« PreviousContinue »
“Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won,
"And our good prince Eugene.” "Why, 'twas a very wicked thing!"
Said little Wilhelmine. “Nay nay my little girl," quoth he, “It was a famous victory.
O God! have mercy in this dreadful hour
On the poor mariner! in comfort here
Safe shelter'd as I am, I almost fear
What were it now to toss upon the waves,
And the wild sea that to the tempest raves :
And in the dread of death to think of her,
O God! have mercy on the mariner!
"And every body prais'd the Duke
“Who this great fight did win.” "But what good came of it at last ?”.
Quoth little Peterkin. "Why, that I cannot tell,” said he, "But 'twas a famous victory.”
To a Bee.
Mary, the Maid of the Inn.
Who is yonder poor Maniac, whose wildlyfix'd
eyes Before the cow from her resting-place
Seem a heart overcharged to express? Had risen up and left her trace
She weeps not, yet often and deeply she sighs: On the meadow, with dew so grey,
She never complains, but her silence implies Saw I thee, thou busy, busy Bee.
The composure of settled distress. Thou wert working late, thou busy, busy Bee!
After the fall of the Cistus flower; No pity she looks for, no alms does she seek; When the Primrose of evening was ready to burst, Nor for raiment nor food doth she care:
Through her rags do the winds of the winter With fearless good-humour did Mary comply,
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,
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.
Yet the ruins were lonely and wild, and their Her cheerful address fill'd the guests with de
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.
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'd 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.
I myself, like a school-boy, should tremble to Behind a wide column, half breathless with fear,
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.
And faint if she saw a white cow,
Then Mary could feel her heart-blood curdle cold!
Again the rough wind hurried by,
She felt, and expected to die.
Will Mary this charge on her courage allow? Curse the hat! he exclaims; nay come on, till
His companion exclaim'd with a smile;
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,
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.
M o o r e.
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, vermählte 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 Schärfe 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 gefällt, frivol und leichtfertig oder sarkastisch und verletzend vor uns zu erscheinen, denn sein Genius verlässt ihn auch in solchen Augenblicken nicht und seine Grazie
ihm ernstlich zu zürnen.
And Fancy's emblems lost their glow,
And Hope's sweet lines were all defaced, And Love himself could scarcely know
What Love himself had lately traced !
At length the urchin Pleasure fled,
(For how, alas! could Pleasure stay?) And Love, while many a tear he shed,
In blushes Aung the book away!
The index now alone remains,
Of all the pages spoil'd by Pleasure, And though it bears some honey stains,
Yet Memory counts the leaf a treasure!
And oft, they say, she scans it o'er,
And oft, by this memorial aided, Brings back the pages, now no more,
And thinks of lines that long have faded !
I know not if this tale be true,
But thus the simple facts are stated; And I refer their truth to you,
Since Love and you are near related !
I saw thy Form in youthful Prime.
I saw thy form in youthful prime,
Nor thought that pale decay Would steal before the steps of time,
And waste its bloom away, Mary! Yet still thy features wore that light
Which fleets not with the breath; And life ne'er look'd more truly bright
Than in thy smile of death, Mary!
As streams that run o'er golden mines,
Yet humbly, calmly glide,
Within their gentle tide, Mary!
Thy radiant genius shone,
Seem'd worthless in thy own, Mary!
Written in an Album.
They say that Love had once a book
(The urchin likes to copy you), Where all who came the pencil took,
And wrote, like us, a line or two.
'Twas Innocence, the maid divine,
Who kept this volume bright and fair, And saw that no unhallow'd line,
Or thought profane, should enter there.
And sweetly did the pages fill
With fond device and loving lore, And every leaf she turn'd was still
More bright than that she turn'd before!"
Beneath the touch of Hope, how soft,
How light the magic pencil ran! Till Fear would come, alas! as oft,
And trembling close what Hope began.
A tear or two had dropp'd from Grief,
And Jealousy would, now and then, Ruffle in haste some snowy leaf,
Which Love had still to smooth again!
But, oh, there was a blooming boy,
Who often turn'd the pages o'er, And wrote therein such words of joy,
As all who read still sigh'd for more!
And Pleasure was this spirit's name,
And though so soft his voice and look, Yet Innocence, whene'er he came,
Would tremble for her spotless book!
For still she saw his playful fingers
Fill'd with sweets and wanton toys; And well she knew the stain that lingers
After sweets from wanton boys!
And so it chanced, one luckless night
He let his honey goblet fall
And sullied lines, and marge and all!
In vain he sought, with eager lip,
The honey from the leaf to drink, For still the more the boy would sip,
The deeper still the blot would sink!
Oh, it would make you weep, to see
The traces of this honey flood Steal o'er a page, where Modesty
Had freshly drawn a rose's bud!
If souls could always dwell above,
Thou ne'er hadst left that sphere; Or, could we keep the souls we love,
We ne'er had lost thee here, Mary!
Though many a gifted mind we meet, Each billow, as brightly or darkly it flows,
Reflecting our eyes as they sparkle or weep. To live with them is far less sweet
So closely our whims on our miseries tread, Than to remember thee, Mary!
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
With hearts ever happy, and heads ever wise, I saw from the Beach.
Be ours the light grief that is sister to Joy,
And the short brilliant folly that flashes and I saw from the beach, when the morning was
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,
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
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
St. Jerome's Love.
Oh, who would not welcome that moment's re
turning, When passion first waked a new life through
his frame, And his soul - like the wood that grows precious
in burning Gave out all its sweets to Love's exquisite
Who is the maid my spirit seeks,
Through cold reproof and slander's blight?
Is hers an eye of this world's light?
Are the pale looks of her I love;
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
That beats beneath a broider'd veil; That chase one another, like waves of the And she who comes in glittering vest
To mourn her frailty, still is frail.