A touch of hers, his blood would ebb and flow, heart Unknowing of its cause of agony. his But she in these fond feelings had no share: Himself like what he had been: on the sea And on the shore he was a wanderer! Of a time-honour'd race. It was a name Which pleased him, and yet pleased him not, and why? Time taught him a deep answer loved Another! even now she loved another; - A thousand leagues from his, her native home, A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. There was an ancient mansion, and before Its walls there was a steed caparison'd: Within an antique oratory stood The boy of whom I spake; he was alone, And pale, and pacing to and fro: anon He sate him down; and seized a pen, and traced Words which I could not guess of; then he lean'd His bow'd head on his hands, and shook as't were 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 could her grief be? Ishe had loved him not, Nor given him cause to deem himself beloved; Nor could he be a part of that which prey'd Upon her mind, - a spectre of the past. tear What he had written; but he shed no tears. A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. but was not that which The starlight of his boyhood! as he stood - And all things reel'd around him! he could see But the old mansion, and the accustom'd hall, The day, the hour, the sunshine, and the And the quick spirit of the universe shade, All things pertaining to that place and hour, A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. stars Southey. 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. s. 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. Back on the past he turns his eye; Remembering with an envious sigh The happy dreams of Youth. So reaches he the latter stage Of this our mortal pilgrimage, With feeble step and slow; New ills that latter stage await, And old Experience learns too late That all is vanity below. Life's vain delusions are gone by, Its idle hopes are o'er, Yet Age remembers with a sigh The days that are no more. Hannah. Passing across a green and lonely lane With such slow wasting, that the hour of death Till she sunk with very weakness. Her old mother Omitted no kind office, working for her, Her shame, her suffering, and her penitence: Their work was done. The school-boys as they sport In the church-yard, for awhile might turn away The Ebb tide. Slowly thy flowing tide Came in, old Avon! scarcely did mine eyes, As watchfully I roam'd thy green-wood side, Behold the gentle rise. With many a stroke and strong The labouring boatmen upward plied their oars, And yet the eye beheld them labouring long Between thy winding shores. Now down thine ebbing tide The unlabour'd boat falls rapidly along; The solitary helmsman sits to guide, And sings an idle song. Now o'er the rocks that lay So silent late the shallow current roars; Fast flow thy waters on their sea-ward way, Through wider-spreading shores. Avon! I gaze and know The lesson emblem'd in thy varying way; It speaks of human joys that rise so slow, So rapidly decay. Time's tardy course to manhood's envied stage; With what an agony of tenderness Alas! how hurryingly the ebbing years Then hasten to old age! She gazed upon her children, and beheld His image who was gone. O God! be Thou, Who art the widow's friend, her comforter! In that day's glory, whose obscurer name talk of them, of joys oh God! and of the hour The Battle of Blenheim. It was a summer evening, Old Kaspar's work was done, And he before his cottage door Was sitting in the sun, And by him sported on the green His little grandchild Wilhelmine. She saw her brother Peterkin Roll something lurge and round, Which he beside the rivulet In playing there had found; He came to ask what he had found, That was so large, and smooth, and round. Old Kaspar took it from the boy, Who stood expectant by; And then the old man shook his head, And with a natural sigh, "Tis some poor fellow's scull," said he, "Who fell in the great victory. "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; While little Wilhelmine looks up, With wonder-waiting eyes; "Now tell us all about the war, "And what they kill'd each other for." "It was the English," Kaspar cried, "Who put the French to rout; "But what they kill'd each other for, |