And with it came the convent's heavy bell,
Tolling for a departed soul; and then

Float in deep sweetness o'er the silent river.
One evening, and he did not see the scarf,
He watched and watched in vain; at length his He knew that Isabelle was dead! Next day
hope
They laid her in her grave; and the moon

Grew desperate, and he prayed his Isabelle
Might have forgotten him: but midnight Upon a mourner weeping there :

rose

that tomb

George Croly ward um 1790 in Irland gehoren, studirte zu Dublin Theologie und wurde dann Prediger auf einem Dorfe, wo er in stiller Abgeschiedenheit seinem Amte und seinen Studien lebte. Später besuchte er London und dann nach dem Frieden von 1815 Deutschland und Frankreich. Nach seiner Rückkehr ertheilte ihm die Universität Dublin das Ehrendiplom eines Doctors der Philosophie und er verwaltete von Neuem ein geistliches Amt, welches er 1835 mit dem Rectorat von St. Stephens in Walbrook vertauschte, das ihm Lord Lyndhurst ertheilte.

Croly hat viel veröffentlicht mehrere bedeutende theologische Werke abgerechnet wie z. B. Paris in 1815, a poem, the Angel of the World, grössere Dichtungen, Catilina, ein Trauerspiel; Gems from the Antique, kleinere Poesieen, Sala thiel, ein philosophischer Roman u. A. m.

Ausserordentliche Kraft und eine erhabene Lebensanschauung, sowie Gedankenfülle und reiche Phantasie characterisiren seine Leistungen, aber es fehlt ihnen an Wärme und Gemüthlichkeit und so haben sie weniger Verbreitung gefunden, als sie verdienen.

Wolfe.

Charles Wolfe ward am 14. December 1791 in Dublin geboren, studirte in seiner Vaterstadt Theologie und wurde dann Pfarrer zu Castle-Caulfield in Irland. Seine leidende Gesundheit zwang ihn ein wärmeres Klima aufzusuchen und er lebte daher eine Zeitlang in Bordeaux. In sein Vaterland zurückgekehrt fand sichs bald dass seine Heilung nur eine scheinbare gewesen; er starb in Folge der Auszehrung am 21. Februar 1823.

Wolfe hat nur wenige in Zeitschriften verstreute Gedichte hinterlassen, aber diese wenigen, namentlich das hier zuerst mitgetheilte auf den Tod des General Moore, sind meisterhaft und werden sein Andenken bei allen Freunden der Poesie bis zu den spätesten Zeiten erhalten.

We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed,
And smooth'd down his lonely pillow,

We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone,
But left him alone with his glory.

Song.

If I had thought thou couldst have died,
I might not weep for thee;
But I forgot, when by thy side,

That thou couldst mortal be:
It never through my mind had past,
The time would e'er be o'er,
And I on thee should look my last,

And thou shouldst smile no more!

And still upon that face I look,

And think 'twill smile again;
And still the thought I will not brook,
That I must look in vain:

But when I speak, thou dost no say
What thou ne'er left'st unsaid;
And now I feel, as well I may,
Sweet Mary! thou art dead!

That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er If thou would'st stay, e'en as thou art,

his head,

And we far away on the billow!

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him;
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

But half of our heavy task was done,

When the clock struck the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun, That the foe was sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

From the field of his fame fresh and gory:

All cold, and all serene,

I still might press thy silent heart,
And where thy smiles have been!
While e'en thy chill, bleak corse I have
Thou seemest still mine own;
But there I lay thee in thy grave,
And I am now alone!

I do not think, where'er thou art,
Thou hast forgotten me;

And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart,

In thinking too of thee:

Yet there was round thee such a dawn
Of light ne'er seen before,
As fancy never could have drawn,
And never can restore!

Lando r.

Walter Savage Landor ward am 30. Januar 1775 zu Ipsley-Court in Warwickshire auf dem väterlichen Landgute geboren, erhielt eine treffliche Erziehung, studirte darauf in Oxford, diente dann in Spanien und liess sich später in Italien auf einer von ihm erkauften Villa bei Fiesole nieder, wo er noch lebt, nur selten sein Vaterland besuchend.

Er hat viel in Prosa geschrieben, aber nur einen Band Poesieen unter dem Titel Geber, Count Julian and other Poems herausgegeben, welche zum Theil früher einzeln erschienen sind. Gedanken. fülle, Phantasie, Kraft, ausgebreitetes Wissen und reiche Menschenkenntniss verbunden mit Eleganz des Ausdruckes, weisen ihm einen sehr hohen Rang unter seinen poetischen Zeitgenossen an.

The Dragon-fly

Life (priest and poet say) is but a dream;
I wish no happier one than to be laid
Beneath some cool syringa's scented shade;
Or wavy willow, by the running stream,

Brimful of moral, where the Dragon-fly
Wanders as careless and content as I.

Thanks for this fancy, insect king,
Of purple crest and meshy wing,
Who, with indifference, givest up
The water-lily's golden cup,
To come again and overlook
What I am writing in my book.
Believe me, most who read the line
Will read with hornier eyes than thine;
And yet their souls shall live for ever,
And thine drop dead into the river!
God pardon them, O insect king,
Who fancy so unjust a thing!

To Janth e.

While the winds whistle round my cheerless room,
And the pale morning droops with winter's gloom;
While indistinct lie rude and cultured lands,
The ripening harvest and the hoary sands:
Alone, and destitute of every page
That fires the poet, or informs the sage,
Where shall my wishes, where my fancy rove,
Rest upon past or cherish promised love?
Alas! the past I never can regain,
Wishes may rise, and tears may flow in vain.
Fancy, that shews her in her early bloom,
Throws barren sunshine o'er the unyielding tomb.
What then would passion, what would reason do?
Sure, to retrace is worse than to pursue,
Here will I sit, 'till heaven shall cease to lour,
And happier Hesper bring the appointed hour;

Gaze on the mingled waste of sky and sea,
Think of my love, and bid her think of me.

Faesulan Idyl.

Here, where precipitate Spring with one light
bound

Into hot Summer's lusty arms expires;
And where go forth at morn, at eve, at night,
Soft airs, that want the lute to play with them,
And softer sighs, that know not what they want;
Under a wall, beneath an orange-tree
Whose tallest flowers could tell the lowlier ones
Of sights in Fiesole right up above,
While I was gazing a few paces off

At what they seemed to show me with their nods
Their frequent whispers and their pointing shoots,
A gentle maid came down the garden steps,
And gathered the pure treasure in her lap.
I heard the branches rustle, and stept forth
To drive the ox away, or mule, or goat,
(Such I believed it must be); for sweet scents
Are the swift vehicles of still sweeter thoughts,
And nurse and pillow the dull memory
That would let drop without them her best stores.
They bring me tales of youth and tones of love,
And 'tis and ever was my wish and way
To let all flowers live freely, and all die,
Whene'er their genius bids their souls depart,
Among their kindred in their native place.
I never pluck the rose; the violet's head
Hath shaken with my breath upon its bank
And not reproacht me; the ever sacred cup
Of the pure lily hath between my hands
Felt safe, unsoil'd, nor lost one grain of gold.

saw the light that made the glossy leaves
More glossy; the fair arm, the fairer cheek
Warmed by the eye intent on its pursuit;
I saw the foot, that, although half erect
From its grey slipper, could not lift her up