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The matron at her mirror, with her hand upon And now she sees her first grey hair! oh, deem

her brow,

Sits gazing on her lovely face,

Why doth she lean upon

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even now;

it not a crime

beholds the first

footmark of Time!

her hand with such a She knows that, one by one, those mute mementos will increase,

Why steals that tear across

Time from her form hath His touch of thought hath

look of care?

her cheek? she sees And steal youth, beauty, strength away, till life
her first grey hair.
itself shall cease.

ta'en away but little 'Tis not the tear of vanity for beauty on the of its grace;

wane ;

dignified the beauty Yet, though the blossom may not sigh to bud and
of her face;
bloom again

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Edward Hovel Thurlow (Lord Thurlow) wurde um's Jahr 178 geboren. Er ist der Sohn des verstorbenen Dr. Thomas Thurlow, Bischof von Durham,

Bruder des grossen Lord Kanzler Thurlow. Seine Studien machte er zu Cambridge. Später trat er zuerst öffentlich als Lobredner einiger bedeutender Männer auf, welche er in Sonetten erhob; sodann gab er ein Gedicht unter dem Titel „Moonlight" heraus, in welchem er sich Milton zum Vorbilde genommen. Ausserdem hat er noch mehreres Poetische veröffentlicht, wie Select Poems 1824; Poems on several occasions; Angelica, or the Fate of Proteus; Arcita and Palamon, u. a.

Abschon einige Beurtheiler Thurlow einer scharfen, ja sarkastischen Kritik unter worfen haben, so ist dennoch wahre Poesie in den Werken dieses Edelmannes nicht zu verkennen. Er besitzt eine Frische der Phantasie und der Empfindung, einen Reichthum im Ausdrucke, und eine Anmuth, welche an Herrick, oder auch an Moore erinnern.

Song to May.

May! queen of blossoms,

And fulfilling flowers,

With what pretty music

Shall we charm the hours?
Wilt thou have pipe and reed,
Blown in the open mead?
Or to the lute give heed
In the green bowers?

Thou hast no need of us,

Or pipe or wire,
That hast the golden bee
Ripened with fire;
And many thousand more
Songsters, that thee adore,
Filling earth's grassy floor
With new desire.

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And circled me with sacred rays,

To be a poet in his sight: Then, thus I give the crown to thee, Whose impress is fidelity.

Sonnets.

The Summer, the divinest Summer burns, The skies are bright with azure and with gold;

The mavis, and the nightingale by turns, Amid the woods a soft enchantment hold: The flowering woods, with glory and delight, Their tender leaves unto the air have spread;

The wanton air, amid their alleys bright, Doth softly fly, and a light fragrance shed: The nymphs within the silver fountains play,

The angels on the golden banks recline, Wherein great Flora, in her bright array,

Hath sprinkled her ambrosial sweets divine: Or, else, I gaze upon that beauteous face, O Amoret! and think these sweets have place.

Now Summer has one foot from out the world,

Her golden mantle floating in the air; And her love-darting eyes are backward hurled,

To bid adieu to this creation fair:

A flight of swallows circles her before,
And Zephyrus, her jolly harbinger,
Already is a-wing to Heaven's door,

Whereat the Muses are expecting her; And the three Graces in their heavenly ring, Are dancing with delicious harmony; And Hebe doth her flowery chalice bring,

To sprinkle nectar on their melody: Jove laughs to see his angel, Summer, come, Warbling his praise, to her immortal home.

The crimson Moon, uprising from the sea, With large delight foretells the harvest

near:

Ye shepherds, now prepare your melody,

To greet the soft appearance of her sphere! And, like a page, enamoured of her train,

The star of evening glimmers in the west: Then raise, ye shepherds, your observant strain,

That so of the Great Shepherd here are blest!

Our fields are full with the time-ripened grain, Our vineyards with the purple clusters swell:

Her golden splendour glimmers on the main,
And vales and mountains her bright glory
tell:

Then sing, ye shepherds! for the time is come
When we must bring the enriched harvest

home.

O Moon, that shinest on this heathy wild,
And light'st the hill of Hastings with thy

ray,

How am I with thy sad delight beguiled,
How hold with fond imagination play!
By the broad taper I call up the time
When Harold on the bleeding verdure lay,
Though great in glory, overstained with crime
And fallen by his fate from kingly sway!
On bleeding knights, and on war-broken
arms,

Torn banners and the dying steeds you

shone, When this fair England, and her peerless charms, And all, but honour, to the foe were gone! Here died the king, whom his brave subjects chose, But, dying, lay amid his Norman foes!

Tennant.

William Tennant wurde 1785 zu Unstruther in der schottischen Grafschaft Fife geboren. Er hatte das Unglück, schon in seiner Kindheit den Gebrauch seiner Füsse zu verlieren, so dass er stets an Krücken gehen musste. Den ersten Unterricht erhielt er in der Unstruther Stadtschule und studirte von 1799 an, zwei Jahre auf der Universität St. Andrews. Da er in Folge beschränkter Mittel seine Studien nicht beendigen konnte, wurde er Schreiber, dann Kornfactor zu Glasgow und später zu Unstruther, wo er Muse fand, seine Studien fortzusetzen und sich mit Homer und Virgil, so wie mit Ariosto, Camoens und Wieland bekannt zu machen. Ausserdem widmete er sich auch dem Hebräischen mit Vorliebe. Im Jahr 1813 wurde er Schulmeister zu Denins bei St. Andrews. Hier benutzte er seine Musezeit zur Erlernung des Arabischen, Spanischen und Persischen. Im Jahre 1835 kam er als Professor der morgenländischen Literatur an Mary's College in St. Andrews, welche Stelle er noch vor wenigen Jahren bekleidete.

Als Dichter trat Tennant schon 1812 mit seinem komisch-epischen Gedichte „Anster Fair", in Ottaverime auf, welche Versart er in England wieder in Aufnahme brachte. Es behandelt nämlich die Heirath der Maggie Louder, einer in Balladen und Ueberlieferungen gefeierten Heldin des schottischen Gesanges und der jungfräulichen Schönheit. Dieses Gedicht zeugt von einer reichbegabten Phantasie des Dichters, der selbst gewöhnlichen Dingen den Reiz der Neuheit durch schöne Bilder und lebensvolle Schilderungen zu verleihen wusste. Diesem Gedichte sind noch mehrere poetische Werke gefolgt, wie Cardinal Beaton, ein Trauerspiel, ferner zwei Gedichte: the Thane of five und the Dinging Down of the Cathedral, so wie Hebrew Dramas 1845.

From Anster Fair.

The Morning of Anster Fair.

And when the low Sun's glory-buskined

feet

Walk on the blue wave of the Egean tide

Oh! I would kneel me down, and worship there

I wish I had a cottage snug and neat
Upon the top of many fountained Ide,
That I might thence, in holy fervour, greet
The bright-gowned Morning tripping up The God who garnished out a world so

her side:

bright and fair!

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