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Each bird that shakes the dewy grove
Or get thy tottering feet but on
Fly from the town, sweet child! for health
The Lass of Gleneslan-mill.
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
0! 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;
And hope, that decks the peasant's bower,
A wet Sheet and a flowing Sea.
A wet sheet and a flowing sea,
A wind that follows fast, And fills the white and rustling sail,
And bends the gallant mast: And bends the gallant mast, my boys,
Wbile, like the eagle free, Away the good ship flies, and leaves
Old England on the lee.
O for a soft and gentle wind!
I heard a fair one cry;
And white waves heaving high:
The good ship tight and free, The world of waters is our home,
And merry men are we.
Nor nights of thought, nor days of pain,
Even while I muse,
I see thee sit
Though I see smiling at thy feet
0, when more thought we gave of old,
At times there come, as come there ought,
There's tempest in yon horned moon,
And lightning in yon cloud;
The wind is piping loud:
The lightning flashing free, While the hollow oak our palace is,
Our heritage the sea.
James Henry Leigh Hunt, der Sohn eines Geistlichen der anglikanischen Kirche, ward am 19. October 1784 zu Southgate in Middlesex geboren, besuchte die Schule von Christ's Hospital und widmete sich dann literarischen Bestrebungen. Ein eifriger Anhänger der Reform hatte er harte Verfolgungen auszustehn, die er jedoch mannhaft überwand. Er lebte eine Zeit lang in Italien, in näherer Verbindung mit Lord Byron und kehrte dann nach England zurück, wo er vorzüglich bei Zeitschriften betheiligt ist.
Seine Dichtungen (Juvenilia, Feast of the Poets, Francesca da Rimini u. A. m.) erfreuen sich reicher Phantasie, grosser Lebhaftigkeit und warmen Gefühls, sind aber nicht immer frei von Affectation.
Taste, but with a reverent care;
See her whitest lilies
Chill the silver showers,
of the flowers.
Of a use the finesty
Painteth us, the teachers of the end of use;
Travellers, weary eyed, We are the sweet flowers,
far and wide; Born of sunny showers,
Unto sick and prison'd thoughts we give sudden (Think, whene'er you see us, what our beauty
Not a poor town window
Loves its sickliest planting,
But its wall speaks loftier truth than Babylonian
vaunting. breath. All who see us love us, We befit' all places:
Sagest yet the uses, Unto sorrow we give smiles,
and unto graces,
Mix'd with our sweet juices, graces.
Whether man, or May-fly, profit of the balm;
As fair fingers heal'd
Knights from the olden field, Mark our ways, how noiseless
We hold cups of mightiest force to give the All, and sweetly voiceless,
wildest calm. Though the March-winds pipe, to make our pas- Ev’n the terror, poison, sage clear;
Hath its plea for blooming; Not a whisper tells
Life it gives to reverent lips, though death to Where our small seed dwells,
the presuming. Nor is known the moment green, when our tips
And oh! our sweet soul-taker,
That thief, the honey maker,
In his talking rooms a - top, sweet flowers.
How the feasting fumes,
Till the gold cups overflow to the mouths of men! The dear lumpish baby
The butterflies come aping Humming with the May-bee,
Those fine thieves of ours, Hails us with his bright stare, stumbling through And flutter round our rifled tops, like tickled
flowers with flowers. The honey-dropping moon, On a night in June,
See those tops, how beauteous ! Kisses our pale pathway leaves, that felt the
What fair service duteous bridegroom pass. Round some idol waits, as on their lord the Age, the wither'd clinger,
Nine? On us mutely gazes,
Elfin court 'twould seem; And wraps the thought of his last bed in his
And taught, perchance, that dream childhood's daisies. Which the old Greek mountain dreamt, upon
nights divine. See (and scorn all duller
To expound such wonder Taste) how heav'n loves colour;
Human speech avails not; How great Nature, clearly, joys in red and Yet there dies no poorest weed, that such a glory
exhales not. green; What sweet thoughts she thinks Of violets and pinks,
Think of all these treasures, And a thousand Aushing hues, made solely to Matchless works and pleasures,
Every one à marvel, more than thought can say;
Then think in what bright show'rs
Oh! pray believe that angels We thicken fields and bow'rs,
From those blue dominions, And with what heaps of sweetness half stifle Brought us in their white laps down, 'twixt their wanton May:
golden pinions. Think of the mossy forests
By the bee-birds haunted,
Who shall say, that flowers
Dress not heaven's own bowers ? Who its love, without us, can fancy,
To say, "He has departed,"
“His voice," "his face," To feel impatient-hearted,
To say, we sprang not there,
of heav'o the more?
Yet feel we must bear on: Ah, I could not endure
To whisper of such woe, Unless I felt this sleep ensure
That it will not be so.