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James Sheridan Knowles wurde 1787 zu Cork in Irland geboren. Unter der Leitung seines Vaters, der an der Belfast institution Lehrer der Beredtsamkeit war, bildete er seinen Geschmack durch die Lectüre der besten englischen Dichter, insbesondere Shakespear's und durch die der Prosaiker. Schon frühzeitig betrat er die Bühne mit Eifer und Begeisterung, doch ohne entschiedenes Talent, während seine Dichtergabe sehr bald die eines Schauspielers übertraf. Indess erfreute er sich doch lange Zeit in London des Beifalls, so oft er in einem seiner Stücke auftrat.

Als Dichter hat sich James Knowles zuerst durch seine lyrischen Gesänge bekannt gemacht, namentlich durch das volksthümliche: The Wesh Harper, sodann durch sein Drama: The Gipsy 1813. Seitdem schrieb er ausschliesslich für die Bühne. So dichtete er die Trauerspiele: Virginius 4820, Cajus Gracchus 1823, William Tell 1825, Alfred the Great 1834, Procida 4840, The Rose of Aragon 1842. Nicht minder hat er sich durch Lustspiele ausgezeichnet, wie: The Beggar 1830, The Hunchback 1832 u. a. m., worunter „The Love Chase" als sein bestes dramatisches Erzeugniss gilt, das mehrfach in's Deutsche übersetzt worden ist. Auch einige Melodramen hat er gedichtet, wie: The Wife 1833, The Daughter 4834, The Maid of Marienborough 1838 u. a. Frühere, in Zeitschriften zerstreute Erzählungen und Skizzen hat Knowles unter dem Titel: The Elocutionist, a collection of pieces in prose and verses, gesammelt.

Knowles nimmt mit Recht eine der vorzüglichern Stellen unter den englischen Dramatikern ein. Denn wenn auch in vielen seiner Schauspiele ein fester, mit Umsicht angelegter Plan vermisst wird, wenn auch das Hervorholen seiner vorzugsweise morali schen Ideen durch ihre allzugrosse Wiederholung ermüdet und den Eindruck einer gewissen Leerheit hinterlässt, so kann man doch auf der andern Seite nicht umhin, die Kraft und Fülle seiner Poesie, die Kunst, womit er interessante Scenen und Verwickelungen herbeizuführen versteht, lobend anzuerkennen.

Lorenzo, an Advocate of Rome, and


From The Wife, a Tale of Mantua. Morning and night, invoked along with him; So first our souls did mingle! Lorenzo. I perceive: you mingled souls until you mingled hearts? You loved at last. Was't not the sequel, maid? Mariana. I loved, indeed! If I but nursed a flower Which to the ground the rain and wind had beaten;

Lorenzo. That's right-you are collected
and direct

In your replies. I dare be sworn your passion
Was such a thing, as, by its neighbourhood,
Made piety and virtue twice as rich

As e'er they were before. How grew it? Come,
Thou know'st thy heart-look calmly into it,
And see how innocent a thing it is
Which thou dost fear to show I wait your

How grew your passion?


Mariana. As my stature grew,
Which rose without my noting it, until
They said I was a woman. I kept watch
Beside what seemed his deathbed. From

An avalanche my father rescued him,
The sole survivor of a company
Who wandered through our mountains. A long

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His life was doubtful, signor, and he called
For help, whence help alone could come, A pacing to and fro

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now a start anon

anon a stillness,

which I,

As nought remained of life, save life itself,

And feeling, thought, and motion, were extinct.
Then all again was action' Disinclined
To converse, save he held it with himself;
Which oft he did, in moody vein discoursing,
And ever and anon invoking honour,
As some high contest there were pending
Himself and him, wherein her aid he needed.
Lorenzo. This spoke impediment; or he
was bound

By promise to another; or had friends
Whom it behoved him to consult, and doubted;}
Or 'twixt you lay disparity too wide
For love itself to leap.

Mariana. I saw a struggle,

But knew not what it was. I wondered still,
That what to me was all content, to him
Was all disturbance; but my turn did come.
At length he talked of leaving us; at length
He fixed the parting day — but kept it not
O how my heart did bound! Then first I knew
It had been sinking. Deeper still it sank
When next he fixed to go; and sank it then
To bound no more! He went.

Lorenzo. To follow him You came to Mantua?

Mariana. What could I do?
Cot, garden, vineyard, rivulet, and wood,
Lake, sky, and mountain, went along with him!
Could I remain behind? My father found
My heart was not at home; he loved his child,
And asked me, one day, whither we should go?
I said, "To Mantua.' I followed him

To Mantua! to breathe the air he breathed,
To walk upon the ground he walked upon,
To look upon the things he looked upon,
To look, perchance, on him! perchance to
hear him,

To touch him! never to be known to him,
Till he was told I lived and died his love.

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Icil. All that man should be To woman, I will be to her! Virg. The oath

Is registered! (Icilius rises.) Didst thou but know, (Takes a hand of each.) young man, How fondly I have watch'd her, since the day Her mother died and left me to a charge Of double duty bound how she hath been My ponder'd thought by day, my dream by night,

My prayer, my vow, 'my offering, my praise', My sweet companion, pupil, tutor, child! Thou wouldst not wonder, that my drowning

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Of sweet according joy!
To make thee happy! If to make thee so
Be bliss denied to me -lo, I release
The gifted hand that I would faster hold,
Than wretches, bound for death, would cling

to life

If thou would'st take it back then take it back.

Virginia. I take it back

to give it thee again!

Icil. O help me to a word will speak my


Or I am beggar'd No! there is not one!
There cannot be; for never man had bliss
Like mine to name.

Virginia. "Thou dost but beggar me, Icilius, when thou mak'st thyself a bankrupt; Placing a value on me far above

My real little worth'. — I'd help thee to
A hundred words; each one of which would far

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O'er-rate thy gain, and yet no single one
Rate over high!

Icil. Thou couldst not do it! No;
Thou couldst not do it! Every term of worth
Writ down and doubl'd, then the whole
summ'd up,

Would leave with thee a rich remainder still!-
Pick from each rarer patern of thy sex
Her rarest charm, till thou hast every charm
Of soul and body, that can blend in woman,
I would out-paragon the paragon
With thee!

A mate which doth transcend the thing, 'tis
To match-would make thy paragon look poor,
And I would call that so o'ermatching mate

Icil. No! I will not let thee win
On such a theme as this!

Virginia. Nor will I drop

The controversy, that the richer makes me
The more I lose.

Icil. My sweet Virginia,

We do but lose and lose, and win and win; Virginia. And if thou would'st, I'd find 'Playing for nothing but to lose and win'; Then let us stop the game and thus I stop it. (Kisses her.)

thee for

Thy paragon, a mate if that can be



Thomas Babington Macaulay, im Jahr 1800 geboren, erhielt seine Bildung zu Cambridge. Im Jahr 1830 ward er für Calne und 1832 für Leeds in das Parlament gewählt, wo er Edinburg vertrat. Unter Melbourne's Verwaltung wurde er Mitglied des obersten Gerichtshofes in Indien, von wo er 1842 zurückkehrte. Hierauf bekleidete er noch verschiedene andere Aemter.

Als Dichter hatte sich Macaulay schon früher durch einzelne Lieder und zwei Balladen, den Krieg der Ligue und die Armada, berühmt gemacht. 1842 gab er einen Band Gedichte und 1843 Lays of Ancient Rome heraus, welche, auf Niebuhr's Ansichten über die römische Geschichte fussend, sich durch schnellen Fortschritt der Handlungen, edle und kräftige Sprache und treffliche Schilderungen auszeichnen. Auch als Kritiker hat sich Macaulay durch viele ebenso geistreiche als gründliche Aufsätze in der Edinburg Review über die mannichfaltigsten Erzeugnisse der Literatur bekannt gemacht. In Deutschland ist er in diesem Augenblicke vorzugsweise wegen seiner Geschichte von England berühmt.

Kraft und Eigenthümlichkeit der Sprache, Innigkeit und Wärme der Empfindung, Reichthum an Gedanken und Bildern, und eine ebenso correcte als reine Schreibart sind Vorzüge, welche ihm einen bleibenden Namen auf dem Gebiete der Literatur sichern. Von den beiden Balladen haben die Blätter behauptet, dass kein englischer Dichter lebe, welcher ihre Schönheit erreichen könne.

The Desolation

of the Cities whose Warriors have marched against Rome.

Tall are the oaks whose acorns

Drop in dark Auser's rill;

Fat are the stags that champ the boughs
Of the Ciminian hill;

Beyond all streams, Clitumnus

Is to the herdsman dear;

Best of all pools the fowler loves,

The great Volsinian mere.

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The harvests of Arretium,

This year old men shall reap; This year young boys in Umbro

Shall plunge the struggling sheep; And in the vats of Luna,

This year the must shall foam Round the white feet of laughing girls, Whose sires have marched to Rome. [Horatius offers to defend the Bridge.]

Then out spake brave Horatius,

The captain of the gate:
'To every man upon this earth
Death cometh soon or late.
And how can man die better
Than facing fearful odds,
For the ashes of his fathers,

And the temples of his gods,

And for the tender mother

Who dandled him to rest, And for the wife who nurses His baby at her breast, And for the holy maidens

Who feed the eternal flame, To save them from false Sextus That wrought the deed of shame?

Hew down the bridge, Sir Consul,
With all the speed ye may;
I, with two more to help me,
Will hold the foe in play.
In yon straight path a thousand

May well be stopped by three. Now, who will stand on either hand, And keep the bridge with me?'

Then out spake Spurius Lartius;

A Ramnian proud was he; 'Lo, I will stand at thy right hand, And keep the bridge with thee.' And ont spake strong Herminius; Of Titian blood was he; 'I will abide on thy left side,

And keep the bridge with thee.'

'Horatius', quoth the Consul,

'As thou say'st, so let it be.'
And straight against that great array
Forth went the dauntless three.
For Romans in Rome's quarrel

Spared neither land nor gold,
Nor son nor wife, nor limb nor life,
In the brave days of old.

Then none was for a party;

Then all were for the state;

Then the great man helped the poor,
And the poor man loved the great;
Then lands were fairly portioned;

Then spoils were fairly sold;
The Romans were like brothers
In the brave days of old.

The War of the League.

Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are!

And glory to our sovereign liege, King Henry of Navarre !

Now let there be the merry sound of music and of dance,

Through thy corn-fields green, and sunny vines, oh pleasant land of France! And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of the waters, eyes of all thy mourning daughters.

Again let rapture light the

As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in

our joy,

For cold, and stiff, and still are they who wrought thy walls annoy. Hurrah! hurrah! a single field hath turned the chance of war,

Hurrah! hurray! for Ivry, and King Henry of Navarre.

Oh! how our hearts were beating, when, at the dawn of day,

We saw the army of the League drawn out in long array; With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers,

And Appenzel's stout infantry, and Egmont's Flemish spears, There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the curses of our land! And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in his hand; on them, we thought of Seine's empurpled flood,

And, as we looked

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And good Coligni's hoary hair all dabbled with Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet his blood; of Navarre. And we cried unto the living God, who rules Now, God be praised, the day is ours! Mayenne the fate of war, has turned his rein. To fight for his own holy name, and Henry D'Aumale hath cried for quarter. The Fleof Navarre. mish Count is slain. The king is come to marshal us, in all his Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before armour drest; a Biscay gale; And he has bound a snow-white plume upon The field is heaped with bleeding steeds, and his gallant crest. flags, and cloven mail. He looked upon his people, and a tear was in And then we thought on vengeance, and all

his eye;

along our van,

He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was 'Remember St. Bartholomew', was passed from stern and high.

Right graciously he smiled on us, as rolled

from wing to wing,

man to man;

But out spake gentle Henry, 'No Frenchman

Down all our line, a deafening shout, 'God save Down, down with every

our lord the King.'

is my foe: foreigner, but let your brethren go.'

'And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well Oh! was there ever such a knight, in friend

he may

For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody As our sovereign lord, King


Press where ye see my white plume shine, Ho! maidens of Vienna! amidst the ranks of war,

ship or in war,
Henry, the soldier
of Navarre !
Ho! matrons of
Lucerne !

And be your oriflamme, to-day, the helmet of Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who


never shall return. Hurrah! the foes are moving! Hark to the Ho! Philip, send, for charity, thy Mexican mingled din


Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy roaring culverin! poor spearmen's souls! The fiery Duke is pricking fast across Saint Ho! gallant nobles of the League, look that Andrè's plain,

your arms be bright! With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Ho! burghers of Saint Genevieve, keep watch and ward to-night!


Now by the lips of those ye love, fair gentle-For our God hath crushed the tyrant, our God men of France, hath raised the slave, Charge for the golden lilies now - upon them And mocked the counsel of the wise, and the with the lance! valour of the brave. A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand Then glory to his holy name, from whom all spears in rest,

glories are;

A thousand knights are pressing close behind And glory to our sovereign lord, King of the snow-white crest; Navarre.

And in they burst, and on they rushed, while,

like a guiding star,

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