Lift the fair sail, and cheat th' experienced eye. Be it the summer noon: a sandy space The ebbing tide has left upon its place; Yet sometimes comes a ruffling cloud to make View now the winter-storm! above, one cloud, Dark as the cloud, and furious as the storm. But morning roses, wet with dew, Let them their fragrant spirits shed; And every day the sweets renew, Till I, a fading flower, am dead. Oh! let the herbs I loved to rear Where only Lucy's self shall know; Upon its gravelly bed below: There violets on the borders blow And insects their soft light display, Till, as the morning sunbeams glow, The cold phosphoric fires decay. That is the grave to Lucy shown, The soil a pure and silver sand, The green cold moss above it grown, Unpluck'd of all but maiden hand: In virgin earth, till then unturn'd, There let my maiden form be laid. Nor let my changed clay be spurn'd, Nor for new guest that bed be made. There will the lark, - In air, - on earth, And Lucy to my grave resort, As innocent, but not so gay. I will not have the churchyard ground, With bones all black and ugly grown, To press my shivering body round, Or on my wasted limbs be thrown. With ribs and skulls I will not sleep, In clammy beds of cold blue clay, I will not have the bell proclaim Say not, it is beneath my care; I cannot these cold truths allow: These thoughts may not afflict me there, But, oh! they vex and tease me now. Raise not a turf, nor set a stone, That man a maiden's grave may trace; But thou, my Lucy, come alome, O! take me from a world I hate, Men cruel, selfish, sensual, cold; And, in some pure and blessed state, Let me my sister minds behold: From gross and sordid views refined, Our heaven of spotless love to share, For only generous souls design'd, And not a man to meet us there. Woman. Place the white man on Afric's coast, Whose swarthy sons in blood delight, Who of their scorn to Europe boast, And paint their very demons white: There, while the sterner sex disdains To soothe the woes they cannot feel, Woman will strive to heal his pains, And weep for those she cannot heal. Hers is warm pity's sacred glow, From all her stores she bears a part; And bids the spring of hope re-flow, That languish'd in the fainting heart. "What though so pale his haggard face, So sunk and sad his looks,' she cries; "And far unlike our nobler race, With crisped locks and rolling eyes; Yet misery marks him of our kind, We see him lost, alone, afraid! And pangs of body, griefs in mind, Pronounce him man, and ask our aid. "Perhaps in some far distant shore, There are who in these forms delight; Whose milky features please them more Than ours of jet, thus burnish'd bright: Of such may be his weeping wife, Such children for their sire may call: And if we spare his ebbing life, Our kindness may preserve them all." Thus her compassion woman shows, "Tis good the fainting soul to cheer, To see the famish'd stranger fed; To milk for him the mother-deer, To smooth for him the furry bed. Next at our altar stood a luckless pair, From ev'ry eye what all perceived to hide. Look'd on the lad, and faintly tried to smile; strove To stir the embers of departed love: And bade to love and comfort long adieu! Two summers since, I saw, at Lammas-Fair, Correct in thought, she judged a servant's place That, poor or rich, a beauty still must feel. Before the swains with bolder spirit press'd; young; Fierce in his air, and voluble of tongue; made: Yet now, would Phoebe her consent afford, consent. He would of coldness, though indulged, complain, Lo! now with red rent cloak and bonnet black, Whose cares are growing and whose hopes are Pale her parch'd lips, her heavy eyes sunk low, While hope the mind as strength the frame for- For when so full the cup of sorrow grows, Now, through the lane, up hill and 'cross the She bares her bosom to the wind, and sits, green, (Seen by but few, and blushing to be seen Dejected, thoughtful, anxious, and afraid,) Led by the lover, walk'd the silent maid: And sobbing struggles with the rising fits: Slow through the meadows roved they, many a Or the sad laugh that cannot be repress'd. mile Toy'd by each bank and trifled at each stile; The neighbour-matron leaves her wheel and flies But who this child of weakness, want, and [But ah! too soon his looks success declared, care? 'Tis Phoebe Dawson, pride of Lammas-Fair; Too late her loss the marriage-rite repaired; If present, railing, till he saw her pain'd; Scott. Walter Scott ward am 15. August 1771 zu Edinburg geboren, studirte die Rechte, wurde 21 Jahr alt Advocat in seiner Vaterstadt, verheirathete sich 1798 mit Miss Carpenter, erhielt 1806 das Amt eines principal Clerk of the sessions of Scotland, zog sich später von den öffent lichen Geschäften zurück und sah sich 1820 zum Baronet erhoben. Er starb auf seinem Landsitze Abbotsford am 21. September 1832. Die Characteristik von Scott's eben so berühmten als zahlreichen Romanen, durch welche er der Romanliteratur der ganzen civilisirten Welt eine neue Wendung gab, gehört nicht hieher, obwohl aber dieselben seine poetischen Productionen verdunkelten, so stehen diese doch denselben in keiner Hinsicht an innerem Werthe nach und es ist noch sehr die Frage ob sie nicht am Ende aller Dinge jene überlebt haben werden. W. Scott's gesammelte Werke in streng poetischer Form, von denen auch eine gute deutsche Ausgabe vorhanden ist (Frankfurt 1826, 1 Bd in 8), enthalten : the Lay of the last Minstrel, Marmion, the Lady of the Lake, the Lord of the Isles, Rokeby, the Bridal of Triermain, Harold, the Vision of Don Roderick, sämmtlich romantisch epische Dichtungen, Halidon Hill ein Drama, Balladen, Lieder, vermischte Gedichte u. A. m. "Scott". sagt Allan Cunningham a. a. O. "ist ein wahrhaft nationaler und heroischer Dichter. Sein Schauplatz ist sein Vaterland, seine Helden und Heldinnen sind der britischen Geschichte und Sage entlehnt. In seinen Versen herrscht eine erstaunenswürdige Leichtigkeit, Kraft und Klarheit. Seine Dichtungen sind eine Reihe historischer Figuren, nach den genauesten Verhältnissen der Bildhauerkunst verfertigt, nur mit dem Unterschiede dass sie nach des Dichters Willen handeln und sprechen. Allein ungeachtet sie an Eleganz der Formen und Genauigkeit des Umfanges Werken der bildenden Kunst gleichen, besitzen sie doch weniger von ihrer Ruhe wie irgend eine andere Dichtung neuerer Zeit." - Fügen wir noch hinzu, dass auch in W. Scotts kleineren lyrischen Gedichten eine Naturfrische, verbunden mit Energie wie mit Zartheit, je nachdem der Gegenstand es erfordert, vorherrscht, welche ihnen eben einen so grossen Reiz als bleibenden Werth verleiht. Farewell to the Muse. Enchantress, farewell! who so oft has decoy'd Explore the wild scenes he was quitting for me, home. At the close of the evening through woodlands Farewell! and take with thee thy numbers wild to roam, speaking, Where the forester, lated, with wonder espied me The language alternate of rapture and woe; |
