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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