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Float in deep sweetness o'er the silent river. And with it came the convent's heavy bell,
One evening, and he did not see the scarf, Tolling for a departed soul; and then
He watched and watched in vain; at length his He knew that Isabelle was dead! Next day

hope

They laid her in her grave; and the moon Grew desperate, and he prayed his Isabelle Might forgotten m: ut midnight Upon a mourner weeping there : that tomb

came,

Was Roland's death-bed!

rose

Croly.

George Croly ward um 1790 in Irland gehoren, studirte zu Dublin Theologie und wurde dann Prediger auf einem Dorfe, wo er in stiller Abgeschiedenheit seinem Amte und seinen Studien lebte. Später besuchte er London und dann nach dem Frieden von 1815 Deutschland und Frankreich. Nach seiner Rückkehr ertheilte ihm die Universität Dublin das Ehrendiplom eines Doctors der Philosophie und er verwaltete von Neuem ein geistliches Amt, welches er 1835 mit dem Rectorat von St. Stephens in Walbrook vertauschte, das ihm Lord Lyndhurst ertheilte.

Croly hat viel veröffentlicht mehrere bedeutende theologische Werke abgerechnet wie z. B. Paris in 1815, a poem, the Angel of the World, grössere Dichtungen, Catilina, ein Trauerspiel; Gems from the Antique, kleinere Poesieen, Sala thiel, ein philosophischer Roman u. A. m.

Ausserordentliche Kraft und eine erhabene Lebensanschauung, sowie Gedankenfülle und reiche Phantasie characterisiren seine Leistungen, aber es fehlt ihnen an Wärme und Gemüthlichkeit und so haben sie weniger Verbreitung gefunden, als sie verdienen.

Pericles and A spa sia. This was the ruler of the land,

And his the sole, the sacred hand,
When Athens was the land of fame;

That shook her aegis o'er the land!
This was the light that led the band,
When each was like a living flame:

And thron'd immortal, by his side,
The centre of earth's noblest ring,

A woman sits, with eye sublime, Of more than men, the more than king!

Aspa sia, all his spirit's bride;

But if their solemn love were crime,

Pity the beauty and the sage,
Yet, not by fetter, nor by spear,

Their crime was in their darken'd age.
His sovereignty was held or won;
Fear'd - but alone as freemen fear;

He perish'd but his wreath was won
Loved, but as freemen love alone:

He perish'd on his height of fame!
He waved the sceptre o'er his kind,

Then sank the cloud on Athens' sun; By Nature's first great title mind!

Yet still she conquer'd in his name.

Fill’d with his soul, she could not die
Resistless words were on his tongue;

Her conquest was posterity!
Then eloquence first flash'd below!
Full arm'd to life the portent sprung,

Minerva, from the thunderer's brow!

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Wolfe.

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;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

Song
We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning,

If I had thought thou couldst have died,
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,

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,

And thou shouldst smile no more ! With his martial cloak around him.

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,
We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed,

Sweet Mary! thou art dead!
And smooth'd down his lonely pillow,
That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er If thou would'st stay, e'en as thou art,

his head,

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,

And I am now alone! In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

I do not think, where'er thou art,
But half of our heavy task was done,

Thou hast forgotten me;
When the clock struck the hour for retiring; And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart,
And we heard the distant and random gun,

In thinking too of thee:
That the foe was sullenly firing.

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 do r.

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.

The Dragon-fly

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;
Or wavy willow, by the running stream,

Brimful of moral, where the Dragon-fly
Wanders as careless and content as I.

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, most 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,
And gathered the pure treasure in her lap.
I heard the branches rustle, and stept forth
To drive the ox away, or mule, or goat,

(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, I 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

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