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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.

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Ode to Mercy.

Now air is hush'd, save where the weak-ey'd bat, Strophe.

With short shrill shriek flits on by leathern wing,

Or where the beetle winds ( Thou! who sitt'st a smiling bride

His small but sullen horn,
By Valour's arm'd and awful side,
Gentlest of sky-born forms, and best ador'd:

As oft he rises 'midst the twilight path,
Who oft, with songs , divine to hear,

Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum: Winn'st from his fatal grasp the spear,

Now teach me, maid compos'd, And hid'st in wreaths of flowers his bloodless

To breathe some soften'd strain,

sword! Thou, who, amidst the deathful field

Whose numbers, stealing through thy darkening By godlike chiefs alone beheld,

vale, Oft with thy bosom bare art found,

May not unseemly with its stillness suit, Pleading for him, the youth who sinks to ground:

As, musing slow, I hail
See, Mercy , see! with pure and loaded hands,

Thy genial lov'd return!
Before thy shrine my country's Genius stands,
And decks thy altar still, though pierc'd with For when thy folding-star arising shows

many a wound!

His paly circlet, at his warning lamp

The fragrant hours, and elves
Antistrophe.

Who slept in buds the day,
When he whom e'en our joys provoke,
The fiend of Nature , join'd his yoke,

And many a nymph who wreathes her brows

with sedge, And rush'd in wrath to make our isle his prey :

And sheds the freshening dew, and lovelier still, Thy form, from out thy sweet abode,

The pensive pleasures sweet O'ertook him on his blasted road,

Prepare thy shadowy car. And stopp'd his wheels, and look’d his rage

away.

Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene, I see recoil his sable steeds,

Or find some ruin 'midst its dreary dells, That bore him swift to savage deeds,

Whose walls more awful nod
Thy tender melting eyes they own;

By thy religious gleams.
O maid! for all thy love to Britain shewn,
Where Justice bars her iron tower,

Or if chill blustering winds, or driving rain, To thee we build a roseate bower,

Prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut, Thou, thou shalt rule our queen, and share our

That from the mountain's side monarch's throne!

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
Ode to Evening.

The gradual dusky veil.
If aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song, While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he
May hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy modest ear,

wont, Like thy own solemn springs,

And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve! Thy springs, and dying gales;

While Summer loves to sport

Beneath thy lingering light: O nymph reserv'd, while now the bright-hair'd

Sun

While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves, Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts, Or Winter, yelling through the troublous air, With brede ethereal wove,

Affrights thy shrinking train, O'erhang his wavy bed:

And rudely rends thy robes:

So long, regardful of thy quiet rule,

Thou, who with hermit heart Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling Peace, Disdain'st the wealth of art, Thy gentlest influence own,

And gauds, and pageant weeds, and trailing pall: And love thy favourite name!

But com'st a decent maid,

In Attic robe array'd,
O chaste, unboastful nymph! to thee I call!

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Though taste, though genius, bless

To some divine excess,
Faint's the cold work till thou inspire the whole

What each , what all supply,
To Simplicity.

May court, may charm our eye,

Thou! only thou canst raise the meeting soul!
O Thou, by Nature taught
To breathe her genuine thought,

Of these let others ask,
In numbers warmly pure, and sweetly strong To aid some mighty task,
Who first on mountains wild,

I only seek to find thy temperate vale:
In Fancy, loveliest child,

Where oft my reed might sound Thy babe, and Pleasure's , nursed the powers of To maids and shepherds round,

song!

And all thy sons, O Nature! learn my tale.

Smollett.

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.

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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 tlower'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 zuile,
And Industry imbrown'd with toil,
And hearts resolv'd and hands prepa'rd
The blessings they enjoy to guard.

Aken side.

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.

Need I urge

Select Pa s sa ges from A kenside's Pleasures of

Thy tardy thought through all the various round

Of this existence, that thy softening soul
Imagination.

At length may learn what energy the hand

Of Virtue mingles in the bitter tide
Is aught so fair
In all the dewy landscapes of the spring,

Of passion, swelling with distress and pain In the bright eye of Hesper or the Morn,

To mitigate the sharp with gracious drops In Nature's fairest forms, is aught so fair

Of cordial pleasure? Ask the faithful youth

Why the cold urn of her whom long he lov'd As virtuous Friendship? as the candid blush Of him who strives with fortune to be just ?

So often fills his arms; so often draws
The graceful tear that streams for others woes? His lonely footsteps at the silent hour,

To pay the mournful tribute of his tears?
Or the mild majesty of private life.
Where Peace with ever-blooming olive crowns

Oh! he will tell thee, that the wealth of worlds

Should ne'er seduce his bosom to forego
The gate; where Honour's liberal hands effuse
Unenvied treasures, and the snowy wings

That sacred hour, when, stealing from the noise Of Innocence and Love protect the scene?

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 That clasp the mouldering column; thus desacd, Some helpless bark; while sacred Pity melts Thus widely mournful when the prospect thrills The general eye, or Terror's icy hand

Thy beating bosom, when the patriot's tear Smites their distorted limbs and horrent hair; Starts from thine eye, and thy extended arm While every mother closer to her breast

In fancy hurls the thunderbolt of Jove Catches her child, and pointing where the waves To fire the impious wreath on Philip's brow Foam through the shatter'd vessel, shrieks aloud, Or dash Octavius from the trophied car; As one poor wretch that spreads his piteous arms Say, does tlıy secret soul repine to taste For succour, swallow'd by the roaring surge, The big distress? Or would'st thou then exAs now another, dash'd against the rock,

change Drops lifeless down : 0! deemest thou indeed Those heart-ennolling sorrows for the lot No kind endearment here by Nature given Of him who sits amid the gaudy herd To mutual terror and Compassion's tears? Of mute barbarians bending to his nod, No sweetly-melting softness which attracts, And bears aloft his gold-invested front, O'er all that edge of pain, the social powers And says within himself — 'I am a king, To this their proper action and their end? And wherefore should the clamorous voice of woe Ask thy own heart, when at the midnight Intrude upon mine ear?' - The baleful dregs

hour,

Of these late ages, this inglorious draught Slow through that studious gloom thy pau- Of servitude and folly, have not yet,

sing eye,

Blest be the eternal Ruler of the world!
Led by the glimmering taper, moves around Defil'd to such a depth of sordid shame
The sacred volumes of the dead, the songs The native honours of the human soul,
Of Grecian bards, and records writ by Fame Nor so effac'd the image of its sire.
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,

What en is taste, but these internal powers
Mix in their deeds and kindle with their flame; Active, and strong, and feelingly alive
Say, when the prospect blackens on thy view, To each fine impulse ? a discerning sense
When rooted from the base, heroic states Of decent and sublime, with quick disgust
Mourn in the dust, and tremble at the frown From things deform’d, or disarrang'd, or gross
Of curst Ambition : when the pious band In species? This, nor gems, nor stores of gold,
Of youths who fought for freedom and their Nor purple state, nor culture can bestow;

sires,

But God alone when first his active hand Lie side by side in gore; when ruffian Pride Imprints the secret bias of the soul. Usurps the throne of Justice, turns the pomp He, mighty parent! wise and just in all, Of public power, the majesty of rule,

Free as the vital breeze or light of Heaven, The sword, the laurel, and the purple robe, Reveals the charms of Nature. Ask the swain To slavish, empty pageants, to adorn

Who journeys homeward from a summer day's A tyrant's walk, and glitter in the eyes Long labour, why, forgetful of his toils Of such as bow the knee; when honour'd urns And due repose, he loiters to behold Of patriots and of chiefs, the aweful bust The sunshine gleaming as through amber clouds, And storied arch , to glut the coward age O’er all the western sky; full soon , I ween, Of regal Envy, strew the public way

His rude expression and untutor'd airs, With hallow'd ruins; when the Muse's haunt, Beyond the power of language, will unfold The marble porch where wisdom wont to talk The form of beauty smiling at his heart, With Socrates or Tully, hears no more, How lovely! how commanding! But though Save the hoarse jargon of contentious monks.

Heaven Or female superstition's midnight prayer; In every breast hath sown these early seeds When ruthless Rapine from the hand of Time Of love and admiration, yet in vain, Tears the destroying scythe, with surer blow Without fair Culture's kind parental aid, To sweep the works of glory from their base; Without enlivening suns, and genial showers, Till Desolation o'er the grass-grown street And shelter from the blast, in vain we hope Expands his raven wings, and up the wall, The tender plant should rear its blooming head, Where senates once the price of monarchs doom'd, Or yield the harvest promised in its spring.

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