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He came not, no, he came not,

The night came on alone, I wander'd by the brook - side,

The little stars sat one by one, I wander'd by the mill,

Each on a golden throne; I could not hear the brook flow,

The evening air past by my cheek, The noisy wheel was still;

The leaves above were stirr'd, There was no burr of grasshopper,

But the beating of my own heart
Nó chirp of any bird,

Was all the sound I heard.
But the beating of my own heart
Was all the sound I heard.

Fast silent tears were flowing,

When something stood behind, I sat beside the elm-tree,

A hand was on my shoulder, I watch'd the long, long shade,

I knew its touch was kind: And as it grew still longer,

It drew me nearer nearer, I did not feel afraid;

We did not speak one word, For I listen’d for a footfall,

For the beating of our own hearts I listen'd for a word,

Was all the sound we heard. But the beating of my own heart

Was all the sound I heard.


Harthley Coleridge, ein Sohn des grossen Dichters Samuel Taylor Coleridge, veröffentlichte im Jahre 1833 einen Band Gedichte, welche seiner hohen Abstammung keineswegs unwürdig sind. Es giebt wenig Sonette in der englischen Sprache, die durch Gedankenfülle und Versbau vorzüglicher wären. Coleridge starb zu Ryndal, Westerland, am 6 Januar 1849. Er war ein thätiger Mitarbeiter am Blackwood Magazin, ein sehr origineller und beliebter Schriftsteller und Verfasser einer bedeutenden Anzahl kleiner Gedichte von grossem Verdienst und poetischer Kraft.

Sonnet on Shakspeare. Or the firm fatal purpose of the heart

Can make of man. Yet thou wert still the The soul of man is larger than the sky,

same, Deeper than ocean or the abysmal dark Serene of thought, anhurt by thy own flame. Of the unfathomed centre. Like that ark, Which in its sacred hold uplifted high, O'er the drowned hills, the human family,

Sonnets to a Friend. And stock reserved of every living kind, So, in the compass of the single mind, When we were idlers with the loitering rills, The seeds and pregnant forms in essence lie, The need of human love we little noted: That make all worlds. Great poet, 'twas Our love was nature; and the peace that thy art

floated To know thyself, and in thyself to be On the white mist, and dwelt upon the hills, Whate'er Love, Hate, Ambition, Destiny, To sweet accord subdued our wayward wills :


One soul was ours, one mind, one heart de- Where flowrets blow and whispering Naiads voted,

dwell. That, wisely doting, asked not why it doted, Yet now we meet, that parted were so wide, And ours the unknown joy, which knowing O'er rough and smooth to travel side by side.

kills. But now I find how dear thou wert to me; That man is more than half of nature's trea


To Certain Golden Fishes.
Of that fair beauty which no eye can see,
Of that sweet music which no ear can meá-

Restless forms of living light,

Quivering on your lucid wings, And now the streams may sing for other's

Cheating still the curious sight pleasure,

With a thousand shadowings;
The hills sleep on in their eternity.

Various as the tints of even,
Gorgeous as the hues of heaven,
Reflected on your native streams
In flitting, flashing, billowy gleams.

Harmless warriors clad in mail
In the great city we are met again,

Of silver breastplate, golden scale ; Where many souls there are that breathe and

Mail of Nature's own bestowing, die,

With peaceful radiance mildly glowing; Scarce knowing more of nature's potency Keener than the Tartar's arrow, Than what they learn from heat, or cold, or

Sport ye in your sea so narrow. rain

Was the sun himself your sire ? The sad vicissitude of weary pain:

Were ye born of vital fire? For busy man is lord of ear and eye,

Or of the shade of golden flowers, And what hath Natur but the vast void sky,

Such as we fetch from eastern bowers, And the thronged river toiling to the main ?

To mock this murky dime of ours ? Oh! say not so, for she shall have her part

Upwards, downwards, now ye glance, In every smile, in every tear that falls,

Weaving many a mazy dance ; And she shall hide her in the secret heart,

Seeming still to grow in size, Where love persuades, and sterner duty calls : When ye would elude our eyes. But worse it were than death, or sorrow's

Pretty creatures! we might deem smart,

Ye were happy as ye seem,
To live without a friend within these walls.

As gay, as gamesome, and as blithe,
As light, as loving, and as lithe,
As gladly earnest in your play,
As when ye gleamed in fair Cathay;

And yet, since on this hapless earth
We parted on the mountains, as two streams There's small sincerity in mirth,
From one clear spring pursue their several And laughter oft is but an art


To drown the outcry of the heart, And thy fleet course hath been through many It may be, that your ceaseless gambols,

Your wheelings, dartings, divings, rambles, In foreign lands, where silvery Padus gleams Your restless roving round and round To that delicious sky, whose glowing beams The circuit of your cristal bound, Brightened the tresses that old poets praise ; Is but the task of weary pain, Where Petrarch's patient love and artful lays, An endless labour, dull and vain; And Ariosto's song of many themes,

And while your forms are gaily shining, Moved the soft air. But I, a lazy brook, Your little lives are inly pining! As close pent up within my native dell, Nay but still I fain would dream Have crept along from nook to shady nook, That ye are happy as ye seem.

a maze


Mrs Southey, welche auch häufig unter dem Namen Caroline Bowles gefunden wird, hat sich als sehr fruchtbare Schriftstellerin ausgezeichnet. Unter ihren zahlreichen poetischen Schriften mögen hier nur einige angeführt werden: Ellen Fitzarthur 1820; The Widow's Tale and other Poems 1822; The Birthday and other Poems 1836; Solitary Hours 4838 u. a.

Caroline Southey ist eine der beliebtesten Dichterinnen der Gegenwart. Ihre poetischen Leistungen zeichnen sich durch Natürlichkeit, durch Reichthum der Gedanken und schönen Versbau aus.

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How! gains the leak so fast?

Clean out the hold
Hoist up thy merchandise,

Heave out thy gold;
There – let the ingots go

Now the ship rights;
Hurra! the harbour's near

Lo! the red lights !

Slacken not the sail yet

At inlet or island;
Straight for the beacon steer,

Straight for the high land;
Crowd all thy canvass on,

Cut through the foam
Christian! cast anchor now -

Heaven is thy home!

Barr e t t.

Miss Elizabeth Barrett, welche jetzt meist unter dem Namen Mrs Browning schreibt, lebt gegenwärtig in London. Sie hat sich nicht allein durch mehrere eigene poetische Schriften, wie „The Seraphim and other Poems“ 1838, so wie Poetical Works in zwei Bänden 4844, sondern auch durch ihre Gelehrsamkeit und Uebersetzung des Prometheus von Aeschylus: Prometheus Bound and other Poems 1833, berühmt gemacht.

Barrett's Dichtungen sind nicht ohne Tiefe der Gedanken und ohne Wärme der Empfindung geschrieben.

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What do we give to our beloved ?
A little faith, all undisproved

A little dust, to overweep
And bitter memories, to make
The whole earth blasted for our sake!

'He giveth His beloved sleep.'

Hal men may wonder while they scan
A living, thinking, feeling man,

In such a rest his heart to keep; He shall be strong to sanctify But angels say

and through the word The poet's high vocation, I ween their blessed smile is heard And bow the meekest Christian down 'He giveth His beloved sleep!'

In meeker adoration;
Nor ever sha be in praise

By wise or good forsaken;
And, friends! dear friends! when it Named softly as the household name

shall be

Of one whom God hath taken! That this low breath is gone from me,

And round my bier ye come to weep Let me, most loving of you all,

With sadness that is calm, not gloom, Say, not a tear must o'er her fall

I learn to think upon him; He giveth His beloved sleep!

With meekness that is gratefulness,

On God, whose heaven hath won him.
Who suffered once the madness-cloud

Towards his love to blind him;
But gently led the blind along,

Where breath and bird could find him;
Cowper's Grave.

It is a place where poets crowned

May feel the heart's decaying It is a place where happy saints

May weep amid their praying
Yet let the grief and humbleness,

As low as silence languish;
Earth surely now may give her calm

To whom she gave her anguish.

And wrought within his shattered brain

Such quick poetic senses,
As hills have language for, and stars

Harmonious influences!
The pulse of dew upon the grass

His own did calmly number;
And silent shadow from the trees

Fell o'er him like a slumber.

O poets! from a maniac's tongue

Was poured the deathless singing! O Christians! at your cross of hope,

A hopeless hand was clinging.
O men! this man in brotherhood,

Your weary paths beguiling,
Groaned inly while he taught you peace,

And died while ye were smiling.

The very world, by God's constraint,

From falsehood's chill removing,
Its women and its men became

Beside him true and loving!
And timid hares were drawn from woods

To share his home-caresses,
Uplooking in his human eyes,

With sylvan tendernesses.

And now, what time ye all may read But while in darkness he remained,
Through dimming tears his story

Unconscious of the guiding,
How discord on the music fell,

And things provided came without And darkness on the glory

The sweet sense of providing, And how, when, one by one, sweet sounds He testified this solemn truth, And wandering lights departed,

Though frenzy desolated He wore no less a loving face,

Nor man nor nature satisfy Because so broken-hearted.

Whom only God created.

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