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A touch of hers, his blood would ebb and flow, Himself like what he had been; on the sea
There was a mass of many images Unknowing of its cause of agony.
Crowded like waves upon me; but he was But she in these fond feelings had no share: A part of all, and in the last he lay Her sighs were not for him! to her he was Reposing from the noontide sultriness, Even as a brother, but no more: 'twas much, Couch'd among fallen columns, in the shade For brotherless she was, save in the name Of ruin'd walls that had survived the names Her infant friendship had bestow'd on him; Of those who rear'd them: by his sleeping side Herself the solitary scion left
Stood camels grazing, and some goodly steeds Of a time-honour'd race. It was a name
Were fasten'd near a fountain; and a man, Which pleased him, and yet pleased him not, Clad in a flowing garb, did watch the while,
and why? While many of his tribe slumber'd around, Time taught him a deep answer when she And they were canopied by the blue sky
So cloudless, clear, and purely beautiful, Another! even now she loved another;
That God alone was to be seen in heaven. And on the summit of that hill she stood
A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. Looking afar , if yet her lover's steed
The lady of his love was wed with one Kept pace with her expectancy, and flew. Who did not love her better: in her home,
A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. A thousand leagues from his, her native home, There was an ancient mansion, and before She dwelt, begirt with growing infancy, Its walls there was a steed caparison'd:
Daughters and sons of beauty, but, behold! Within an antique oratory stood
Upon her face there was the tint of grief, The boy of whom I spake; he was alone, The settled shadow of an inward strife, And pale, and pacing to and fro: anon
And an unquiet drooping of the eye, He sate him down; and seized a pen, and traced As if its lid were charged with unshed tears. Words which I could not guess of; then he lean's What could her grief be? she had all she His bow'd head on his hands, and shook as't were
loved; With a convulsion, then arose again,
And he who had so loved her was not there And, with his teeth and quivering hands, did 'To trouble with bad hopes, or evil wish,
Or ill-repress'd affliction, her pure thoughts. What he had written; but he shed no tears. What could her grief be? she had loved And he did calm himself, and fix his brow Into a kind of quiet: as he paused
Nor given him cause to deem himself beloved; The lady of his love re-entered there;
Nor could he be a part of that which prey'd She was serene and smiling then,
Upon her mind, a spectre of the past. She knew she was by him beloved! she knew, A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. For quickly comes such knowledge, that his The wanderer was return'd. I saw him stand
Before an altar, with a gentle bride: Was darken'd with her shadow; and she saw
Her face was fair, but was not that which That he was wretched, but she saw not all.
made He rose, and, with a cold and gentle grasp, The starlight of his boyhood! as he stood He took her hand; a moment o'er his face Even at the altar, o'er his brow there came A tablet of unutterable thoughts
The selfsame aspect, and the quivering shock Was traced, and then it faded as it came: That in the antique oratory shook He dropp'd the hand he held, and with slow His bosom in its solitude; and then,
As in that hour, a moment o'er his face Retired, but not as bidding her adieu; The tablet of unutterable thoughts For they did part with mutual smiles: he pass'd Was traced, and then it faded as it came; From out the massy gate of that old hall, And he stood calm and quiet, and he spoke And mounting on his steed he went his way, The fitting vows,
but heard not his own And ne'er repass’d that hoary threshold more!
words; change came o'er the spirit of my dream. And all things reel'd around him! he could see The boy was sprung to manhood: in the wilds Not that which was, nor that which should have Of fiery climes he made himself a home, And his soul drank their sunbeams; he was girt But the old mansion, and the accustom'd hall, With strange and dusky aspects; he was not And the remember'd chambers, and the place,
The day, the hour, the sunshine, and the And the quick spirit of the universe
He held his dialogues; and they did teach
Be it so.
Farewell! if ever fondest prayer
For others' weal avail'd on high, Which strips the distance of its phantasies,
Mine will not all be lost in air And brings life near in utter nakedness,
But waft thy name beyond the sky. Making the cold reality too real!
'Twere vain to speak, to weep, to sigh: A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
Oh! more than tears of blood can tell, The wanderer was alone as heretofore;
When wrung from guilt's expiring eye, The beings which surrounded him were gone,
Are in that word Farewell! Farewell! Or were at war with him! he was a mark For blight and desolation,
compass'd round With hatred and contention: pain was mix'd These lips are mute, these eyes are dry; In all which was served up to him, until,
But in my breast, and in my brain, Like to the Pontic monarch of old days,
Awake the pangs that pass not by, He fed on poisons, and they had no power,
The thought that ne'er shall sleep again. But were a kind of nutriment: he lived
My soul nor deigns, nor dares complain, Through that which had been death to many men, Though grief and passion there rebel; And made him friends of mountains! with the I only know we loved in vain,
I only feel Farewell! Farewell!
Robert Southey ward am 12. August 1774 in Bristol geboren, studirte zu Oxford Theologie und fasste darauf den Plan mit Coleridge und Lorell nach Amerika zu gehn und dort eine Pantisowacy zu gründen. Es wurde jedoch Nichts daraus und Southey machte nun eine Reise nach Lissabon, von der er nach sechs Monaten zurückkehrte, sich vermählte und fortan literarischen Beschäftigungen lebte. Während der Jahre 1800 und 1801 besuchte er nochmals Spanien und Portugal und wurde darauf bei seiner Zurückkunft Secretair des damaligen Kanzlers der Schatz
kammer von Irland, Carry, legte aber 1803 dieses Amt nieder und zog sich nach Keswick in Cumberland zurück. 1813 erhielt er die Bestallung eines Hofpoeten, ohne die Verpflichtung indessen den Geburtstag des Königs alljährlich mit einer Ode zu feiern und 1834 eine Pension von 300 Pfund Sterling. Er starb 1843.
Southey hat sehr viele poetische wie prosaische Schriften hinterlassen. Seine dichterischen Leistungen umschliessen mehrere epische Poesieen von grösserem Umfange, wie z. B. Thalaba, Madae, the curse of Kehama, Roderick; ein Trauerspiel Wat Tyler, viele lyrische Gedichte u. 8. w. Eine treffliche Auswahl aus denselben für die Jugend erschien London 1831 in 12. Gesammelt kamen seine poetischen Werke London 1820, 14 Bde in 8. heraus. Die Eigenschaften, welche ihn als Dichter auszeichnen, sind Reichthum der Phantasie, Geist, Lebendigkeit, Witz und Gefühl, aber es fehlt ihm an Ruhe und Besonnenheit; er lässt sich zu sehr vom Augenblicke hinreissen und giebt zu viel auf den ersten Eindruck. Er glänzt zu oft auf Kosten der Wahrheit und bleibend ist daher selten eine seiner Gestalten. Zu häufig bringt er bloss rhetorische Schönheit statt poetischer und glaubt zu genügen, wenn er die nackten Seiten seiner Stoffe durch schimmernden Flitter verhüllt.
Uebrigens ist er vollkommener Herr der Sprache, aber mehr ihr launenhafter Tyrann als ihr wohlwollender Gebieter.
Noch weit bedeutender als seine Dichtungen, sind seine Biographieen, namentlich seine Lebensbeschreibung Nelson's; hier ist er auch in den kleinsten Theilen ein bewährter Meister und ein edles Vorbild.
I marvel not, o Sun! that unto thee
And pour his prayers of mingled awe and love;
Beauty, and life, and joyance from above.
day; But shed thy splendour through the opening
cloud And cheer the earth once more. The languid
flowers Lie odourless, bent down with heavy rain, Earth asks thy presence,
showers! O lord of light! put forth thy beams again,
For damp and cheerless are the gloomy hours.
Man hath a weary pilgrimage As through the world he wends, On every stage from youth to age
Still discontent attends; With heaviness he casts his eye
Upon the road before, And still remembers with a sigh
The days that are no more.
Maturer Manhood now arrives,
And other thoughts come on,
Its generous warmth is gone:
The dull realities of truth;
Back on the past he turns his eye;
Till she sunk with very weakness. Her old Remembering with an envious sigh
mother The happy dreams of Youth.
Omitted no kind office, working for her,
Albeit her hardest labour barely earn'd
Enough to keep life struggling, and prolong Of this our mortal pilgrimage,
The pains of grief and sickness. Thus she lay With feeble step and slow;
On the sick bed of poverty, worn out New ills that latter stage await,
With her long suffering and those painful thoughts And old Experience learns too late
Which at her heart were rankling, and so weak, That all is vanity below.
That she could make no effort to express
Affection for her infant; and the child,
Whose lisping love perhaps had solaced her, Yet Age remembers with a sigh
Shunn'd her as one indifferent. But she too
Had grown indifferent to all things of earth;
sickness and grief, Her shame, her suffering, and her penitence:
Their work was done. The school-boys as they Hannah.
In the church-yard, for awhile miglit turn away Passing across a green and lonely lane From the fresh grave till grass should cover it; A funeral met our view. It was not here Nature would do that office soon; and none A sight of every day, as in the streets
Who trod upon the senseless turf would think Of some great city, and we stopt and ask'd Of what a world of woes lay buried there! Whom they were bearing to the grave. A girl, They answer'd, of the village, who had pined Through the long course of eighteen painful
The Ebb tide.
Slowly thy flowing tide
With many a stroke and strong
Between thy winding shores.
Now down thine ebbing tide
And sings an idle song.
Now o'er the rocks that lay
Through wider-spreading shores.
Avon! I gaze and know
So rapidly decay.
Kingdoms which long have stood, What a cold sickness made her blood run back And slow to strength and power attain’d at last, When first she heard the tidings of the fight: Thus from the summit of high fortune's flood Man does not know with what a dreadful hope Ebb to their ruin fast.
She listened to the names of those who died:
Man does not know, or, knowing, will not
His image who was gone. O God! be Thou,
The Battle of Blenheim.
It was a summer evening,
Old Kaspar's work was done,
Was sitting in the sun,
She saw her brother Peterkin
Roll something lurge and round,
In playing there had found;
how the church bells' thundering har
There was one who died
Old Kaspar took it from the boy,
Who stood expectant by;
And with a natural sigh,
He, ocean deep,
“I find them in the garden,
“For there's many here about; “And often when I go to plough,
“The ploughshare turns them out! "For many thousand men,” said he, “Were slain in that great victory."
"Now tell us what 'twas all about,"
Young Peterkin he cries;
With wonder-waiting eyes;
“It was the English," Kaspar cried,
“Who put the French to rout; "But what they kill'd each other for,