In thy still hour how dearly I delight
To rest my weary bones, from labour free;
In lone spots, out of hearing, out of sight,
To sigh day's smothered pains; and pause
on thee,

Bedecking dangling brier and ivied tree,
Or diamonds tipping on the grassy spear;
Thy pale-faced glimmering light I love to see,
Gilding and glistering in the dewdrop near:
O still-hour's mate! my easing heart sobs
free,

Hail to the nameless coloured dark and light, While tiny bents low bend with many an The witching nurse of the illumined birth. added tear.

Pollok.

Robert Pollok ward zu Muirhouse, in dem Kirchspiele Eaglesham, Renfrewshire, im Jahre 1799 geboren. Nach einer gewöhnlichen Vorbildung bezog er die Universität zu Glasgow, wo er Theologie studirte. Nachdem er die Hochschule einige Zeit verlassen, schrieb er „Tales of the Covenanters in Prosa, welche anonym erschienen. Durch anhaltende Studien hatte seine Gesundheit sehr gelitten, und ungeachtet seines bedenklichen Gesundheitszustandes wurde er im Frühling 1827 Licentiat, starb aber schon am 7. September desselben Jahres zu Shirley Common, in der Nähe von Southampton, wohin er sich kurz zuvor in der Hoffnung begeben hatte, dass die mildere Luft jenes Ortes seinen leidenden Zustand erträglicher machen würde.

Als Dichter hat Pollok seinen Ruf durch ein umfassendes Gedicht: The Course of Time, welches 1827 erschien, begründet; es erhielt namentlich in Schottland grossen Beifall unter dem Volke. Dieses Gedicht, in zehn Bücher abgetheilt, und in einem Style geschrieben, der bald Milton's hohen Schwung nachahmt, bald an Blair und Young erinnert, schildert das geistige Leben und das Schicksal des Menschen, und beleuchtet die Wirkungen der Tugend und des Lasters. Oft ist es in einem rauhen, schwülstigen und heftigen Tone gehalten und von einer düstern Frömmigkeit entstellt, welche den Leser zurückstösst, ungeachtet der vielen glänzenden Stellen und Bilder, die durch das ganze Werk ausgestreut sind. Das Ganze zeigt von seltener Geisteskraft und Entschiedenheit des Cha

racters.

Das rege Interesse, welches die Oeffentlichkeit an diesem Dichter nahm, dessen Gedichte 18 Auflagen erlebten, führte zu einer Denkschrift seines Lebens, welche 1843 erschien. Auch setzten ihm seine Verehrer einen Obelisk von Granit, welcher des Dichters Grab bezeichnet.

Love.

Hail love, first love, thou word that sums all

bliss!

The sparkling cream of all Time's blessedness,
The silken down of happiness complete!

Discerner of the ripest grapes of joy
She gathered and selected with her hand,
All finest relishes, all fairest sights,
All rarest odours, all divinest sounds,
All thoughts, all feelings dearest to the soul:
And brought the holy mixture home, and filled

The heart with all superlatives of bliss.
But who would that expound, which words
transcends,

Must talk in vain. Behold a meeting scene
Of early love, and thence infer its worth.

It was an eve of autumn's holiest mood. The corn-fields, bathed in Cynthia's silver light,

Stood ready for the reaper's gathering hand;
And all the winds slept soundly. Nature
seemed

In silent contemplation to adore
Its Maker. Now and then the aged leaf
Fell from its fellows, rustling to the ground;
And, as it fell, bade man think on his end.
On vale and lake, on wood and mountain
high,
With pensive wing outspread, sat heavenly
Thought,

O had her lover seen her thus alone,
Thus holy, wrestling thus, and all for him!
Nor did he not: for ofttimes Providence
With unexpected joy the fervent prayer
Of faith surprised. Returned from long delay,
With glory crowned of righteous actions
won,

The sacred thorn, to memory dear, first
sought

The youth, and found it at the happy hour
Just when the damsel kneeled herself to pray.
Wrapped in devotion, pleading with her
God,

She saw him not, heard not his foot ap-
proach.

All holy images seemed too impure
To emblem her he saw. A seraph kneeled,
Beseeching for his ward before the throne,
Seemed fittest, pleased him best. Sweet was
the thought!

came,

That she was flesh and blood formed for himself,

Conversing with itself. Vesper looked forth
From out her western hermitage, and smiled; But sweeter still the kind remembrance
And up the east, unclouded, rode the moon
With all her stars, gazing on earth intense,
As if she saw some wonder working there.
Such was the night, so lovely, still, serene,
When, by a hermit thorn that on the hill
Had seen a hundred flowery ages pass,
A damsel kneeled to offer up her prayer
Her prayer nightly offered, nightly heard.
This ancient thorn had been the meeting
place

Of love, before his country's voice had called
The ardent youth to fields of honour far
Beyond the wave: and hither now repaired,
Nightly, the maid, by God's all-seeing eye
Seen only, while she sought this boon alone-
'Her lover's safety, and his quick return'.
In holy, humble attitude she kneeled,
And to her bosom, fair as moonbeam,
pressed

One hand, the other lifted up to heaven.
Her eye, upturned, bright as the star of morn,
As violet meek, excessive ardour streamed,
Wafting away her earnest heart to God.
Her voice, scarce uttered, soft as Zephyr
sighs

On morning's lily cheek, though soft and
low,

Yet heard in heaven, heard at the mercy-seat.
A tear-drop wandered on her lovely face;
It was a tear of faith and holy fear,
Pure as the drops that hang at dawning-time
On yonder willows by the stream of life.
On her the moon looked steadfastly; the

stars

That circle nightly round the eternal throne
Glanced down, well pleased; and everlasting
Love

Gave gracious audience to her prayer sincere.

The plighted partner of his future life.
And as they met, embraced, and sat em-
bowered

In woody chambers of the starry night,
Spirits of love about them ministered,
And God approving, blessed the holy joy!

Of loftiest mind, and gave, when all within
Was right, a feast of overflowing bliss;
But were the occasion, not the cause of joy.
They waked the native fountains of the soul The offspring of her love, and lisped her
Which slept before, and stirred the holy tides
Of feeling up, giving the heart to drink
From its own treasures draughts of perfect

As living jewels dropped unstained from heaven, That made her fairer far, and sweeter seem The Christian faith, which better knew Than every ornament of costliest hue! And who hath not been ravished, as she passed

Of man, him thither sent for peace, and thus!
Declared: Who finds it, let him find it there; | With all her playful band of little ones,
Who finds it not, for ever let him seek Like Luna with her daughters of the sky,
In vain; 'tis God's most holy, changeless will. Walking in matron majesty and grace?
True Happiness had no localities,
No tones provincial, no peculiar garb.
Where Duty went, she went, with Justice

Motherwell.

William Motherwell wurde am 13. October 1797 zu Glasgow in Schottland, geboren. Vom elften Jahre an, genoss er, unter der Leitung seines Oheims zu Paisley, eine sorgfältige Erziehung. Seine Liebe zur Dichtkunst entwickelte sich schon frühzeitig in ihm. Mit vorzüglichem Eifer widmete er sich dem Studium der altenglischen Literatur, insbesondere der alten schottischen Liederdichtung. Mit dem Jahre 1819 wurde er Herausgeber verschiedener Zeitschriften, zuletzt des Glasgow Courier. Als Solcher starb er zu Glasgow am Schlagflusse, d. 1. Nov. 1835.

Schon im Jahre 1848 gab Motherwell eine Sammlung von eigenen und fremden Liedern, unter dem Titel, heraus: 'The Harp of Renfrewshire.' Die Ergebnisse seiner Untersuchungen über vaterländische Poesie legte er in der Minstrelsy Ancient and Modern 4827 nieder. Seine erzählenden und lyrischen Gedichte, welche 1832 zu Glasgow erschienen, sind durchgängig volksthümlich, und können denen seines Landsmannes Burns würdig zur Seite gestellt werden. In Tiefe und Innigkeit der Empfindung, an Schönheit und Wohlklang der Sprache ist er von keinem andern schottischen Dichter übertroffen, von wenigen erreicht worden. Am glücklichsten war, er im Rührenden und Elegischen.

What is fame? and what is glory?
A dream,
a jester's lying story,
To tickle fools withal, or be
A theme for second infancy;
A joke scrawled on an epitaph;
A grin at death's own ghastly laugh,
A visioning that tempts the eye,
But mocks the touch nonentity;
A rainbow, substanceless as bright,
Flitting for ever

O'er hill-top to more distant height,
Nearing us never;

A bubble, blown by fond conceit,
In very sooth itself to cheat;

The witch-fire of a frenzied brain;
A fortune that to lose were gain;

A word of praise, perchance of blame;
The wreck of a time-bandied name,
Ay, this is glory! this is fame!

Sword Chant of Thorstein Raudi. 'Tis not the gray hawk's flight o'er mountain and mere; 'Tis not the fleet hound's course, tracking the deer;

'Tis not the light hoof-print of black steed or

gray,

Though sweltering it gallop a long summer's And won him the glory of undying song.