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Yea, mine eye swam with tears: that all the Float here and there, like things astray,


And high o'er head the sky-lark shrills.
From sovran Brocken, woods and woody hills,
Floated away, like a departing dream,
Feeble and dim! Stranger, these impulses

No voice as yet had made the air

Be music with your name; yet why Blame thou not lightly; nor will I profane,

That asking look? that yearning sigh? With hasty judgment or injurious doubt,

That sense of promise every where?
That man's sublimer spirit, who can feel

Beloved! flew your spirit by?
That God is every where! the God who framed
Mankind to be one mighty family,
Himself our Father, and the world our home. As when a mother doth explore

The rose-mark on her long-lost child,

I met, I loved you, maiden mild !
As whom I long had loved before

So deeply had I been beguiled.

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Henry Hart Milman ward 1791 in London geboren, studirte in Eton und Oxford, ward 1817 Prediger und 1821 Professor der Poesie an der eben genannten Universität, wobei er jedoch sein Pfarramt zu St. Mary in Reading beibehielt, das er gegenwärtig noch verwaltet.

Ausser mehreren grösseren historischen Werken in Prosa schrieb er, einige kleinere lyrische Poesieen abgerechnet, fast nur dramatische Gedichte wie: Fazio; the Fall of Jerusalem; Belshazzar; the Martyr of Antioch, Anna Boleyn u. A. m.

Milman's Dramen sind mit Ausnahme des Fazio für die Aufführung bestimmt, auch herrscht das lyrische Element zu sehr in ihnen vor. Er ist ein Dichter von edler Gesinnung, tiefem Gefühl und hohem Streben, aber zu kalt und besonnen; er sieht sich, wie Lessing von sich sagte, zu sehr bei dem Schaffen zu und gefüllt daher durch seine edle, würdige Sprache und seine Besonnenheit, ohne indessen je den Leser mit sich fortzureissen und zu begeistern.


Yet 'twas but love could make me grieve,

And love, you know, 's a reason fair; When God came down from Heaven — the living And much improved, as I believe,


The merry heart, that laugh'd at care. What signs and wonders mark'd His stately


So now from idle wishes clear, Brake out the winds in music where He trod?

I make the good I may not find: Shone o'er the heavens a brighter, softer day? Adown the stream I gently steer,

And shist my sail with every wind.
The dumb began to speak, the blind to see,' And half by nature, half by reason,
And the lame leap'd, and pain and paleness Can still with pliant heart prepare,

The mind, attuned to every season,
The mourner's sunken eye grew bright with The merry heart, that laughs at care.

And from the tomb awoke the wondering dead! Yet, wrap me in your sweetest dream,

Ye social feelings of the mind;
When God went back to Heaven the living Give, sometimes give, your sunny gleam,


And let the rest good-humour find. Rode He the Heavens upon a fiery car?

let me hail and welcome give Waved seraph-wings along His glorious road? To every joy my lot may share; Stood still to wonder each bright wandering And pleased and pleasing let me live


With merry heart, that laughs at care.



Upon the cross He hung, and bowed the head,
And pray'd for them that smote, and them

that curst;
And, drop by drop, His slow life blood was shed,

And His last hour of suffering was His worst.

The Love of God.


The merry Heart. I would not from the wise require

The lumber of their learned lore; Nor would I from the rich desire

A single counter of their store.
For I have ease, and I have health,

And I have spirits light as air;
And more than wisdom, more than wealth,

A merry heart, that laughs at care.

Love Thee! oh, Thou, the world's eternal

Whose palace is the vast infinity;
Time, space, height, depth, oh, God! are full of

And sun-eyed seraphs tremble and admire.
Love Thee! but Thou art girt with vengeful

And mountains quake, and banded nations flee;
And terror shakes the wide unfathom'd sea,
When the heavens rock with Thy tempestuous ire.
Oh, Thou!
too vast for thought to compre-

hend, That wast ere time, shalt be when time is


Like other mortals of my kind,

I've struggled for dame Fortune's favour;
And sometimes have been half inclined

To rate her for her ill behaviour.
But life was short, I thought it folly

To lose its moments in despair;
So slipp'd aside from melancholy,

With merry heart, that laugh'd at care.

Ages and worlds begin

grow old


end, Systems and suns Thy changeless throne before, Commence and close their cycles : lost, I

bend To earth my prostrate soul, and shudder and


And once, 'tis true, two 'witching eyes

Surprised me in a luckless season; Turn'd all my mirth to lonely sighs,

And quite subdued my better reason.


The blind their eyes, that laugh with light, un-

close; Love Thee! — oh, clad in human lowliness, And babes, unchid, Thy garment's hem caIn whom each heart its mortal kindred knows, Our flesh, our form, our tears, our pains, our I see Thee doom'd by bitterest pangs to woes;

die, A fellow-wanderer o'er earth's wilderness! Up the sad hill, with willing footsteps move, Love Thee! whose every word but breathes With scourge, and taunt, and wanton agony;

to bless!

While the cross nods, in hideous gloom, above, Through Thee, from long-seald lips, glad lan- Though all even there — be radiant Deity!

guage flows; Speechless I gaze, and my whole soul is love!


Ebenezer Elliott ward am 17. März 1781 zu Masbro, einem Dorfe in der Nähe von Sheffield geboren. Er hat dasselbe nie verlassen und lebt daselbst als Schmied, nebenbei einen Eisenhandel treibend. Seine Bildung verdankt er sich selbst durch anhaltende Lectüre. Seine Gedichte erschienen gesammelt in drei Bänden, London 1835.

Elliott wird gewöhnlich the Corn-Law Rhymer genannt, weil er in einer Sammlung Poesieen, welche unter dem Titel Corn-Law-Rhymes im Jahre 1832 an das Licht trat, heftig und mit grosser Kraft die Sache des durch die englischen zum Vortheil der Landbesitzer bestehenden Korngesetze unterdrückten Volkes führte. Hier wie in allen seinen politischen Gedichten ist er schroff, hart und unversöhnlich voll Hass gegen die Bevorzugten und Alles von der schwürzesten Seite auffassend. Im Allgemeinen aber besitzt er tiefes Gefühl, reiche Naturanschauung, Phantasie und seltene Herrschaft über die Sprache und schliesst, obwohl nur ein Naturdichter, sich Männern wie Crabbe, Wordsworth, Cowper und Burns als ein würdiger und reichbegabter Genosse an.

The Wonders of the Lane.

Strong climber of the mountain's side,

Though thou the vale disdain,
Yet walk with me where hawthorns hide

The wonders of the lane.
Iligh o'er the rushy springs of Don

The stormy gloom is roll'd;
The moorland hath not yet put on

His purple, green, and gold.
But here the titling spreads his wing,

Where dewy daisies gleam;
And here the sun-flower of the spring

Burns bright in morning's beam.
To mountain winds the famish'd fox

Complains that Sol is slow,
O'er headlong steeps and cushing rocks

His royal robe to throw.
But here the lizard seeks the sun,

Here coils in light the snake;

And here the fire-tuft hath begun

Its beauteous nest to make.
Oh, then, while hums the earliest bee

Where verdure tires the plain,
Walk thou with me, and stoop to see

The glories of the lane!
For, oh, I love these banks of rock,

This roof of sky and tree,
These tufts, where sleeps the gloaming clock,

And wakes the earliest bee!
As spirits from eternal day

Look down on earth secure;
Gaze thou, and wonder, and survey

A world in miniature;
A world not scorn'd by Him who made

Even weakness by his might;
But solemn in his depth of shade,

And splendid in his light.
Light! not alone on clouds afar

O'er storm-lov'd mountains spread,

The dying Boy to the Sloe-blossom. Before thy leaves thou com'st once more,

White blossom of the sloe!
Thy leaves will come as heretofore;
But this poor heart, its troubles o'er,

Will then lie low.

A month at least before thy time

Thou com'st, pale flower, to me; For well thou know'st the frosty rime Will blast me ere my vernal prime,

No more to be.

Why here in winter? No storm lours

O'er nature's silent shroud! But blithe larks meet the sunny showers, High o'er the doomed untimely flowers

In beauty bowed.

Sweet violets in the budding grove

Peep where the glad waves run; The wren below, the thrush above, Of bright to-morrow's joy and love

Sing to the sun.

Or widely teaching sun and star

Thy glorious thoughts are read;
Oh, no! thou art a wondrous book,

To sky, and sea, and land
A page on which the angels look,

Which insects understand!
And here, oh, Light! minutely fair,

Divinely plain and clear,
Like splinters of a crystal hair,

Thy bright small hand is here. Yon drop-fed lake, six inches wide,

Is Huron, girt with wood;
This driplet feeds Missouri's tide

And that, Niagara's flood.
What tidings from the Andes brings

Yon line of liquid light,
That down from heav'n in madness flings

The blind form of its might?
Do I not hear his thunder roll

The roar that ne'er is still?
'Tis mute as death! but in my soul

It roars, and ever will.
What forests tall of tiniest moss

Clothe every little stone!
What pigmy oaks their foliage toss

O'er pigmy valleys lone!
With shade o'er shade, from ledge to ledge,

Ambitious of the sky,
They feather o'er the steepest edge

Of mountains mushroom high.
Oh, God of marvels! who can tell

What myriad living things
On these grey stones unseen may dwell!

What nations, with their kings!
I feel no shock, I hear no groan

While fate perchance o'erwhelms
Empires on this subverted stone

A hundred ruin'd realms!
Lo! in that dot, some mite, like me,

Impell’d by woe or whim,
May crawl, some atoms' cliffs to see

A tiny world to him!
Lo! while he pauses, and admires

The works of nature's might,
Spurn'd by my foot, his world expires,

And all to him is night!
Oh, God of terrors ! what are we?

Poor insects, spark'd with thought!
Thy whisper, Lord, a word from thee,

Could smite us into nought!
But shouldst thou wreck our father-land,

And mix it with the deep,
Safe in the hollow of thine hand

Thy little ones would sleep.

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Oh, might I breathe morn's dewy breath,

When June's sweet Sabbaths chime! But, thine before my time, oh, death! I go where no flow'r blossometh, Before my time.

A Poet' Epitaph.

Even as the blushes of the morn

Vanish, and long ere noon The dew-drop dieth on the thorn, So fair I bloomed; and was I born

To die as soon?

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To love my mother, and to die

To perish in my bloom! Is this my sad, brief history! A tear dropped from a mother's eye

Into the tomb.

He lived and loved

will sorrow say By early sorrow tried; He smiled, he sighed, he past away: His life was but an April day,

He loved, and died !

Stop, mortal! Here thy brother lies,

The Poet of the poor,
His books were rivers, woods, and skies,

The meadow, and the moor;
His teachers were the torn heart's wail,

The tyrant, and the slave,
The street, the factory, the jail,

The palace and the grave!
Sin met thy brother every where!

And is thy brother blamed ?
From passion, danger, doubt, and care,

He no exemption claim'd.
The meanest thing, earth's feeblest worm,

He fear'd to scorn or hate;
But, honouring in a peasant's form

The equal of the great.
He bless'd the Steward, whose wealth makes

The poor man's little more;
Yet loath'd the haughty wretch that takes

From plunder'd labour's store.
A hand to do, a head to plan,

A heart to feel and dare
Tell man's worst foes, here lies the man

Who drew them as hey are

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My mother smiles, then turns away,

But turns away to weep: They whisper round me

what they say I need not hear, for in the clay

I soon must sleep.

0, love is sorrow! sad it is

To be both tried and true; I ever trembled in my bliss : Now there are farewells in a kiss,

They sigh adieu.

To the Bramble-flower.

But woodbines flaunt when blue bells fade,

Where Don reflects the skies;
And many a youth in Shire-cliffs' shade
Will ramble where my boyhood played,

Though Alfred dies.

Then panting woods the breeze will feel,

And bowers, as heretofore, Beneath their load of roses reel: But I through woodbined lanes shall steal

No more, no more.

Well, lay me by my brother's side,

Where late we stood and wept; For I was stricken when he died, I felt the arrow as he sighed

His last, and slept.

Thy fruit full well the school-boy knows,

Wild bramble of the brake! So, put thou forth thy small white rose;

I love it for his sake.
Though woodbines flaunt, and roses glow

O'er all the fragrant bowers,
Thou need'st not be ashamed to show

Thy satin-threaded flowers;
For dull the eye, the heart dull

That cannot feel how fair, Amid all beauty beautiful,

Thy tender blossoms are ! How delicate thy gauzy frill!

How rich thy branchy stein! How soft thy voice, when woods are still,

And thou sing'st hymns to them;
While silent showers are falling slow,

And 'mid the general hush,
A sweet air lifts the little bough,

Lone whispering through the bush!
The primrose to the grave is gone;

The hawthorn flower is dead;

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