosaische Werke geschrieben, wie: History of Emperors of Rome; History of Etruria, 2 Bde. History of Rome for Young Persons, 2 Bde. Tour to the Sepulchres of Etruria u. a.

Die poetischen Leistungen dieser Dichterin tragen fast durchgängig das Gepräge echt weiblicher Innigkeit und wahrer Empfindung an sich, athmen aber meist tiefe Wehmuth.

The Forboding.

Its strongest link is snapt in twain,

And thou wilt be as such:
Ay, twine thy hair with summer-wreath,

And sing thy bridal song;
Let fragrant flowers around thee breathe

And mingle with the thoughtless crowd, It will not be for long.

And soon thy gorgeous vest:

’T will soon be changed, for thy burial shroud As that bright garland will decay,

Already wraps thy breast.
Thy beauty will soon be gone;
And thy very name will pass away,
Like thy sweet song's closing tone.

Bright and clear the heavens are,

There is but one speck in the sky; Ay, deck thee with that golden chain, But that speck covers thy natal star, It severs with scarce a touch;

The star of thy destiny!

I gazed on that star last night — it shook, We sit by the Miser's treasure-chest,
And though it still faintly gleams,

And near his bed
It looks not as it wont to look,

And we watch his anxious heart's unrest, And a mist is over its beams.

And in mockery tread
With a seeming heavy step about;

And laugh when we hear his frightened shout I have read thy fate in a flowery braid;

Of dread I hung it on a tree

Lest the gnomes, who once o'er his gold I saw one bright rose fall and fade,

did reign, 'Twas the blossom I named for thee!

To his hoards, to claim it back again,

Have sped. But mostly thy fortune I can tell,

From thy happiness and mirth,
For when did bliss so perfect dwell But a sunnier scene and a brighter sky
More than an instant on earth?

To-day is ours;
We have seen a youthful Poet lie

By a fountain's showers,
With his up-turned eyes and his dreamy

The Song of Dreams.

Reading the April sky's sweet book,

Written by the hours,
In the rosy glow of the evening cloud,
In the twilight's gloom

Thinking those glorious thoughts that grow

Untutored up in life's fresh glow,
In the sultry noon, when the flowers are

Like flowers.
And the streams are dumb
In the morning's beam, when the faint stars


We will catch the richest, brightest hue

Of the rainbow's rim;
On the brightening flood of the azure sky
We come!

The purest cloud that 'midst the blue

Of Heaven doth swim;
Weavers of shadowy hopes and fears,
Darkeners of smiles, brighteners of tears,

The clearest star-beam that shall be
We come!

In a dew-drop shrined, when the twilight sea

Grows dim;

And a spirit of love about them breathe, We come where the Babe, on its mother's And twine them all in a magic wreath breast,

For him!
Lies in slumber deep
We fit by the maiden's couch of rest,

And o'er her sleep
We float, like the honey-laden bees,
On the soft, warm breath of the languid


The Messenger Thought. Hues, more beautiful than we bring,

I send a thought to thee, From her lip and her cheek, for each wander- The deep, unspoken' essence of my love;

ing wing

I send it like a home-returning dove
To keep

Far over land and sea;
Ah! shall it reach thee? shall it find a nest,

Beloved ! in thy breast?
We linger about the Lover's bower,

Hovering mute,
When he looks to the west for the sunset hour, I send it forth with all
And lists for the foot

The winged and burning power the lightning That falls so lightly on the grass,

hath; We scarcely hear its echo pass;

Through night and storm and tempest is its And we put

path; In his heart all hopes, the radiant-crowned, Ah! shall its radiance fall And hang sweet tones, and voices round Upon thy soul and wake a thrilling start His lute.

Of meniory in thy heart?

And weep

I send it a full glance

I will believe the dream From the soul' eye, that shall, without a word, Will fancy I can rule thy thoughts with mine; Cause all thy spirit inly to be stirred, That I have power on that high soul of thine, Then bring a magic trance,

Though vain the vision seem A momentary spell of deep delight To those who know not how my every thought Upon the heart to-night.

Is with thine image fraught.

”T is gone! Doth not it reach

Ah could that thought return! With its swift fight its destined haven now? Return and bring some token of its stay! Doth it not whisper blessing, trust and vow Vain hope! it loves too dearly to delay, In its own wordless speech?

Where my full heart doth yearn, Doth not its viewless stress thy soul compel Even unto aching, at this hour to be Even now on mine to dwell?

With thee, beloved, with thee!

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Charles Swain wurde zu Manchester im Jahre 1803 geboren. Obgleich es ihm nicht vergönnt war, in seiner frühen Jugend eine wissenschaftliche Bildung zu erlangen, indem er zunächst die Färberei erlernte und dann Kupferstecher und Steinzeichner wurde, so war ihm doch die Muse der Dichtung nicht unhold, und er zeichnete sich bald durch einen nicht gewöhnlichen poetischen Aufschwung aus, wovon seine ziemlich zahlreichen Geistesproducte Zeugniss geben. So erschien im Jahre 1827 Metrical Essays on Subjects of History and Imagination, 1841 The Mind and other Poems; ferner English Melodies, and 1848 Dramatic Chapters, Poems and Songs.

Obschon Swains Poesieen nicht ersten Ranges sind, so besitzen sie doch einen gewissen Reichthum der Gedanken, Innigkeit des Gefühls, und eine fliessende, schöne Diction.

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