« ZurückWeiter »
Charles Wolfe ward am 14. December 1791 in Dublin geboren, studirte in seiner Vaterstadt Theologie und wurde dann Pfarrer zu Castle-Caulfield in Irland. Seine leidende Gesundheit zwang ihn ein wärmeres Klima aufzusuchen und er lebte daher eine Zeitlang in Bordeaux. In sein Vaterland zurückgekehrt fand sichs bald dass seine Heilung nur eine scheinbare gewesen; er starb in Folge der Auszehrung am 21. Februar 1823.
Wolfe hat nur wenige in Zeitschriften verstreute Gedichte hinterlassen, aber diese wenigen, namentlich das hier zuerst mitgetheilte auf den Tod des General Moore, sind meisterhaft und werden sein Andenken bei allen Freunden der Poesie bis zu den spätesten Zeiten erhalten.
The Burial of Sir John Moore. We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone,
But left him alone with his glory. Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corse to the rampart we hurried;
If I had thought thou couldst have died,
I might not weep for thee; And the lantern dimly burning.
But I forgot, when by thy side,
That thou couldst mortal be: No useless coffin enclosed his breast,
It never through my mind had past, Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him;
The time would e'er be o'er, But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
And I on thee should look my last, With his martial cloak around him.
And thou shouldst smile no more!
And still upon that face I look, Few and short were the prayers we said,
And think 'twill smile again; And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
And still the thought I will not brook, But we stedfastly gazed on the face that was
That I must look in vain: dead,
But when I speak, thou dost no say And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
What thou ne'er left'st unsaid;
And now I feel, as well I may,
Sweet Mary! thou art dead !
All cold, and all serene, And we far away on the billow!
I still might press thy silent heart,
And where thy smiles have been! Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
While e'en thy chill, bleak corse I have And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him;
Thou seemest still mine own; But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
But there I lay thee in thy grave, In the grave where a Briton has laid him.
And I am now alone!
I do not think, where'er thou art,
Thou hast forgotten me;
Yet there was round thee such a dawn
Of light ne'er seen before, Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
As fancy never could have drawn, From the field of his fame fresh and gory: And never can restore!
L a n d or.
Walter Savage Landor ward am 30. Januar 1775 zu Ipsley-Court in Warwickshire auf dem väterlichen Landgute geboren, erhielt eine treffliche Erziehung, studirte darauf in Oxford, diente dann in Spanien und liess sich später in Italien auf einer von ihm erkauften Villa bei Fiesole nieder, wo er noch lebt, nur selten sein Vaterland besuchend.
Er hat viel in Prosa geschrieben, aber nur einen Band Poesieen unter dem Titel Geber, Count Julian and other Poems herausgegeben, welche zum Theil früher einzeln erschienen sind. Gedanken · fülle, Phantasie, Kraft, ausgebreitetes Wissen und reiche Menschenkenntniss verbunden mit Eleganz des Ausdruckes, weisen ihm einen sehr hohen Rang unter seinen poetischen Zeitgenossen an.
Gaze on the mingled waste of sky and sea,
Think of my love, and bid her think of me. Life (priest and poet say) is but a dream;
I wish no happier one than to be laid
Beneath some cool syringa's scented shade;
Brimful of moral, where the Dragon-fly
Fa esulan Idyl.
Here, where precipitate Spring with one light Thanks for this fancy, insect king,
bound Of purple crest and meshy wing,
Into hot Summer's lusty arms expires; Who, with indifference, givest up
And where go forth at morn, at eve, at night, The water-lily's golden cup,
Soft airs, that want the lute to play with them, To come again and overlook
And softer sighs, that know not what they want; What I am writing in my book.
Under a wall, beneath an orange-tree Believe me, inost who read the line
Whose tallest flowers could tell the lowlier ones Will read with hornier eyes than thine;
Of sights in Fiesole right up above, And yet their souls shall live for ever,
While I was gazing a few paces off And thine drop dead into the river!
At what they seemed to show me with their nods God pardon them, O insect king,
Their frequent whispers and their pointing shoots, Who fancy so unjust a thing!
A gentle maid came down the garden steps,
(Such I believed it must be); for sweet scents To Janthe.
Are the swift vehicles of still sweeter thoughts,
And nurse and pillow the dull memory While the winds whistle round my cheerless room, That would let drop without them her best stores. And the pale morning droops with winter's gloom; They bring me tales of youth and tones of love, While indistinct lie rude and cultured lands, And 'tis and ever was my wish and way The ripening harvest and the hoary sands: To let all flowers live freely, and all die, Alone, and destitute of every page
Whene'er their genius bids their souls depart, That fires the poet, or informs the sage, Among their kindred in their native place. Where shall my wishes, where my fancy rove, never pluck the rose; the violet's head Rest upon past or cherish promised love? Hath shaken with my breath upon its bank Alas! the past I never can regain,
And not reproacht me; the ever sacred cup Wishes may rise, and tears may flow in vain. Of the pure lily hath between my hands Fancy, that shews her in her early bloom, Felt safe, unsoil'd, nor lost one grain of gold. Throws barren sunshine o'er the unyielding tomb. I saw the light that made the glossy leaves What then would passion, what would reason do? More glossy; the fair arm, the fairer cheek Sure, to retrace is worse than to pursue, Warmed by the eye intent on its pursuit; Here will I sit, 'till heaven shall cease to lour, I saw the foot, that, although half erect And happier Hesper bring the appointed hour; From its grey slipper, could not lift her up
To what she wanted: I held down a branch
His name and life's brief date.
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 them 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,
Whilst far-off lowing herds are heard,
And songs, when toil is done,
Curls yellow in the sun.