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"I could not well make out. "But every body said," quoth he,' "That 'twas a famous victory.

"My father lived at Blenheim then,

"Yon little stream hard by: "They burnt his dwelling to the ground "And he was forced to fly;

"So with his wife and child he fled, "Nor had he where to rest his head.

"With fire and sword the country round "Was wasted far and wide; "And many a childing mother then, "And new-born baby died;

"But things like that, you know, must be "At every famous victory.

"They say it was a shocking sight

"After the field was won;

"For many thousand bodies here

"Lay rotting in the sun;

"But things like that, you know, must be "After a famous victory.

"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.

"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."

I heard thee last, as I saw thee first; In the silence of the evening hour, Heard I thee, thou busy, busy Bee.

Thou art a miser, thou busy, busy Bee!
Late and early at employ;

Still on thy golden stores intent,
Thy summer in heaping and hoarding is spent
What thy winter will never enjoy;
Wise lesson this for me, thou busy, busy Bee!

Little dost thou think, thou busy, busy Bee!
What is the end of thy toil.
When the latest flowers of the ivy are gone,
And all thy work for the year is done,
Thy master comes for the spoil:
Woe then for thee, thou busy, busy Bee!


O God! have mercy in this dreadful hour
On the poor mariner! in comfort here
Safe shelter'd as I am, I almost fear
The blast that rages with resistless power.

What were it now to toss upon the waves, The madden'd waves, and know no succour near; The howling of the storm alone to hear,

And the wild sea that to the tempest raves: To gaze amid the horrors of the night, And only see the billow's gleaming light;

And in the dread of death to think of her, Who, as she listens, sleepless, to the gale, Puts up a silent prayer and waxes pale?

O God! have mercy on the mariner!

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Through her rags do the winds of the winter With fearless good-humour did Mary comply, And her way to the Abbey she bent;

blow bleak

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, She shiver'd with cold as she went.


Hath the hue of a mortal despair.

Yet cheerful and happy, nor distant the day,
Poor Mary the Maniac hath been;
The Traveller remembers who journey'd this way
No damsel so lovely, no damsel so gay,
As Mary, the Maid of the Inn.

Her cheerful address fill'd the guests with delight

As she welcomed them in with a smile; Her heart was a stranger to childish affright, And Mary would walk by the Abbey at night

When the wind whistled down the dark aisle.

O'er the path so well known still proceeded the

Where the Abbey rose dim on the sight;
Through the gate-way she enter'd, she felt not
Yet the ruins were lonely and wild, and their

Seem'd to deepen the gloom of the night.

All around her was silent, save when the rude

Howl'd dismally round the old pile;
Over weed-cover'd fragments she fearlessly past,

Where the elder-tree grew in the aisle.

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:
But Richard was idle and worthless, and they
Who knew him would pity poor Mary and say
That she was too good for his wife.

Well-pleased did she reach it, and quickly drew


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

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I myself, like a school-boy, should tremble to Behind a wide column, half breathless with fear,

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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 her heart


She gazed horribly eager around,

Then her limbs could support their faint burthen

no more,

When the name of her Richard she knew!

And exhausted and breathless she sunk on the Where the old Abbey stands, on the common hard by,

Unable to utter a sound.


Ere yet her pale lips could the story impart,
For a moment the hat met her view;

His gibbet now to be seen;

His irons you still from the road may espy,
The traveller beholds them and thinks with a sigh
Of poor Mary, the Maid of the Inn.


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 Ausnahme 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 hindert uns, ihm ernstlich zu zürnen.

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saw from the beach, when the morning was shining,

A bark o'er the waters moved gloriously on; I came, when the sun o'er that beach was declining,

The bark was still there, but the waters were gone!

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Light rambled the boy over meadow and mount, And neglected his task for the flowers on the way. Thus some who, like me, should have drawn and have tasted 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

Ah! such is the fate of our life's early promise,
So passing the spring-tide of joy we have


from us,

And leaves us, at eve, on the bleak shore


Ne'er tell me of glories, serenely adorning


And left their light urns all as empty as mine! But pledge me the goblet while Idleness


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

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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.

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