"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, thee, A well-spring of deep gladness to my heart! And, precious as thou art, And pure as dew of Hermon, He shall have thee, They that I loved with a brother's heart, They have left me here to die! be Sound again, clarion! clarion, pour thy blast! Sound! for the captive's dream of hope is past!" 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 narrow street thy boundless road, 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, Blithe as the bird which tries its wing The first time on the winds of spring; Bright as the sun when from the cloud He comes as cocks are crowing loud; Now running, shouting, 'mid sunbeams, Now groping trouts in lucid streams, Now spinning like a mill-wheel round, Now hunting echo's empty sound, Now climbing up some old tall tree For climbing sake. 'Tis sweet to thee To sit where birds can sit alone, Or share with thee thy venturous throne. Child of the town and bustling street, What woes and snares await thy feet! Thy paths are paved for five long miles, Thy groves and hills are peaks and tiles; Thy fragrant air is yon thick smoke, Which shrouds thee like a mourning cloak; And thou art cabin'd and confined, At once from sun, and dew, and wind; Or set thy tottering feet but on The stream's too strong for thy small bark; Fly from the town, sweet child! for health Is happiness, and strength, and wealth. There is a lesson in each flower, A story in each stream and bower; On every herb on which you tread Are written words which, rightly read, Will lead you from earth's fragrant sod, To hope, and holiness, and God. Awake, my Love! Awake, my love! ere morning's ray She comb'd her curling ringlets down, Each bird that shakes the dewy grove Warms its wild note with nuptial love; The bird, the bee, with various sound, Proclaim the sweets of wedlock round. The Lass of Gleneslan-mill. The laverock loves the dewy light, The bee the balmy fox-glove fair; The shepherd loves the glowing morn, When song and sunshine fill the air: But I love best the summer moon, With all her stars, pure streaming still; For then, in light and love I meet, The sweet lass of Gleneslan-mill. The violets lay their blossoms low, And of her ripe lips have my will! Was she by green Gleneslan-mill. Mute was the wind, soft fell the dew, Refused to set our heads aboon: now loud, now Wert thou an idol all of gold, hush, Had I the eye of worldish care, The goldspink answer'd from the bush; - I could not think thee half so sweet, The Poet's Bridal-day Song. O! my love's like the steadfast sun, |