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Through her rags do the winds of the winter With fearless good-humour did Mary comply,

blow bleak

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,

cheek

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.

afraid,

Yet the ruins were lonely and wild, and their Her cheerful address fill'd the guests with de

shade light

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.

near,

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'a 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.

her ear,

I myself, like a school-boy, should tremble to Behind a wide column, half breathless with fear,

hear

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.
Then wager and lose! with a sneer he replied,
I'll warrant she'd fancy a ghost by her side,

And faint if she saw a white cow,

Then Mary could feel her heart-blood curdle cold!

Again the rough wind hurried by, -
It blew off the hat of the one, and, behold!
Even close to the feet of poor Mary it rollid,

She felt, and expected to die.

we hide

Will Mary this charge on her courage allow? Curse the hat! he exclaims; nay come on, till

His companion exclaim'd with a smile;
I shall win, for I know she will venture The dead body, his comrade replies.

there now,

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 flies.

She ran with wild speed, she rush'd in at the Her eyes from that object convulsively start,

door,

For what a cold horror then thrill'd through She gazed horribly eager 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.

Moore.

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.

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Though many a gifted mind we meet,

Though fairest forms we see,
To live with them is far less sweet

Than to remember thee, Mary!

Each billow, as brightly or darkly it flows,

Reflecting our eyes as they sparkle or weep. So closely our whims on our miseries tread,

That the laugh is awaked ere the tear can be

*dried;

And , as fast as the rain-drop of Pity is shed,

The goose-feathers of Folly can turn it aside, But pledge me the cup if existence would

cloy

With hearts ever happy, and heads ever wise, I saw from the Beach.

Be ours the light grief that is sister to Joy, I saw from the beach, when the morning was

And the short brilliant folly that flashes and

dies! shining, A bark o'er the waters moved gloriously on; I came, when the sun o'er that beach was de- When Hylas was sent with his urn to the fount,

Through fields full of sunshine, with heart full clining,

of play, The bark was still there, but the waters were

Light rambled the boy over meadow and mount, gone! And neglected his task for the flowers on the

way. Ah! such is the fate of our life's early promise, Thus some who, like me, should have drawn So passing the spring-tide of joy we have

and have tasted known:

The fountain that runs by Philosophy's shrine, Each wave, that we danced on at morning, ebbs Their time with the flowers on the margin have from us,

wasted, And leaves us, at eve, on the bleak shore

And left their light urns all as empty as mine! alone!

But pledge me the goblet while Idleness

weaves

Ne'er tell me of glories, serenely adorning

Her flowerets together, if Wisdom can see The close of our day, the calm eve of our One bright drop or two, that has fall’n on the night;

leaves Give me back, give me back the wild freshness From her fountain divine, 'tis sufficient for me!

of morning, Her clouds and her tears are worth evening's

best light.

Oh, who would not welcome that moment's re

turning, When passion first waked a new life through

St. Jerome's Love. his frame, And his soul — like the wood that grows precious

Who is the maid my spirit seeks, in burning

Through cold reproof and slander's blight?

Has she Love's roses on her cheeks? Gave out all its sweets to Love's exquisite

flame!

Is hers an eye of this world's light?
No, - wan and sunk with midnight prayer

Are the pale looks of her I love;
Or if, at times, a light be there,

Its beam is kindled from above.

I chose not her, my soul's elect, This Life is all chequer'd with

From those who seek their Maker's shrine Pleasures and Woes.

In gems and garlands proudly deck'd,

As if themselves were things divine! This life is all chequer'd with pleasures and No heaven but faintly warms the breast

woes,

That beats beneath a broider'd veil; That chase one another, like waves of the And she who comes in glittering vest

deep,

To mourn her frailty, still is frail.

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Percy Bysshe Shelley, der älteste Sohn von Sir Thomas Shelley, Baronet von Castle-Garing, ward am 4. August 1792 zu Field-Place in Sussex geboren, studirte zu Eton und Oxford und ward von der Universität relegirt, wegen einer Schrift über die Nothwendigkeit des Atheismus, in Folge

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