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Still in the water-lily's shade
Her wonted nest the wild swan made;
Ben-Cruaichan stands as fast as ever,
Still downward foams the Awe's fierce river:

To shun the clash of foeman's steel,
No Highland brogue has turn'd the heel;
But Nora's heart is lost and won,
She's wedded to the earlie's son!


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William Sotheby ward am 9. November 1757 in London geboren, erhielt seine Bildung auf der Schule zu Harrow und trat dann, siebenzehn Jahr alt in die Armee. 1780 nahm er seinen Abschied und kaufte sich ein Landgut Beirs Mount, in der Nähe von Southampton, wo er seinen Wohnsitz aufschlug. Im Jahre 1791 liess er sich in London nieder, wurde Mitglied mehrerer gelehrter Gesellschaften und bereiste 1816 Italien. Zurückgekehrt gab er in einer Reihe von Gedichten unter dem Titel Italy die Früchte dieser Reise heraus. Er starb am 30. December 1833 in seiner Vaterstadt.

Ausser vielen poetischen Uebersetzungen wie z. B. von Wieland's Oberon, Virgils Georgica, Homer's Ilias und Odyssee, hat Sotheby eine lange Reihe eigener Dichtungen hinterlassen, von denen wir hier nur Poems consisting of a Tour through parts of North and South Wales, London 1790 in 4.; The Battle of the Nile, London 1799 in 4.; The Siege of Cuzco, a Tragedy, London 1800 in 8; Julian a Tragedy, London 1801 in 8.; Oberon or Huon de Bordeaux, a mask; and Orestes, a Tragedy, London 1802; Saul, a poem, London 1807 in 4.; Constance de Castille, a poem, London 1810 in 4.; Six Tragedies, London 1814 in 8.; Italy, London 1819 in 8. u. s. w. anführen. Nur das letztere Werk, sowie seine Uebersetzungen haben sich im Angedenken erhalten. Er war nicht immer glücklich in der Wahl seiner Stoffe, wusste sie aber mit Feinheit und Eleganz zu behandeln, obwohl ihm wiederum Tiefe und Energie abgeht, am Gelungensten sind seine Schilderungen, in diesen finden sich einzelne durch Schönheit und Kraft ausgezeichnete Stellen, welche grössere Verbreitung verdienen als sie in des Dichters Vaterlande gefunden haben


That cross'd like night a sky of crimson flame, Where stood Salvator, when with all his storms

Stream'd ceaselessly the fire-bolts' forked aim: Around him winter rav'd,

While hurricanes, whose wings were frore with

hail, When being, none save man, the tempest brav'd ?

Cut sheer the vines, and o'er the harvest vale When on her mountain crest

Spread barrenness? Where was Salvator found, The eagle sank to rest,

When all the air a bursting sea became,
Nor dar'd spread out her pennons to the blast:
Nor, till the whirlwind passed,

Deluging earth? On Terni's cliff he stood,
The famish'd wolf around the sheep-cote prowla? The tempest sweeping round.
Where stood Salvator, when the forest howl'd,

I see him where the spirit of the storm And the rock-rooted pine in all its length

His daring votary led :

Firm stands his foot on the rock's topmost head, Crash'd, prostrating its strength?

That reels above the rushing and the roar

Of deep Vellino. — In the glen below, Where stood Salvator, when the summer cloud Again I view him on the reeling shore, At noon-day, to Ausonia direr far

Where the prone river, after length of course, Than winter, and its elemental war,

Collecting all its force, Gather'd the tempest, from whose ebon shroud, An avalanche cataract, whirl'd in thunder o'er

The promontory's height,

Then might be seen by the presageful eye Bursts on the rock: while round the mountain The vision of a rising realm unfold,


And temples roofd with gold.
Half, half the flood rebounding in its might, And in the gloom of that remorseless time,
Spreads wide a sea of foam evanishing in light. When Rome the sabine seiz'd, might be foreseen

In the first triumph of successful crime,
The shadowy arm of one of giant birth
Forging a chain for earth:

And tho slow ages roll'd their course between,

The form as of a Caesar, when he led

His war-worn legions on, I saw the ages backward rollid,

Troubling the pastoral stream of peaceful RuThe scenes long past restore:

bicon. Scenes that Evander bade his guest behold, Such might o'er clay-built Rome have been When first the Trojan stept on Tyber's shore

foretold The shepherds in the forum pen their fold; By word of human wisdom. But - what word, And the wild herdsman, on his untamed steed, Save from thy lip, Jehovah's prophet! heard, Goods with prone spear the heifer's foaming When Rome was marble, and her temples gold,


And the globe Caesar's footstool, who, when Where Rome, in second infancy, once more

Sleeps in her cradle. But in that drear waste, View'd th' incommunicable name divine
In that rude desert, when the wild goat sprung Link a Faustina to an Antonine
From cliff to cliff, and the Tarpeian rock On their polluted temple; who but thou,
Lour'd o'er the untended flock,

The prophet of the Lord! what word, save thine,
And eagles on its crest their aërie hung: Rome's utter desolation had denounc'd?
And when fierce gales bow'd the high pines, when Yet, ere that destin'd time,


The love-lute, and the viol, song, and mirth, The lightning, and the savage in the storm Ring from her palace roofs. Hear'st thou not Some unknown godhead heard, and, awe-struck,

yet, gaz'd

Metropolis of earth! On Jove's imagin'd form:

A voice borne back on every passing wind, And in that desert, when swoln Tyber's wave Wherever man has birth, Went forth the twins to save,

One voice, as from the lip of human kind, Their reedy cradle floating on his flood: The echo of thy fame? Flow they not yet, While yet the infants on the she-wolf clung, As flow'd of yore, down each successive age While yet they fearless play'd her brow beneath, The chosen of the world, on pilgrimage, And mingled with their food

To commune with thy wrecks, and works sublime, The spirit of her blood,

Where genius dwells enthron'd?
As o'er them seen to breathe
With fond reverted neck she hung,
And lick'd in turn each babe, and formed with

fostering tongue: And when the founder of imperial Rome

Rome! thou art doom'd to perish, and thy Fix'd on the robber hill, from earth aloof,

days, His predatory home,

Like mortal man's, are numbered : number'd all, And hung in triumph round his straw-thatched Ere each fleet hour decays.


Though pride yet haunt thy palaces, though art The wolf skin, and huge boar tusks, and the Thy sculptur'd marbles animate :


Though thousands, and ten thousands throng Of branching antlers wide:

thy gate; And tower'd in giant strength, and sent afar Though kings and kingdoms with thy idol mart His voice, that on the mountain echoes rollid, Yet traffic, and thy throned priest adore : Stern preluding the war:

Thy second reign shall pass, pass like thy And when the shepherds left their peaceful fold,

reign of yore. And from the wild wood lair, and rocky den, Round their bold chieftain rush'd strange forms

of barbarous men:

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The Grotto of Egeria.
Can I forget that beauteous day,
When, shelter'd from the burning beam,
First in thy haunted grot I lay,
And loos'd my spirit to its dream,
Beneath the broken arch, o'erlaid
With ivy, dark with many a braid
That clasp'd its tendrils to retain
The stone its roots had writh'd in twain?
No zephyr on the leaflet play'd,
No bent grass bow'd its slender blade,
The coiled snake lay slumber-bound:
All mute, all motionless around,
Save, livelier, while others slept,
The lizard on the sunbeam leapt,
And louder while the groves were still,
The unseen cigali, sharp and shrill,
As if their chirp could charm alone
Tir'd noontide with its unison.

Stranger! that roam'st in solitude!
Thou, too, 'mid tangling bushes rude,
Seek in the glen, yon heights between,
A rill more pure than Hippocrene,
That from a sacred fountain fed
The stream that fill'd its marble bed.

Its marble bed long since is gone,

And the stray water struggles on,
Brawling thro' weeds and stones its way.
There, when o'erpower'd at blaze of day,
Nature languishes in light,
Pass within the gloom of night,
Where the cool grot's dark arch o'ershades
Thy temples, and the waving braids
Of many a fragrant brier that weaves
Its blossom thro' the ivy leaves.
Thou, too, beneath that rocky roof,
Where the moss mats its thickest woof,
Shalt hear the gather'd ice-drops fall
Regular, at interval,
Drop after drop, one after one,
Making music on the stone,
While every drop, in slow decay,
Wears the recumbent nymph away.
Thou, too, if ere thy youthful ear
Thrill'd the Latian lay to hear,
Lull'd to slumber in that cave,
Shalt hail the nymph that held the wave;
A goddess, who there deign'd to meet,
A mortal from Rome's regal seat,
And o'er the gushing of her fount,
Mysterious truths divine to earthly ear recount.

K e a t s.

John Keats ward am 29. October 1796 in London geboren, der Sohn eines Lohnkutschers. Er erhielt eine gute Erziehung und kam dann zu einem Chirurgen in die Lehre, bei dem er jedoch nicht lange blieb, da eine kleine Erbschaft ihm ein unabhängiges Leben sicherte. 1817 gab er seine Jugendgedichte und gleich darauf seinen "Endymion" heraus, fand aber an Gifford einen so erbitterten und gehässigen Recensenten im Quarterly Review, dass sein Leben mit tiefem Gram erfüllt wurde und die Anlage zur Auszehrung, die er schon lange in sich trug, sich rasch und zerstörend entwickelte. Um Heilung zu suchen ging er nach Italien, aber sie ward ihm nicht; er starb am 24. Februar 1821 in Rom.

Seine hinterlassenen Gedichte sind: Endymion , Lamia, Isabella, The Eve of St. Agnes, Hyperion und Miscellaneous Poems. Er besass ein reiches , schönes Talent, voll tiefer und zarter Empfindung, schöpferischer Phantasie und Gedankenfülle und würde sich bei längerem Leben und unter günstigeren Verhältnissen gewiss herrlich entwickelt haben,


Ode to a Nightingale. The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;

White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine; My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains

Fast-fading violets cover'd up in leaves; My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,

And mid-May's eldest child, Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains

The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:

The murmurous haunt of flies on summer 'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, But being too happy in thy happiness, That thou, light-winged dryad of the trees, In some melodious plot

Darkling I listen; and, for many a time, Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, I have been half in love with easeful Death, Singest of summer in full-throated ease. Callid him soft names in many a mused rhyme,

To take into the air my quiet breath; O for a draught of vintage, that hath been Now more than ever seems it rich to die,

Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth, To cease upon the midnight with no pain, Tasting of Flora and the country green,

While thou art pouring forth thy soul Dance, and Provençal song, and sun-burnt

abroad mirth!

In such an ecstacy! O for a beaker full of the warm South,

Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,

With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, To thy high requiem become a sod.

And purple-stained mouth;
That I might drink, and leave the world un- Thou wast not born for death, immortal bird!

seen, And with thee fade away into the forest dim: The voice I hear this passing night was heard

No hungry generations tread thee down;

In ancient days by emperor and clown: Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget

Perhaps the self-same song that found a path What thou among the leaves hast never

Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick known,

for home, The weariness, the fever, and the fret

She stood in tears amid the alien corn; Here, where men sit and hear each other

The same that oft times hath groan;

Charm'd magic casements, opening on the Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last grey hairs,

foam Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin,

Of perilous seas,

in faery lands forlorn. and dies; Where but to think is to be full of sorrow And leaden-eyed despairs,

Forlorn! the very word is like a bell Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, To toll me back from thee to my sole self! Or new Love pine at them beyond to- Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well

As she is famed to do, deceiving elf.

Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades Away! away! for I will fly to thee,

Past the near meadows, over the still stream, Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,

Up the hill side; and now 'tis buried deep But on the viewless wings of Poesy,

In the next valley glades: Though the dull brain perplexes and retards : Was it a vision, or a waking dream? Already with thee! tender is the night,

Fled is that music: – Do I wake or sleep?
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,
Cluster'd around by all her starry fays;

But here there is no light,
Save what from heaven is with the breezes

Through verdurous glooms and winding
mossy ways.

Ode on a Grecian Urn.
I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness!

Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, Thou-foster-child of Silence and slow time, But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet Sylvan historian, who canst thus express

Wherewith the seasonable month endows A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:


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