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The day, the hour, the sunshine, and the And the quick spirit of the universe

shade,

He held his dialogues; and they did teach All things pertaining to that place and hour, To him the magic of their mysteries : And her who was his destiny came back, To him the book of night was open'd wide, And thrust themselves between him and the light: And voices from the deep abyss reveal'd What business had they there at such a time? A marvel and a secret, - Be it so.

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. My dream was past: it had no further change. The lady of his love, oh! she was changed It was of a strange order, that the doom As by the sickness of the soul: her mind Of these two creatures should be thus traced out Had wandered from its dwelling, and her eyes, Almost like a reality: the one They had not their own lustre, but the look To end in madness, — both in misery! Which is not of the earth: she was become The queen of a fantastic realm; her thoughts Were combinations of disjointed things; And forms -- impalpable and unperceived Of others' sight familiar were to hers. And this the world calls frenzy! but the wise · Have a far deeper madness; and the glance

Farewell. Of melancholy is a fearful gift:

Farewell! if ever fondest prayer What is it but the telescope of truth?

For others' weal avail'd on high, Which strips the distance of its phantasies,

Mine will not all be lost in air And brings life near in utter nakedness,

But waft thy name beyond the sky. Making the cold reality too real!

'Twere vain to speak, to weep, to sigh: A change came o’er the spirit of my dream.

Oh! more than tears of blood can tell, The wanderer was alone as heretofore;

When wrung from guilt's expiring eye, The beings which surrounded him were gone,

Are in that word - Farewell! Farewell! Or were at war with him! he was a mark For blight and desolation, -- compass'd round With hatred and contention : pain was mix'd These lips are mute, these eyes are dry; In all which was served up to him, until,

But in my breast, and in my brain, Like to the Pontic monarch of old days,

Awake the pangs that pass not by, He fed on poisons, and they had no power,

The thought that ne'er shall sleep again. But were a kind of nutriment: he lived

My soul nor deigns, nor dares complain, Through that which had been death to many men, Though grief and passion there rebel; And made him friends of mountains! with the I only know we loved in vain,

stars

I only feel — Farewell! Farewell!

Southey

Robert Southey ward am 12. August 1774 in Bristol geboren, studirte zu Oxford Theologie und fasste darauf den Plan mit Coleridge und Lorell nach Amerika zu gehn und dort eine Pantisowacy zu gründen. Es wurde jedoch Nichts daraus und Southey machte nun eine Reise nach Lissabon, von der er nach sechs Monaten zurückkehrte, sich vermählte und fortan literarischen Beschäftigungen lebte. Während der Jahre 1800 und 1801 besuchte er nochmals Spanien und Portugal und wurde darauf bei seiner Zurückkunft Secretair des damaligen Kanzlers der Schatzkammer von Irland, Carry, legte aber 1803 dieses Amt nieder und zog sich nach Keswick in Camberland zurück. 1813 erhielt er die Bestallung eines Hofpoeten, ohne die Verpflichtung indessen den Geburtstag des Königs alljährlich mit einer Ode zu feiern und 1834 eine Pension von 300 Pfund Sterling. Er starb 1843.

Southey hat sehr viele poetische wie prosaische Schriften hinterlassen. Seine dichterischen Leistungen umschliessen mehrere epische Poesieen von grösserem Umfange, wie z. B. Thalaba, Madae, the curse of Kehama, Roderick; ein Trauerspiel Wat Tyler, viele lyrische Gedichte u. 8. v. Eine treffliche Auswahl aus denselben für die Jugend erschien London 1831 in 12. Gesammelt kamen seine poetischen Werke London 1820, 14 Bde in 8. heraus. Die Eigenschaften, welche ihn als Dichter auszeichnen, sind Reichthum der Phantasie, Geist, Lebendigkeit, Witz und Gefühl, aber es fehlt ihm an Ruhe und Besonnenheit; er lässt sich zu sehr vom Augenblicke hinreissen und giebt zu viel auf den ersten Eindruck. Er glänzt zu oft auf Kosten der Wahrheit und bleibend ist daher selten eine seiner Gestalten. Zu häufig bringt er bloss rhetorische Schönheit statt poetischer und glaubt zu genügen, wenn er die nackten Seiten seiner Stoffe durch schimmernden Flitter verhüllt. — Uebrigens ist er vollkommener Herr der Sprache, aber mehr ihr launenhafter Tyrann als ihr wohlwollender Gebieter.

Noch weit bedeutender als seine Dichtungen, sind seine Biographieen, namentlich seine Lebensbeschreibung Nelson's; hier ist er auch in den kleinsten Theilen ein bewährter Meister und ein edles Vorbild.

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Back on the past he turns his eye;

Till she sunk with very weakness. Her old Remembering with an envious sigh

mother The happy dreams of Youth.

Omitted no kind office, working for her,

Albeit her hardest labour barely earn'd
So reaches he the latter stage

Enough to keep life struggling, and prolong Of this our mortal pilgrimage,

The pains of grief and sickness. Thus she lay With feeble step and slow;

On the sick bed of poverty, worn out New ills that latter stage await,

With her long suffering and those painful thoughts And old Experience learns too late

Which at her heart were rankļing, and so weak, That all is vanity below.

That she could make no effort to express
Life's vain delusions are gone by,

Affection for her infant; and the child,
Its idle hopes are o'er,

Whose lisping love perhaps had solaced her, Yet Age remembers with a sigh

Shunn'd her as one indifferent. But she too
The days that are no more.

Had grown indifferent to all things of earth;
Finding her only comfort in the thought
Of that cold bed wherein the wretched rest.
There had she now, in that last home been laid,
And all was over now,

sickness and grief, Her shame, her suffering, and her penitence:

Their work was done. The school-boys as they Hannah.

sport

In the church-yard, for awhile might turn away Passing across a green and lonely lane

From the fresh grave till grass should cover it; A funeral met our view. It was not here Nature would do that office soon; and none A sight of every day, as in the streets

Who trod upon the senseless turf would think Of some great city, and we stopt and ask'd Of what a world of woes lay buried there! Whom they were bearing to the grave. A girl, They answer'd, of the village, who had pined Through the long course of eighteen painful

months
With such slow wasting, that the hour of death
Came welcome to her. We pursued our way

The Ebb tide.
To the bouse of mirth, and with that idle talk
Which passes o'er the mind and is forgot,

Slowly thy flowing tide
We wore away the time. But it was eve Came in, old Avon! scarcely did mine eyes,
When homewardly I went, and in the air As watchfully I roam'd thy green-wood side,
Was that cool freshness, that discolouring shade Behold the gentle rise.
Which makes the eye turn inward: hearing then
Over the vale the heavy toll of death

With many a stroke and strong
Sound slow, it made me think upon the dead; The labouring boatmen upward plied their oars,
I question'd more, and learnt her mournful tale. And yet the eye beheld them labouring long
She bore unhusbanded a mother's pains;

Between thy winding shores.
And he who should have cherish'd her, far off
Sail'd on the seas. Left thus a wretched one,

Now down thine ebbing tide
Scorn made a mock of her, and evil tongues The unlabour'd boat falls rapidly along;
Were busy with her name. She had to bear The solitary helmsman sits to guide,
The sharper sorrow of neglect from him

And sings an idle song.
Whom she had loved so dearly. Once he wrote,
But only once that drop of comfort came

Now o'er the rocks that lay
To mingle with her cup of wretchedness; So silent late the shallow current roars;
And when his parents had some tidings from him, Fast flow thy waters on their sea-ward way,
There was no mention of poor Hannah there,

Through wider-spreading shores.
Or 'twas the cold inquiry, more unkind
Than silence. So she pined and pined away,

Avon! I gaze and know
And for herself and baby toild and toil'd;

The lesson emblem'd in thy varying way; Nor did she, even on her death-bed, rest It speaks of human joys that rise so slow, From labour, knitting there with lifted arms,

So rapidly decay.

Kingdoms which long have stood, What a cold sickness made her blood run back And slow to strength and power attain'd at last, When first she heard the tidings of the fight: Thus from the summit of high fortune's flood Man does not know with what a dreadful hope Ebb to their ruin fast.

She listened to the names of those who died:

Man does not know, or, knowing, will not
Thus like thy flow appears

heed,
Time's tardy course to manhood's envied stage; With what an agony of tenderness
Alas! how hurryingly the ebbing years She gazed upon her children, and beheld
Then hasten to old age!

His image who was gone. O God! be Thou,
Who art the widow's friend, her comforter!

The Victory.

The Battle of Blenheim.

It was a summer evening,

Old Kaspar's work was done,
And be before his cottage door

Was sitting in the sun,
And by him sported on the green
His little grandchild Wilhelmine.

She saw her brother Peterkin

Roll something lurge and round,
Which he beside the rivulet

In playing there had found;
He came to ask what he had found,
That was so large, and smooth, and round.

Hark, how the church bells' thundering har

mony
Stuns the glad ear! tidings of joy have come,
Good tidings of great joy! two gallant ships
Met on the element; they met, they fought
A desperate fight! – good tidings of great joy!
Old England triumph'd! — yet another day
Of glory for the ruler of the waves!
For those who fell, 'twas in their country's cause,
They have their paragraphs of praise,
And are forgotten!

There was one who died
In that day's glory, whose obscurer name
No proud historian's page will chronicle.
Peace to his honest soul! I read his name,
'Twas in the list of slaughter, and blest God
The sound was not familiar to mine ear.
But it was told me, after, that this man
Was one whom lawful violence had forced
From his own home, and wife, and little ones,
Who by his labour lived; that he was one
Whose uncorrupted heart could keenly feel
A husband's love, - a father's anxiousness;
That, from the wages of his toil, he fed
The distant dear ones, and would talk of them
At midnight, when he trod the silent deck
With him he valued; talk of them, of joys
Which he had known, oh God! and of the

hour
When they should meet again, till his full heart,
His manly heart, at last would overflow
Even like a child's – with very tenderness.
Peace to his honest spirit! suddenly
It came, and merciful the ball of death,
For it came suddenly and shatter'd him,
And left no moment's agonizing thought
On those he loved so well.

He, ocean deep,
Now lies at rest. Be Thou her comforter
Who art the widow's friend! Man does not know

Old Kaspar took it from the boy,

Who stood expectant by;
And then the old man shook his head,

And with a natural sigh,
" 'Tis some poor fellow's scull," said he,
“Who fell in the great victory.

“I find them in the garden,

"For there's many here about; "And often when I go to plough,

“The ploughshare turns them out! “For many thousand men," said he, “Were slain in that great victory."

“Now tell us what 'twas all about,"

Young Peterkin he cries;
While little Wilhelmine looks up,

With wonder-waiting eyes;
"Now tell us all about the war,
"And what they kill'd each other for."

"It was the English," Kaspar cried,

“Who put the French to rout;
"But what they kill'd each other for,

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“Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won,

"And our good prince Eugene." "Why, 'twas a very wicked thing!"

Said little Wilhelmine. Nay • này my little girl," quoth he, “It was a famous victory.

O God! have mercy in this dreadful hour

On the poor mariner! in comfort here

Safe shelter'd as I am, I almost fear
The blast that rages with resistless power.

What were it now to toss upon the waves,
The madden'd waves, and know no succour near;
The howling of the storm alone to hear,

And the wild sea that to the tempest raves :
To gaze amid the horrors of the night,
And only see the billow's gleaming light;

And in the dread of death to think of her,
Who, as she listens, sleepless, to the gale,
Puts up a silent prayer and waxes pale?

O God! have mercy on the mariner!

"And every body prais'd the Duke

"Who this great fight did win.” "But what good came of it at last?"

Quoth little Peterkin. "Why, that I cannot tell,” said he, "But 'twas a famous victory."

To a Bee.
.

Mary, the Maid of the Inn.
Thou wert out betimes, thou busy, busy Bee!
As abroad I took my early way,

Who is yonder poor Maniac, whose wildlyfix'd Before the cow from her resting-place

eyes

Seem a heart overcharged to express?
Had risen up and left her trace
On the meadow, with dew so grey,

She weeps not, yet often and deeply she sighs:

She never complains, but her silence implies Saw I thee, thou busy, busy Bee.

The composure of settled distress. Thou wert working late, thou busy, busy Bee!

After the fall of the Cistus flower; No pity she looks for, no alms does she seek; When the Primrose of evening was ready to burst, Nor for raiment nor food doth she care:

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