schen Werke wurden zuerst von Langhorne, London 1764 und später nochmals von L. Barbauld, London 1797, herausgegeben; sie finden sich im 49. Bde der Johnson'schen, im 97. Bde der Bell'schen und im 9. Bde der Anderson'schen Sammlung.
O Thou! who sitt'st a smiling bride
By Valour's arm'd and awful side,
Gentlest of sky-born forms, and best ador'd:
Who oft, with songs, divine to hear,
Winn'st from his fatal grasp the spear,
And hid'st in wreaths of flowers his bloodless
sword!
Thou, who, amidst the deathful field
By godlike chiefs alone beheld,
Oft with thy bosom bare art found,
Pleading for him, the youth who sinks to ground:
See, Mercy, see! with pure and loaded hands,
Before thy shrine my country's Genius stands,
And decks thy altar still, though pierc'd with
Now air is hush'd, save where the weak-ey'd bat,
With short shrill shriek flits on by leathern wing,
Or where the beetle winds
His small but sullen horn,
As oft he rises 'midst the twilight path, Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum: Now teach me, maid compos'd,
To breathe some soften'd strain,
Whose numbers, stealing through thy darkening vale,
May not unseemly with its stillness suit,
As, musing slow, I hail
Thy genial lov'd return!
For when thy folding-star arising shows
His paly circlet, at his warning lamp
The fragrant hours, and elves
Who slept in buds the day,
And many a nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge,
And sheds the freshening dew, and lovelier still,
The pensive pleasures sweet
Prepare thy shadowy car.
Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene, Or find some ruin 'midst its dreary dells, Whose walls more awful nod
By thy religious gleams.
Or if chill blustering winds, or driving rain,
Prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut,
That from the mountain's side
Views wilds and swelling floods,
And hamlets brown, and dim-discover'd spires,
And hears their simple bell, and marks o'er all
Thy dewy fingers draw
The gradual dusky veil.
While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he
And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve!
While Summer loves to sport
Beneath thy lingering light:
While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves,
Or Winter, yelling through the troublous air,
Affrights thy shrinking train,
And rudely rends thy robes:
Tobias Smollett ward 1721 zu Renton in Dumbartonshire geboren, studirte in Glasgow die Heilkunde, ging dann nach London, wo er Marinearzt wurde, ein Amt, das er jedoch bald wieder aufgab, um sich in Bath als Arzt niederzulassen. Hier glückte es ihm indessen auch nicht und nun kehrte er nach London zurück und widmete sich ganz literarischen Beschäftigungen als Kritiker, Historiker und Romandichter; besonders als Letzterer hatte er sich ausserordentlichen Erfolges zu erfreuen. Um seine geschwächte Gesundheit herzustellen, ging er nach Italien und starb 1771 in Livorno.
Was Smollett in seinen Romanen leistete, zu würdigen, wäre hier nicht am Orte. Eigentliche Poesieen hinterliess er nur in geringer Anzahl, aber diese sind voll Grazie und Gefühl, voll Würde und Eleganz, namentlich die unten mitgetheilte Klage um Schottland. Sie finden sich in seinen Miscellaneous Works. London 1796, 6 Bde in 8.
Pure stream! in whose transparent wave
My youthful limbs I wont to lave;
No torrents stain thy limpid source;
No rocks impede thy dimpling course,
That sweetly warbles o'er its bed,
With white, round, polish'd pebbles spread;
While, lightly pois'd, the scaly brood
In myriads cleave thy crystal flood;
The springing trout in speckled pride;
The salmon, monarch of the tide;
The ruthless pike, intent on war;
The silver eel, and mottled par.
Devolving from thy parent lake,
A charming maze thy waters make,
By bowers of birch, and groves of pine,
And hedges flower'd with eglantine.
Still on thy banks so gaily green,
May num'rous herds and flocks be seen,
And lasses chanting o'er the pail,
And shepherds piping in the dale,
And ancient Faith that knows no guile,
|And Industry imbrown'd with toil,
And hearts resolv'd and hands prepa'rd
The blessings they enjoy to guard.
Mark Akenside, der Sohn eines Fleischers, ward am 9. November 1721 in Newcastle-on-Tyne geboren, studirte Medicin in Edinburg und Leyden, und lebte dann als practischer Arzt nacheinander in Northampton, Hampstead und London, wo er zu grossem Ansehen gelangte und am 23. Juni 1770 als Leibarzt der Königin starb.
Als Dichter erwarb sich Akenside vorzüglichen Ruhm durch sein didactisch - descriptives Gedicht: The Pleasures of Imagination, das in ausserordentlicher schöner Diction, einen Reichthum edler Gedanken und schöner Bilder offenbart; minder glücklich war er in seinen Oden. Seine Poesieen erschienen zuerst London 1772 in 4., dann öfter und finden sich auch im 55. Bde der Johnson'schen, im 104-105. Bde der Bell'schen und im 9. Bde der Anderson'schen Sammlung.
Select Passages
from Akenside's Pleasures of
In all the dewy landscapes of the spring,
In the bright eye of Hesper or the Morn,
In Nature's fairest forms, is aught so fair
As virtuous Friendship? as the candid blush
Of him who strives with fortune to be just?
The graceful tear that streams for others' woes?
Or the mild majesty of private life.
Where Peace with ever-blooming olive crowns
The gate; where Honour's liberal hands effuse
Unenvied treasures, and the snowy wings
Of Innocence and Love protect the scene?
Thy tardy thought through all the various round
Of this existence, that thy softening soul
At length may learn what energy the hand
Of Virtue mingles in the bitter tide
Of passion, swelling with distress and pain
To mitigate the sharp with gracious drops
Of cordial pleasure? Ask the faithful youth
Why the cold urn of her whom long he lov'd
So often fills his arms; so often draws
His lonely footsteps at the silent hour,
To pay the mournful tribute of his tears?
Oh! he will tell thee, that the wealth of worlds
Should ne'er seduce his bosom to forego
That sacred hour, when, stealing from the noise
Of care and envy, sweet remembrance soothes
With Virtue's kindest looks his aching breast,
And turns his tears to rapture. Ask the crowd
Which flies impatient from the village walk
To climb the neighbouring cliffs, when far below Hisses the gliding snake through hoary weeds
The cruel winds have hurl'd upon the coast
Some helpless bark; while sacred Pity melts
The general eye, or Terror's icy hand
Smites their distorted limbs and horrent hair;
While every mother closer to her breast
Catches her child, and pointing where the waves
Foam through the shatter'd vessel, shrieks aloud,
As one poor wretch that spreads his piteous arms
For succour, swallow'd by the roaring surge,
As now another, dash'd against the rock,
Drops lifeless down: O! deemest thou indeed
No kind endearment here by Nature given
To mutual terror and Compassion's tears?
No sweetly-melting softness which attracts,
O'er all that edge of pain, the social powers
To this their proper action and their end?
- Ask thy own heart, when at the midnight
hour,
That clasp the mouldering column; thus defac❜d,
Thus widely mournful when the prospect thrills
Thy beating bosom, when the patriot's tear
Starts from thine eye, and thy extended arm
In fancy hurls the thunderbolt of Jove
To fire the impious wreath on Philip's brow
Or dash Octavius from the trophied car;
Say, does thy secret soul repine to taste
The big distress? Or would'st thou then ex-
change
Those heart-ennobling sorrows for the lot
Of him who sits amid the gaudy herd
Of mute barbarians bending to his nod,
And bears aloft his gold-invested front,
And says within himself
And wherefore should the clamorous voice of woe
Intrude upon mine ear?' The baleful dregs
Of these late ages, this inglorious draught
Slow through that studious gloom thy pau- Of servitude and folly, have not yet,
Led by the glimmering taper, moves around
The sacred volumes of the dead, the songs
Of Grecian bards, and records writ by Fame
For Grecian heroes, where the present power
Of heaven and earth surveys the immortal page,
Even as a father blessing, while he reads
The praises of his son. If then thy soul,
Spurning the yoke of these inglorious days,
Mix in their deeds and kindle with their flame;
Say, when the prospect blackens on thy view,
When rooted from the base, heroic states
Mourn in the dust, and tremble at the frown
Of curst Ambition: when the pious band
Blest be the eternal Ruler of the world!
Defil'd to such a depth of sordid shame
The native honours of the human soul,
Nor so effac'd the image of its sire.
What then is taste, but these internal powers
Active, and strong, and feelingly alive
To each fine impulse? a discerning sense
Of decent and sublime, with quick disgust
From things deform'd, or disarrang'd, or gross
In species? This, nor gems, nor stores of gold,
Of youths who fought for freedom and their Nor purple state, nor culture can bestow;
Lie side by side in gore; when ruffian Pride
Usurps the throne of Justice, turns the pomp
Of public power, the majesty of rule,
The sword, the laurel, and the purple robe,
To slavish, empty pageants, to adorn
A tyrant's walk, and glitter in the eyes
Of such as bow the knee; when honour'd urns
Of patriots and of chiefs, the aweful bust
And storied arch, to glut the coward age
Of regal Envy, strew the public way
With hallow'd ruins; when the Muse's haunt,
The marble porch where wisdom wont to talk
With Socrates or Tully, hears no more,
Save the hoarse jargon of contentious monks.
Or female superstition's midnight prayer;
When ruthless Rapine from the hand of Time
Tears the destroying scythe, with surer blow
To sweep the works of glory from their base;
Till Desolation o'er the grass-grown street
Expands his raven wings, and up the wall,
Where senates once the price of monarchs doom'd,
But God alone when first his active hand
Imprints the secret bias of the soul.
He, mighty parent! wise and just in all,
Free as the vital breeze or light of Heaven,
Reveals the charms of Nature. Ask the swain
Who journeys homeward from a summer day's
Long labour, why, forgetful of his toils
And due repose, he loiters to behold
The sunshine gleaming as through amber clouds,
O'er all the western sky; full soon, I ween,
His rude expression and untutor❜d airs,
Beyond the power of language, will unfold
The form of beauty smiling at his heart,
How lovely! how commanding! But though
Heaven
In every breast hath sown these early seeds
Of love and admiration, yet in vain,
Without fair Culture's kind parental aid,
Without enlivening suns, and genial showers,
And shelter from the blast, in vain we hope
The tender plant should rear its blooming head,
Or yield the harvest promised in its spring.
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