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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 schwärzesten 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.
High o'er the rushy springs of Don

The stormy gloom is rollid;
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 gushing 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 fires 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.

And where the rose-leaf, ever bold,

Hears bees chaunt hymns to God, The breeze-bowed palm, mossed o'er with gold, Smiles o'er the well in summer cold,

And daisied sod.

But thou, pale blossom, thou art come,

And flowers in winter blow, To tell me that the worm makes room For me, her brother, in the tomb,

And thinks me slow.

For as the rainbow of the dawn

Foretels an eve of tears, A sunbeam on the saddened lawn I smile, and weep to be withdrawn

In early years.

Thy leaves will come! but songful spring

Will see no leaf of mine; Her bells will ring, her bride's-maids sing, When my young leaves are withering

Where no suns shine.

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 may time.

A Poet's 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?

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 they are.

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

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

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

That cannot feel how fair, Amid all beauty beautiful,

Thy tender blossoms are ! How delicate thy gauzy frill!

How rich thy branchy stem! 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;

The violet by the moss'd grey stone

Hath laid her weary head;
But thou wild bramble! back dost bring,

In all their beauteous power,
The fresh green days of life's fair spring,

And boyhood's blossomy hour.
Scorn'd bramble of the brake! once more

Thou bid'st me be a boy,
To gad with thee the woodlands o'er,

In freedom and in joy.

L a m b.

Charles Lamb ward am 11. Februar 1775 in London geboren, erhielt seine wissenschaftliche Bildung im Christ's Hospital, bekleidete darauf ein Amt bei dem South-Sea-House und später bei der ostindischen Compagnie. Im Jahre 1825 wurde er mit einer ansehnlichen Pension in den Ruhestand versetzt. Er starb am 27. December 1831.

Lamb's Schriften kamen zuerst gesammelt heraus London 1818, 2 Bde in 8. Dann nach seinem Tode Prose-Works, London 1836, 3 Bde in 8.; Poetical Works, London 1836, 1 Bd in 8. So vorzüglich Lamb auch als Prosaist sich zeigte, so haben wir hier uns doch nur mit der letzteren Sammlung zu beschäftigen. Sie sind meist lyrischen Inhaltes, mehr tändelnd als begeistert, aber voll inniger Zartheit und Anmuth, Beweise jener hohen eigenthümlichen Liebenswürdigkeit, welche von Allen, die je mit ihm in Berührung standen, auf das Lebhafteste gerühmt wird. Sprache und Weise derselben nähern sich mehr den Dichtern aus der Periode der Elisabeth als denen der Ge vart, aber gerade das verleiht den Poesieen Lamb's einen ganz besonderen Reiz.

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My sprightly neighbour, gone before
To that unknown and silent shore,
Shall we not meet, as heretofore

Some summer morning,

When from thy cheerful eyes a ray
Hath struck a bliss upon the day,
A bliss that would not go away,

A sweet fore-warning?

Shrouding her beauties in the lone retreat.
No more I hear her footsteps in the shade:
Her image only in these pleasant ways
Meets me self-wandering, where, in happier

I held free converse with the fair-hair'd maid.
I passed the little cottage which she lov'd,
The cottage which did once my all contain;
It spake of days which ne'er must come again,
Spake to my heart, and much my heart was

"Now fair befal thee, gentle maid !” said I,
And from the cottage turned me with a sigh.


Was it some sweet device of faëry
That mocked my steps with many a lonely glade,
Anđ fancied wanderings with a fair hair'd maid?
Have these things been? or what rare witchery, On an Infant dying as soon as born.
Impregning with delights the charmed air,

I saw where in the shroud did lurk
Enlighted up the semblance of a smile

A curious frame of Nature's work. In those fine eyes? methought they spake the

A flow'ret crushed in the bud,

Soft soothing things, which might enforce despair was in her cradle-coffin lying :

A nameless piece of babyhood,
To drop the murdering knife, and let go by
His foul resolve. And does the lonely glade

Extinct, with scarce the sense of dying:

So soon to exchange the imprisoning womb Still court the footsteps of the fair hair'd maid?

For darker closets of the tomb!
Still in her locks the gales of summer sigh?

She did but ope an eye, and put
While I forlorn do wander reckless where,
And 'mid my wanderings meet no Anna there.

A clear beam forth, then straight up shut
For the long dark: ne'er more to see

Through glasses of mortality.
Riddle of destiny, who can show
What thy short visit meant, or know

What thy errand here below?
Methinks how dainty sweet it were, reclin'd

Shall we say, that Nature blind
Beneath the vast out-stretching branches high Check'd her hand, and changed her mind,
Of some old wood, in careless sort to lie, Just when she had exactly wrought
Nor of the busier scenes we left behind

A finish'd pattern without fault?
Aught envying. And, 0 Anna! mild eyed maid! Could she flag, or could she tire,
Beloved! I were well content to play

Or lack'd she the Promethean fire With thy free tresses all summer's day,

(With her nine moons' long workings sicken'd) Losing the time beneath the greenwood shade. That should thy little limbs have quicken'd? Or we might sit and tell some tender tale

Limbs so firm, they seem'd to assure Of faithful vows repaid by cruel scorn,

Life of health, and days mature:
A tale of true love, or of friend forgot;

Woman's self in miniature!
And I would teach thee, lady, how to rail Limbs so fair, they might supply
In gentle sort, on those who practise not

(Themselves now but cold imagery) Or love or pity, though of woman born.

The sculptor to make beauty by.
Or did the stern-eyed Fate descry,
That babe, or mother, one must die;
So in mercy left the stock,

And cut the branch; to save the shock
When last I roved these winding wood walks of young years widow'd; and the pain,


When single state comes back again Green winding walks, and shady pathways sweet, To the lone man, who, ʼreft of wife, Oft times would Anna seek the silent scene, Thenceforward drags a maimed life?

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