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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
Enough to keep life struggling, and prolong
The pains of grief and sickness. Thus she lay
On the sick bed of poverty, worn out
With her long suffering and those painful thoughts And old Experience learns too late
Which at her heart were rankling, and so weak,
That she could make no effort to express
Affection for her infant; and the child,
Whose lisping love perhaps had solaced her,
Shunn'd her as one indifferent. But she too
Had grown indifferent to all things of earth;
sickness and grief, Her shame, her suffering, and her penitence:
Their work was done. The school-boys as they Hannah.
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
The Ebb tide.
Slowly thy flowing tide
With many a stroke and strong
Between thy winding shores.
Now down thine ebbing tide
And sings an idle song.
Now o'er the rocks that lay
Through wider-spreading shores.
Avon! I gaze and know
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, knowing, will not
His image who was gone. O God! be Thou,
The Battle of Blenheim.
It was a summer evening,
Old Kaspar's work was done,
Was sitting in the sun,
She saw her brother Peterkin
Roll something lurge and round,
In playing there had found;
Hark, how the church bells' thundering har
There was one who died
He, ocean deep,
Old Kaspar took it from the boy,
Who stood expectant by;
And with a natural sigh,
“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;
With wonder-waiting eyes;
"It was the English,” Kaspar cried,
"Who put the French to rout;
"Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won,
“And our good prince Eugene." “Why, 'twas a very wicked thing!"
Said little Wilhelmine. "Nay - nay 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
What were it now to toss upon the waves,
And the wild sea that to the tempest raves :
And in the dread of death to think of her,
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.
Who is yonder poor Maniac, whose wildlyfix'd Before the cow from her resting-place
Seem a heart overcharged to express?
She weeps not, yet often and deeply she sighs: Saw I thee, thou busy, busy Bee.
She never complains, but her silence implies
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:
Through her rags do the winds of the winter With fearless good-humour did Mary comply,
And her way to the Abbey she bent; On that wither'd breast, and her weatherworn The night it was dark, and the wind it was high,
And as hollowly howling it swept through the sky, Hath the hue of a mortal despair.
She shiver'd with cold as she went.
Yet cheerful and happy, nor distant the day, O'er the path so well known still proceeded the Poor Mary the Maniac hath been;
Maid The Traveller remembers who journey'd this way Where the Abbey rose dim on the sight; No damsel so lovely, no damsel so gay, Through the gate-way she enter'd, she felt not As Mary, the Maid of the Inn.
Yet the ruins were lonely and wild, and their Her cheerful address fill'd the guests with de
Seem'd to deepen the gloom of the night. As she welcomed them in with a smile; Her heart was a stranger to childish affright, All around her was silent, save when the rude And Mary would walk by the Abbey at night
blast When the wind whistled down the dark aisle. Howl'd dismally round the old pile;
Over weed-cover'd fragments she fearlessly past, She loved, and young Richard had settled the day, And arrived at the innermost ruin at last, And she hoped to be happy for life:
Where the elder-tree grew in the aisle. But Richard was idle and worthless, and they Who knew him would pity poor Mary and say Well-pleased did she reach it, and quickly drew That she was too good for his wife.
And hastily gather'd the bough; 'Twas in autumn, and stormy and dark was the When the sound of a voice seem'd to rise on
night, And fast were the windows and door.
She paused, and she listen'd all eager to hear, Two guests sat enjoying the fire that burnt bright, And her heart panted fearfully now. And smoking in silence, with tranquil delight They listen'd to hear the wind roar.
The wind blew, the hoarse ivy shook over her
head, 'Tis pleasant, cried one, seated by the fire-side She listen'd nought else could she hear; To hear the wind whistle without.
The wind fell, her heart sunk in her bosom with What a night for the Abbey! his comrade replied,
dread, Methinks a man's courage would now be well tried For she heard in the ruins distinctly the tread Who should wander the ruins about.
Of footsteps approaching her near.
I myself, like a school-boy, should tremble to Behind a wide column, half breathless with fear,
She crept to conceal herself there: The hoarse ivy shake over my head; That instant the moon o'er a dark cloud shone And could fancy I saw, half persuaded by fear,
clear, Some ugly old Abbot's grim spirit appear, And she saw in the moon-light two ruffians appear, For this wind might awaken the dead!
And between them a corpse did they bear.
I'll wager a dinner, the other one cried,
That Mary would venture there now.
And faint if she saw a white cow,
Then Mary could feel her heart-blood curdle cold!
Again the rough wind hurried by,
She felt, and expected to die.
Will Mary this charge on her courage allow? Curse the hat! he exclaims; nay come on, till
His companion exclaim'd with a smile;
She beholds them in safety pass on by her side, And earn a new bonnet by bringing a bough She seizes the hat, fear her courage supplied, From the elder that grows in the aisle.
And fast through the Abbey she dies.
She ran with wild speed, she rush'd in at the Her eyes from that object convulsively start,
For what a cold horror then thrilld through She gazed horribly cager around,
her heart Then her limbs could support their faint burthen When the name of her Richard she knew !
no more, And exhausted and breathless she sunk on the Where the old Abbey stands, on the common floor,
hard by, Unable to utter a sound.
His gibbet is now to be seen;
His irons you still from the road may espy, Ere yet her pale lips could the story impart, The traveller beholds them and thinks with a sigh For a moment the hat met her view;
Of poor Mary, the Maid of the Inn.
Thomas Moore ward am 28. Mai 1780 in Dublin geboren, studirte daselbst und widmete sich dann der juristischen Praxis. 1803 erhielt er eine Anstellung in Bermuda, kehrte aber 1806 wieder nach England zurück, vermühlte sich und lebt seit dieser Zeit als Privatmann, meist bei Bowwood in Wiltshire.
Abgesehen von seinen prosaischen Schriften hat sich Moore besonders einen bedeutenden Namen erworben durch seine epischen, lyrischen und satyrischen Poesieen. Eine vollständige Ausgabe seiner Dichtungen mit Ausnahine der wenigen später geschriebenen, kam für Deutschland, Leipzig 1826 in einem Bande in gross 8. heraus. Sie enthält sein grösseres aus vier erzählenden Gedichten bestehendes und durch einen prosaischen Rahmen verbundenes Werk, Lalla Rookh, ein anderes episches Poem, the Loves of the Angels, eine Reihe von Satyren, The Fudge Family, eine Sammlung Lieder, Irish Melodies, viele einzelne lyrische Poesieen, Satyren, Fabeln u. A. m.
Die glänzendste Phantasie in ihrem üppigsten Reichthume, eine fast schneidende Schürfe des Verstandes und der Auffassungskraft und die dem innersten Herzen entsprungene Tiefe des Gefühls sind Eigenschaften, die Moore nie verlassen, sondern beständig als die treuesten und bereitwilligsten Dienerinnen seiner Muse zur Seite wandeln. Ganz im Gegensatz zu Byron's melancholischen Färbungen, weiss er über fast alle Gebilde seiner Schöpfung einen beinahe blendenden Schimmer freudigen, gewaltig strömenden Lebens auszugiessen und doch herrscht wieder eine Zartheit und Innigkeit überall vor, wie man sie nur selten mit solcher Kraft vermählt findet. Dabei beherrscht er einen ungeheuern Schatz von Kenntnissen, der ihm aber nie zur Last wird; denn wie unter des Midas Berührung sich Alles vor diesem in Gold verwandelte, so wird ihm, dem echten Dichter Alles zur Poesie und selbst dem sprödesten und widerstrebendsten Stoffe vermag er eine Seite abzugewinnen, die ihn gefällig darstellt. Aus Allem aber bricht die Liebenswürdigkeit und Redlichkeit seiner Gesinnungen siegreich hervor und erhöht unendlich den Werth seiner Gaben. Als Dichter ist er ein Proteus, aber als Mensch immer echt und man muss ihn daher lieben, selbst dann, wenn es ihm gefüllt, frivol und leichtfertig oder sarkastisch und verletzend vor uns zu erscheinen, denn sein Genius verlässt ihn auch in solchen Augenblicken nicht und seine Grazie hindert uns, ihm ernstlich zu zürnen.