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How many are you then, said I,

With menace proud, and insult loud, If they two are in Heaven ?

The youthful Rovers follow. The little Maiden did reply:

Cried they: Your father loves to roam : O Master, we are seven.

Enough for him to find

The empty House when he comes home But they are dead; those two are dead !

For us your yellow ringlets comb, Their spirits are in Heaven!

For us be fair and kind! 'Twas throwing words away : for still

Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully, The little Maid would have her will,

The Solitude of Binnorie.
And said: Nay, we are seven.

Some close behind, some side by side,
Like clouds in stormy weather,
They run, and cry: Nay let us die,

And let us die together.
The seven Sisters, or the Solitude of There never foot had been ;

A Lake was near; the shore was steep; Binnorie.

They ran, and with a desperate leap Seven Daughters had Lord Archibald,

Together plung'd into the deep, All Children of one Mother:

Nor ever more were seen. I could not say in one short day

Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,

The Solitude of Binnorie.
What love they bore each other.
A Garland of seven Lilies wrought:
Seven Sisters that together dwell;

The Stream that flows out of the Lake, But he, bold Knight as ever fought,

As through the glen it rambles,
Their Father, took on them no thought, Repeats a moan o'er moss and stone,
He loved the Wars so well.

For these seven lovely Campbells.
Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,

Seven little Islands, green and bare, The Solitude of Binnorie!

Have risen from out the deep:

The Fishers say, those Sisters fair Fresh blows the wind, a western wind,

By Fairies are all buried there, And from the shores of Erin,

And there together sleep. Across the wave, a Rover brave

Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,
To Binnorie is steering:

The Solitude of Binnorie.
Right onward to the Scottish strand
The gallant ship is borne;
The Warriors leap upon the land,
And hark! the Leader of the Band

Ruth.
Hath blown in bugle-born.
Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,

When Ruth was left half desolate
The Solitude of Binnorie.

Her father took another mate;

And Ruth, not seven years old, Deside a Grotto of their own,

A slighted child, at her own will

Went wandering over dale and hill,
With boughs above them closing,
The Seven are laid, and in the shade

In thoughtless freedom bold.
They lie like Fawns reposing.
But now, upstarting with affright

And she had made a pipe of straw,
At noise of Man and Steed,

And from that oaten pipe could draw Away they fly to left to right

All sounds of wind and foods; Of your fair household, Father Knight,

Had built a bower upon the green, Methinks you take small heed !

As if she from her birth had been Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,

An infant of the woods. The Solitude of Binnorie.

Beneath her father's roof, alone Away the seven fair Campbells fly,

She seemed to live; her thoughts her own; And, over hills and hollow,

Herself her own delight:

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What could he less than love a Maid Whose heart with so much nature played ? So kind and so forlorn!

But now the pleasant dream was gone:
No hope, no wish remained, not one,
They stirred him now no more:
New objects did new pleasure give,
And once again he wished to live
As lawless as before.

Meanwhile, as thus with him it fared,
They for the voyage were prepared,
And went to the sea-shore:
But, when they thither came, the Youth
Deserted his poor Bride, and Ruth
Could never find him more.

God help thee, Ruth! Such pains she had
That she in half a year was mad
And in a prison housed;
And there, exulting in her wrongs,
Among the music of her songs
She fearfully caroused.

Yet sometimes milder hours she knew
Nor wanted sun, nor rain, nor dew,
Nor pastimes of the May;
They all were with her in her cell;
And a wild brook with cheerful knell
Did o'er the pebbles play.

When Ruth three seasons thus had lain There came a respite to her pain, She from her prison fled; But of the Vagrant none took thought; And where it liked her best she sought Her shelter and her bread.

Among the fields she breathed again :
The master-current of her brain
Ran permanent and free;
And, coming to the banks of Tone,
There did she rest, and dwell alone
Under the greenwood-tree.

The engines of her pain, the tools
That shaped her sorrow, rocks and pools,
And airs that gently stir
The vernal leaves, she loved them still,
Nor ever taxed them with the ill
Which had been done to her.

And green savannahs, she should share
His board with lawful joy, and bear
His name in the wild woods.

But, as you have before been told,
This Stripling, sporti

gay, and bold,
And with his dancing crest
So beautiful, through savage lands
Had roamed about with vagrant bands
Of Indians in the West.

The wind, the tempest roaring high,
The tumult of a tropic sky,
Might well be dangerous food
For him, a Youth to whom was given
So much of earth so much of heaven,
And such impetuous blood.

Whatever in those Climes he found
Irregular in sight or sound
Did to his mind impart
A kindred impulse, seemed allied
To his own powers, and justified
The workings of his heart.

Nor less to feed voluptuous thought
The beauteous forms of nature wrought,
Fair trees and lovely flowers:
The breezes their own languor lent:
The stars had feelings, which they sent
Into those gorgeous bowers.

Yet, in his worst pursuits, I ween
That sometimes there did intervene
Pure hopes of high intent;
For passions linked to forms so fair
And stately needs must have their share
Of noble sentiment.

But ill he lived, much evil saw
With men to whom no better law
Nor better life was known:
Deliberately and undeceived
Those wild men's vices he received,
And gave them back his own.

His genius and his moral frame
Were thus impaired, and he became
The slave of low desires :
A Man who without self-control
Would seek what the degraded soul
Unworthily admires.

And yet he with no feigned delight
Had wooed the maiden, day and night
Had loved her, night and morn:

A barn her winter-bed supplies;
But till the warmth of summer-skies
And summer-days is gone,
(And all do in this tule agree)
She sleeps beneath the greenwood-tree,
And other home hath none.

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George Gordon Byron ward am 22. Januar 1788 in London geboren; er war der Enkel des berühmten Admirals gleichen Namens und ward 1798 der Erbe des Ranges und der Güter seines Grossonkels Lord Byron. Seine Mutter trennte sich von ihrem Gatten und erzog ihn bis zu seinem zehnten Jahre in Schottland. Später erhielt er seine Bildung auf der Schule zu Harrow und studirte dann in Cambridge. Nachdem er darauf eine Zeit lang abwechselnd auf seinem Familiensitze und in London gelebt hatte, besuchte er während der Jahre 1809-1811 Portugal, Spanien und Griechenland. Nach England zurückgekehrt gab er die ersten Gesänge seines Childe Harold, so wie mehrere seiner kleinen poetischen Erzählungen heraus, die ihm ausserordentlichen Ruhm erwarben. Er vermählte sich 1815 mit Miss Noel, aber seine Ehe war unglücklich und es erfolgte sehr bald die Scheidung. Byron verliess sein Vaterland von Neuem, lebte erst eine Zeit lang am Genfer See, dann in Venedig, Ravenna, Pisa und Genua und ging 1823 nach Griechenland, um den Hellenen in ihrem Befreiungskampfe beizustehen. Eine Hirnentzündung brachte ihm am 19. April 1824 den Tod zu Missolunghi.

Seine gesammelten Werke enthalten ausser den schon genannten, mehrere epische Gedichte, Tragödien, lyrische Poesieen und Satyren. Sie sind in mehreren Auflagen erschienen und vielfach nachgedruckt worden. Eine der schönsten Ausgaben derselben ist die in einem Bande, London 1837, bei Murray. Was Byron als Dichter leistete in wenigen Worten zusammendrängen zu wollen ist schwer, fast unmöglich; der Dichter und der Mensch sind bei ihm unzertrennlich; man muss sein Leben so genau wie seine Werke kennen, um die Letzteren vollständig zu würdigen. Wir beschränken uns daher darauf, folgende Aussprüche seines eben so geistreichen als wohlwollenden Landsmannes Allan Cunningham über ihn zusammenzustellen: “Die edelsten Fähigkeiten waren ihm angeboren. Seine Einbildungskraft kannte keine Grenze, sein Verstand war hell und kräftig, seine Thätigkeit unermüdlich; ein leidenschaftlich reizbares Gemüth und reges Gefühl, kurz alle jene kostbaren Eigenschaften waren sein, welche den kühnsten Aufschwung des Dichters begünstigen. Wie und wann Vieles davon verdorben und beschädigt wurde, kommt vielleicht nie an den Tag. Byron's Poesie hat einen ausserordentlich kühner Charakter; seine Ideen sind

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im Allgemeinen neu und überraschend, die Sprache gewaltig und fliessend. Nur mit den eigenen Augen betrachtet er die Natur und verschmäht es mit Anderen zu fühlen. Am Meisten zeichnet er sich in ruhiger Zergliederung des menschlichen Herzens und im Ausdrucke düsterer entsetzlicher Gefühle aus. Er fesselt nicht durch Liebeszauber, sondern durch den Bannspruch der Furcht. Während wir in unserem Herzen nicht für den dritten Theil der entsetzlichen Dinge ein Echo finden, die er vorbringt, können wir doch nicht von ihm lassen."

Inscription on the Monument of a Dog. They pass like spirits of the past, they speak

Like sybils of the future; they have power When some proud son of man returns to earth, The tyranny of pleasure and of pain; Unknown to glory, but upheld by birth, They make us what we were not what they The sculptor's art exhausts the pomp of woe,

will, And storied urns record who rests below; And shake us with the vision that's gone by, When all is done, upon the tomb is seen, The dread of vanish'd shadows. Are they so? Not what he was, but what he should have been: Is not the past all shadow? What are they? But the poor dog, in life the firmest friend, Creations of the mind? The mind can make The first to welcome, foremost to defend, Substance, and people planets of its own Whose honest heart is still his master's own, With beings brighter than have been, and Who labours, fights, lives, breathes for him

give alone,

A breath to forms which can outlive all flesh. Unhonour'd falls, unnoticed all his worth, I would recal a vision which I dream'd Denied in heaven the soul he held on earth: Perchance in sleep, for in itself a thought, While man, vain insect! hopes to be forgiven, A slumbering thought, is capable of years, And claims himself a sole exclusive heaven. And curdles a long life into one hour. Oh, man! thou feeble tenant of an hour,

I saw two beings in the hues of youth
Debas'd by slavery, or corrupt by power,

Standing upon a hill, a gentle hill,
Who knows thee well must quit thee with disgust, Green and of mild declivity, the last
Degraded mass of animated dust!

As 't were the cape of a long ridge of such, Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat, Save that there was no sea to lave its base, Thy smiles hypocrisy, thy words deceit! But a most living landscape, and the wave By nature vile, ennobled but by name,

Of woods and corn-field, and the abodes of men Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for Scatter'd at intervals, and wreathing smoke

shame.

Arising from such rustic roofs; the hill Ye! who perchance behold this simple urn, Was crown'd with a peculiar diadem

it honours none you wish to mourn: Of trees, in circular array, so fix'd, To mark a friend's remains these stones arise; Not by the sport of nature, but of man: I never knew but one, and here he lies. These two, a maiden and a youth, were there

Gazing; the one, on all that was beneath
Fair as herself · but the boy gazed on her:
And both were young, and one was beautiful;
And both were young, yet not alike in youth.
As the sweet moon on the horizon's verge,

The maid was on the eve of womanhood;
The Dream.

The boy had fewer summers, but his heart

Had far outgrown his years; and, to his eye, Our life is twofold: sleep hath its own world, There was but one beloved face on earth A boundary between the things misnamed And that was shining on him: he had look'd Death and existence; sleep hath its own world, Upon it till it could not pass away; And a wide realm of wild reality,

He had no breath, no being, but in hers : And dreams in their development have breath,

She was his votee; he did not speak to her, And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy: But trembled on her words: she was his sight, They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts, For his eye follow'd hers, and saw with hers, They take a weight from off our waking toils, Which colour'd all his objects; he had ceased They do divide our being; they become To live within himself; she was his life, A portion of ourselves as of our time,

The ocean to the river of his thoughts, And look like heralds of eternity:

Which terminated all! upon a tone,

Pass on,

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