Handbuch der englischen Literatur: Teil 2 Die Dichter [Reprint 2020 ed.] 9783112384046, 9783112384039

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HANDBUCH

DEE ENGLISCHEN LITERATUR. FÜR FREUNDE DER ENGLISCHEN SPRACHE UND

HÖHERE

U N T E R R I C H T S

- A N S T A L T E N

BEARBEITET VON

m AUGUST BOLTZ, LEHRER SIK HUJJUCHEM SPRACHE Alt DER XOEK1CL. kF\ lECSSCHOL«, UND

D* HERMANN FRANZ, LEHRER DER ENGLISCHEN SPRACHE UNO LITBRATOR AM KOEN1CL. FRANS. CTMNA90M UND AN DER HANDELSSCHULE.

a.

(Die (Öicßfet,

BERLIN. VERLAG

VON

GEORG

1852.

RBIMER.

DEM

HERRN

PROFESSOR I)R G. KRAMER, DIRECTOR DES KÖNIGL. FRANZÖSISCHEN GYMNASIUMS IN BERLIN,

RITTER etc.

ALS Z E I C H E N V O R Z Ü G L I C H S T E R

HOCHACHTUNG

«EWTDMKT TOM

DEN VERFASSERN.

INHALT. Seite

Seite

EINLEITUNG

3

ZWEITER ABSCHNITT. 1460-1558.

ERSTE PERIODE.

EINLEITUNG

Herrschaft des Französischen and Italienischen Einflusses. Endliche Festsetzung der Sprache, 1321-1558.

ENGLISCHE DICHTER. 1. JOHN LYDGATE.

1. From.- The Lyfe of onr Lady 2. The London Lyckpenny

ERSTER ABSCHNITT. 1324-1460.

9

25 26

To Mistress Margaret Hussey

26

3. EARL O F SURREY.

ENGLISCHE DICHTER. 1. J O H N GO WER.

. .

12 12

1. From the Prologue to the Canterbury Tales 2. Description of a Poor Country Widow 3. The Good Parson 4. Last Verses of Chaucer

15 17 18 18

2. GEOFFREY CHAUCER.

1. Description and Praise of his Love, Geraldine 2. How Age is content with his own State 3. Prisoner in Windsor

27 27 28

4. SIR THOMAS WYATT.

SCHOTTISCHE DICHTER. 1. JOHN BARBOUR

The Recnred Lover exalteth in his Freedom

29

SCHOTTISCHE DICHTER. 1. JAMES I. O F SCOTLAND.

James, Prisoner in Windsor, first sees Lady Beaufort

31

2. ROBERT HENRYSON.

1. Apostrophe to Freedom 2. Death of Sir Henry de Bohun . . . .

19 19

Dinner given by the Town-Moose to the Country-Mouse

32

3. WILLIAM DUNBAR.

2. ANDREW WYNTOl'N.

1. St. Serfs Ram 2. Interview of St. Serf with Sathanas

....

2. JOHN SKELTON.

EINLEITUNG

1. Episode of Rosiphele 2- The Envious Man and the Miser

23

.

20 21

34 35

4. GAVIN DOUGLAS.

3. BLIND HARRY.

1. Description of the Morning and of Wallace arming himself in his Tent . . . . 2. The Death of Wallace

1. Without Gladness availes no Treasure 2. The Merle and the Nightingale . . . . Morning in May

22 22

37

5. SIR DAVID LINDSAY.

1. From: The Complaynt

39

INHALT.

i m

Säle 39

8. JOSHUA SYLVESTER. The Soul's Errand

F r o n : Tbe King of Tara

40

9. MICHAEL DRAYTON. 1. Pigwiggen's Equipment for a Combat

Prom: The Squira of Low DegTee . . . .

42

2. {¡application in Contraption of K deTails UNBEKANNTE VERFASSER.

A Preise of tbe Poefs Lady

43

The Not-Browne Maid

44

OBEBSICHTST ABELLE

der

Dichter

dieser

Periode

48

with Oberon 2. Morning in Warwickshire. A Stag-Hunt

75

1. Selections from his Sonnets

79

2. Selections from his Songs

81 83

12. GEORGE WITHER.

Fortdauer de« Italienischen Einluiei. Drama. Höchste Blithe der künstlerischen Gestaltung.

1. The Muse's Consolation

84

2. Christmass

85

13. Dr. HENRY KING. 1. Sic Vita

EHSTER ABSCHNITT. 1558-1619.

2. The Dirge

EINLEITUNG

50

ENGLISCHE DICHTER.

14. PHINEAS FLETCHER. 1. Decay of Human Greatness 2. Against a Rich Man, despising Poverty

1. THOMAS SACKVILLE. 1. Allegorical Characters from the: Mirronr for Magistrates

55

2. Henry Duke of Buckingham in the Infernal Regions

57

2 ROBERT SOUTHWELL. *

74

10. WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE.

11. JOHN DONNE. The Will

ZWEITE PERIODE.

73

1. The Image of Death

58

2. Times go by Tarns

58

88 89

15. GILES FLETCHER. The Sorceress of Vain Delight

89

16. ROBERT HERRICK. 1. T o Blossoms

92

2. T o Daffodils

92

3. T o Primroses filled with Morning Dew

92

4. T o the Virgins, to make much of their Time

92

5. Cherry Ripe!

3. SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

87 ,87

93

1. Sonnets

59

6. Night-Piece to Julia

93

2- Song: Oh yon, that beare this Voice .

60

7. Twelfth Night, or King and Queen . .

93

17. FRANCIS QUARLES.

» . SIR WALTER RALEIGH. From: The Country's Recreations

. . . .

61

A. EDMUND SPENSER. 1. Adventure of Una with the Lion . . .

64

2. The Bower of Bliss

65

3. The Chamber of Memory in the Castle of Alma

66

4. Wedding of the Medway and the Thames

66

5. The Garden of Adonis

69

6- Sonnet

69

6. FULKE GREVTLLE, LORD BROOKE. 1. Imagination 2. Reality of a True Religion

70 70

94 95

18. GEORGE HERBERT. 1. Virtue

95

2

96

Sunday

3. Mortification

71

2. Richard II., the Morning before his Marder

72

3. Sonnet

72

96

19. SIR JOHN SUCKLING. A Ballad upon a Wedding

97

20. RICHARD CRASHAW. Music's Duel

99

SCHOTTISCHF. DlCHTER. 1. ALEXANDER HUME. 1. Scotland Dear!

7. SAMUEL DANIEL. 1. The Nobility exhorted to the Patronage of Learning

1. Delight in God Only 2. The Shortness of Life

101

2. Hills o' Caledonia

101

3. Sandy Allan

102

2. JAMES VI. Ane Schort Poeme of Tyme

103

INHALT.

IX Mta

3. WILLIAM DBDMHORD.

3. WIIXIAIMHAKSPEAIIE. 1. From: T h « Merchant of Venice

. . . 139

1. T o his Lata

104

2. The Praise of a Solitary L i b

104

2. From: Othello

140

3. Sonnets

104

3. From: Hamlet

141

4. From: Richard III

141

5. From: Henry IV

142

ZWEITER ABSCHNITT. 1649-1689.

4. BENJAMIN JONSON.

ENGLISCHE DICHTER. 1. EDMUND WALLER. 1. The Bud

106

2. Song: Say, Lovely Dream

106

3. Song: Go, Lovely Rose

. 106

4. Old Age and Death

107

5. The British Navy

107

6. Love of God to Man 2. ABRAHAM COWLEY. 1. Anacreontics

151

108

153

109

9. JOHN WEBSTER. From: The Duchess of Malfy

155

10. JAMES SHIRLEY. From: The Lady of Pleasure

158

Ill

3. II Penseroso

115

4. Paradise Lost: Satan's Address to the San 117 . . . .

149

8. JOHN FORD. From: The Broken Heart

114

Morning in Paradise

147

2. From the Same

149

1. Hymn of the Nativity

Eve's Account of her Creation

1. From: The Faithful Shepherdess . . .

7. PHILIP MASSINGER. From: The City Madam

3. L'AUegro

. . .

146

5. JOHN FLETCHER.

107

3. JOHN MILTON.

Assembling of the Fallen Angels

144

6. FRANCIS BEAUMONT. From: The Two Noble Kinsmen

2. The Shortness of Life and Uncertainty of Riches

1. From: Catiline 2. From: The New Inn

118 119 120

11. THOMAS HEYWOOD. 1. From: A Challenge for Beauty . . . .

160

From: The Royal King and the Loyal Subject From: Love's Mistress

160 160

Evening in Paradise

121

Satan's Survey of Greece

123

12. THOMAS OTWAY. From: Venice Preserved

123

THE 'COURT MASQUES' desXVII. Jahrhand. 164

5. From the Sonnets 1. SAMUEL BUTLER.

ÜBERSICHTSTABELLE der zweiten Periode . 172

1. Character of Hudibras

124

2. His Sword and Dagger

126

3. Combat between Trulla and Hudibras. 127 5. ANDREW MAFIVELL. 1. Bermudas

129

DRITTE PERIODE.

VersUndespoesie. Sentimentalität. 1689 — EINLEITUNG

2. The Nymph complaining for the Death of her Fawn

177

1. MATTHEW PRIOR.

1. Ode to the Memory of Mrs. Killigrew 131 132

3. Enjoyment of the Present Hour recommended

1780.

ENGLISCHE DICHTER.

129

6. JOHN DRTDEN. 2. Character of Shaftesbury

161

132

DIE DRAMATIKEK.

1. Sauntering Jack and Idle Joan . . . .

178

2. The Garland

179

3. The Cameleon

180

2. JONATHAN SWIFT. 1. Beaucis and Philemon 2. On his own Death

1. GEORGE CHAPMAN.

181 . 183

3. JOSEPH ADDISON.

1. From: Bossy d'Ambois

133

1. Ode

185

2. From: Byron's Tragedy

135

2. Ode

186

2. CHRISTOPHER MARLOW. From: Edward the Second

3. Psalm XXIII.

186

136

4. The Battle of Blenheim

187

INBALT. a i e x a h d e h pope. ** 1. Elegy 0(1 an Unfatunate Lady . . . . 188 2. From: The Epistle of Ekma to Abelard 189 3. From: The Bipe of the Lock . . . . 192

17. THOMAS GRAT. 1. Elegy written in a Country-Churchyard 2. Ode on a distant Prospert of Eton College 18. WILLIAM COLLINS. 1. Ode to Evening 2. Ode on the Passions 3. Ecloge II., Hassan, the Camel-Driver .

». BAAK WATTS.

1. The Rote 2. True Riches 3. A Summer Evening 4. God known only to Himself 6. EDWARD YOUNG. From: Night Thought« Procrastination. Value of Time. Argument for the Existence of God.

193 193 194 194

1. From: The Pleasures of Imagination . 235 2. Inscription for a Monument toShakspeare 237

195

20. TOBIAS SMOLLET.

1. The Tears of Scotland 2. Ode to Leven-Water The Fireside 197

1. The Country Ballad-Singer 2. The Hare and many Friends 3. Sweet William's Farewell to Black-eyed Susan 4. A Ballad

1. From: The Traveller. Swiss Life . . . 239 2. From: The Deserted Village 239

198 200

23. Dr. THOMAS PEHCY.

1. Ballad 2. The Friar of Orders Gray 3. From. Percy's Reliques of Ancient English Poetry. Gernutus, the Jew of Venice King Lear and his Three Daughters. King John and the Abbot of Canterbury

200 201

9. ROBERT BLAIR.

202

10. JAMES THOMSON.

203

From: The Shipwreck

26. WILLIAM JULIUS MICKLE.

...

Grongar Hill

Cumnor Hall, a Ballad

210 211 213

27. Dr. JAMES BEATTIE.

213

28. JAMES MACPHERSON.

1. The Hermit 2. Retirement The Songs of Selma

.

216 . 216

1. The Minstrel's Song of Ella 2. Resignation

. . 217 217

15. RICHARD GLOVER.

259 261 261 263

29. THOMAS CHATTERTON.

1J. Dr. SAMUEL JOHNSON.

267 268

SCHOTTISCHE DlCHTER. i

220

16. WILLIAM SHENSTONE.

1. The Schoolmistress 2. From: A Pastoral Ballad 3. Jemmy Dawson

249

1. On receiving his Mother's Picture . . 252 2. Home Delights of a Winter Evening . 254 3. The Diverting Story of John Gilpin . 255

207 209

13. WILLIAM HAMILTON.

Admiral Hosier's Ghost

243 245 247

25. WILLIAM COWPER.

12. JOHN DTER.

1. On the Death of Mr. Rob. Levet 2. Prologue

241 241

24. WILLIAM FALKONER.

11. DAVID MALLET.

1. Song 2. Song

238

22. Dr. OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

8. JOHN GAT.

1. William and Margaret, a Ballad 2. Edwin and Emma, a Ballad 3. The Birks of Invernay

236 237

21. NATHANAEL COTTON.

Colin and Lucy, a Ballad

1. From: The Seasons Domestic Bliss, Spring. Sunrise, Summer. Evening-Scene, Autumn. Storm, Winter. 2. From: The Castle of Indolence . . . . 3. Rule Britannia

231 232 233

19. MARK AKENSIDE.

7. THOMAS TICKELL.

Select Passages from: The Grave . . . .

227 229

222 225 226

1. ALLAN RAMSAY.

1. 2. 3. 4.

Ode from Horace My Peggie Lochaber No More Rustic Courtship

269 269 270 270

«HALT. J . HOBEHT CRAWFORD. 1. The Bash Aboon Timqnair 2- Tweedeide 3. BEV. JOHN SKINNER. 1 . Tullochgorum 2 . John O* Badenyon 4. ROBERT FERGUSON. 1. Address to the Tron-Kirk Bell . . . . 2 . Braith Claith

Sale 271 271

( . JAMES MONTGOMERY. 1. From: Greenland .

n Seite

312

2. The Geyser . . . . 314 3- The Grave 314 4. The Ages of Man . 316 272 5. Friends 316 273 6. The Recluse 316 274 7. A Field Flower 317 275 8. Aspirations of Yonth «.318 4. LADT ANNE BARNARD. 9 . Home 318 1. Auld Robin Gray 276 7. SIR WALTER SCOTT. 2 . Continuation 277 1. From: The Lay of the Last Minstrel. 319 2. From: Maimion 319 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 3- Death of Marmion 320 Mar/« Dream 278 4. From: The Lady of the Lak* ' . . . . 323 The Flowers of the Forest 278 5. Cadyow Castle 327 The Thistle and the Rose 279 I I Ha'e Nae Kith 279 J 8. SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 1. From: Christabel 331 GBERSICHTSTABELLE der dritten Periode . 2 8 0 : 2. Work without Hope 331 ! 3. Love 331 V1ERTE PERIODE. 4. Child's Evening Prayer 333 Se»e Bcttrebnngan in Being anf Iohalt and Form. j | 5. Love, Hope and Patience in Educatiop 3 3 3 Von 1780 bis auf die Gegenmrt. | 9. ROBERT SOUTHEV. BINLEITUNG 285 1. From: Thalaba 334 Ekglische Dichter. 2. From: The Curse of Kehama 335 3. Mary, the Maid of the Inn 336 1. REV. GEORGE CRABBE. 4. The HoUy Tree 338 1. Phoebe Dawson 289 5. Remembrance 338 2. The Dying Sailor 291 6. Stanzas 339 2. SAMUEL SOGERS. 1. 2. 3. 4.

From: Columbus Ginevra An Italian Song On a Tear

3. REV. JAMES GRAHAM E. 1. Scottish Sabbath Evening 2. A Spring Sabbath Walk 3 . A Summer Sabbath Walk 4. An Autumn Sabbath Walk 5. A Winter Sabbath Walk 6 . A Scottish Country Wedding 4. ROBERT BLOOMFIELD. 1. From: The Farmer's Boy 2 . Love of the Country 3. Bosy Hannah

293 294 295 295

10. THOMAS CAMPBELL. 1. From: Theodoric 2. From: Gertrude of Wyoming 3. Ye Mariners of England 4. Hohenlinden

296 296 297 298 299

11. THOMAS MOORE. 1. Paradise and the Peri 344 2. From: The Firewonhippers 350 3. Let's take this World as some wide Scene 351 4. When 'midst the gay 1 meet 351 5 . Those Evening Bells 352 6- T is the last Rose of Summer . . . . 3 5 2

299 301 302 302

5. WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 1. Ruth

303

2. Laodamia 307 3. Conclusion of the: Egyptian Maid . . 309 4. We are Seven 311 5 . The Solitary Reaper

311

340 341 342 343

7. Go, let me weep 8. Thou art, o God

352 353

9. Hark! 't is the Breeze

353

12. GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON. 1. From: The Giaour, Greece 354 2. FromDon Juan, Julia's Letter to Don Juan 355 3. From the Same, Daith of Haidee . . . 3 5 5 4. From: ChUde Harold, The Eve of Waterloo 357 5- From the Same: The Lake of Geneva 3 5 9

INHALT.

xn

Seile

Säte 6. Selection« tram the Hebrew Mdofies . 360

7. h n Thee Well

361

13. PKRCT BTSSHE SHELLEY.

Schottische

Dichtkk.

1. ROBERT BURNS.

1. F i t » : Mont BUnc

362

2. S t u a i

363

3. The Cloud

364

3. T o a Mountain Daisy

4 . T o a Skylark

365

4. Lament of Mary. Queen of Scots

14. MBS. FELICIA HEMANS.

1. The Cotter's Saturday Night

387

2. T o a Mouse

389

5. My Bonnie Mary

1. The Voice of Spring

367

2. The Hornet of England

368

7. My Heart 's in the Highlands

3. A Father reading the Bible

368

4. The child'* first Grief

369

8. John Anderson, my Jo

5. The Hoar of Prayer

369

6. The 0 p n e of the Spirit

369

7. Bring

370

rowers

390 . . 390

15. JOHN KEATS. 1. From: Hyperion

371

2. Ode to a Nightingale

372

3. The Hunan Seasons

373

16. THOMAS HOOD. 1. The Dream of Eugene Aram

374

2. A Parental Ode to my Son

377

17. MART HO WITT.

391

6. Of a' the Airs the Wind can blaw . . 391 . . . .

392 392

9. T o Mary in Heaven

392

10. The Bankt) o' Doon

393

11. Ae Fond Kiss

393

12. Afton Water

393

13. Highland Mnry

394

14. Mary Morison

394

2. JAMES HOGG. 1. From: The Queen's Wake

395

2. When the Kye cames Hame

398

3. ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. 1. Hame, hame, hame

399

1. An Old Man's Story

378

2. She's gane to dwall in Heaven . . . .

400

2. The Fairies of Caldon-Low

381

3. The Poet's Bridal-Day Song

400

3. Mountain Children

382

4. A Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea . . . 401

18. ALFRED TENNYSON. 1. From: The Lady Godiva

384

2- Mariana

385

3. The Golden Year

386

5. The Mother's Call

401

ÜBERSICHTSTABELLE der vierten Periode . 402 ALPHABETISCHES REGISTER

413

HANDBUCH

DER ENGLISCHEN LITERATUR. 2. 'SfjciC. LÖI* CQicfjtet..

EINLEITUNG. Die Englische Poesie erhielt keinesweges,

wie wohl hier

und da behauptet wurde,

ihre E n t s t e h u n g in Folge der Normannischen E r o b e r u n g ; sie ist vielmehr ein naturwüchsiges, dem wirklichen Leben entsprossenes Produkt der englischen Nation, so lange es eine solche gab, und zwar der gesammten Nation und

nicht einzelner bevorzugter K a s t e n ,

Frackreich und andern Ländern der Fall war.

wie es in

Dies und der U m s t a n d , dass die Engländer

sich viele Jahrhunderte lang nicht der blinden Nachahmung der Alten unterwarfen, an die sie weder durch die Dande der Abstammung, der Sprache noch des Ruhmes gefesselt waren, erhielt der Englischen Poesie lange Zeit hindurch und bis auf den heutigen T a g einen Duft der Frische, der Selbständigkeit,

und eine Freiheit der Gestaltung, worin keine Nation der

Erde mit ihr wetteifern kann. Die Normannische Eroberung Übte indessen immerhin einen grossen Einflust auf ihre weitere Entwickelung und künstlerische Gestaltung aus.

Wenn die Literatur der Vor-Nor-

männischen Zeit der Wurzel gleicht, aus welcher der herrliche Stamm der Englischen Literatur sein Üppiges Leben s o g , so ist die Vermischung der Normannischen Sprache mit der Angelsächsischen dem Aufsetzen eines edlen Pfropfreises nicht unähnlicb, durch welches die reiche Blätter- und BUlthenpracht noch voller, die Früchte noch saftiger und duftender wurden. Da die Litemtur eines jeden Volkes ein Erzeugciss des Klimas, der Sitten und Gebräuche, der Religion und der bürgerlichen Institutionen desselben i s t ,

so muss auch die Euglische

Literatur, und namentlich der poetische Theil derselben, die Spuren derartiger Einwirkungen an sieb nachweisen lassen.

Der Engländer liebt die Jagd, das Reiten, den Fischfang, kurz

alle Leibesübungen, die mit dem Naturgenusse und dem des Landlebens in Verbindung stehen, und Dichter wie D e n h a m , T h o m s o n , C o w p e r , B e a t t i e , B u r n s , G o l d s m i t h

u.v.A.

priesen Beide in unerschöpflicher Mannichfaltigkeit und lieferten, mit den Malern der Englischen Schule wetteifernd, die herrlichsten Naturscbilderungen in so grosser Fülle, dass es fast keinen Winkel Grossbritanniens giebt, der nicht seinen Dichter oder Maler gefunden h ä t t e t Handeltreibend und reiselustig, den ZuftUlen des Meeres ausgesetzt und daran, so wie überhaupt an allem Ausserordentlichen, Kolossalen, Wunderbaren, Seltsamen, wir milchten sagen Abenteuerlichen Genuss

findend,

spiegelte auch diese geistige Richtung der Engländer sich

von jeher in ihren Dichtungen ab, indem sie Hexen, Nixen, Kobolde, Gespenster, kurz jede Art Ubersinnlicher Wesen in denselben zur Darstellung brachten. 1

Geister,

4

EINLEITUNG.

Der neblige, unbeständige Himmel ladet den Bewohner des Britischen Eilandes nicht mit ewigem Blau und ungetrübtem Sonnenglanze hinaus in's immergrünende Freie cum süssen F a r n i e n t e , sondern weist ihn vielmehr auf die innere Welt, auf die der ernsten Betracht u n g u n d d e s stillen, b e s c h a u l i c h e n N a c h d e n k e n s z u r ü c k , — u n d d e r H a u p t z u g der E n g l i s c h e n N a t i o n wie i h r e r L i t e r a t u r entwickelte sich alsbald a u s diesem U m s t ä n d e als d e r d e r M o r a l i t ä t , welche, v o n einem tiefen, religiösen G e f ü h l e g e t r a g e n , sich in W o r t u n d T h a t f a s t j e d e s Britten äussert.

'Die

englische

mit geringen A u s n a h m e n , hüllte M i n e r v a .

Ihre

eine

Frauen

Muse/

sagt G r a f G i u s e p p e

keusche sind:

eine e w i g - t r e u liebende T o c h t e r ,

Matrone;

ein

unglückliches

wie C o r d e l i a ,

Pecchio

sie ist eine in und

treues

mit R e c h t ,

ihren M a n t e l Weib,

wie

'ist ver-

Desdemona,

eine engelreine E v a M i l t o n ' s ,

g a t t i n , wie T h o m s o n s L a v i n i a , die m a k e l l o s e E i n e von S p e n s e r ,

dicht

eine M u s t e r -

o d e r die k l u g e u n d

lieb-

r e i c h e P a m e l a , die g e t ä u s c h t e u n d r e u m ü t h i g e Clarissa, die b e s c h e i d e n e n u n d s p r ö d e n B r ä u t e von Walter Scott

....'*)

V o n d e n Fesseln k u n s t r e i c h e r F o r m e n nicht g e b u n d e n ( s e l b s t in j ü n g s t e r Zeit h a b e n , m i t A u s n a h m e weniger V e r s u c h e , die a n t i k e n F o r m e n k e i n e n E i n g a n g g e f u n d e n ) entwickelte sich i n n e r h a l b der E n g l i s c h e n P o e s i e vorzugsweise d a s Volkslied f r ü h u n d k r ä f t i g , u n d g r o s s e S a m m l u n g e n der ältesten d e n k w ü r d i g e n G e d i c h t e , in den r e s p e k t i v e n Dialekten

der

grossen

Celtisehen U r s p r a c h e verfasst, c i r k u l i r e n noch g e g e n w ä r t i g in W a l e s , den S c h o t t i s c h e n H o c h l a n d e n , in I r l a n d und auf der Insel M a n **), die von der g r o s s e n S ä n g e r l u s t der ältesten B r i t t e n Zeugniss

ablegen.

Diese

Gesänge,

sowie

die

darauf

folgenden

Angelsächsischen,

haben

freilich f ü r die g e g e n w ä r t i g e G e n e r a t i o n , mit A u s n a h m e der S t ä m m e , d e n e n diese M u n d a r t e n n o c h nicht e n t f r e m d e t sind, k a u m einen andern als einen h i s t o r i s c h e n W e r t h , i m m e r h i n aber haben

einige

Tafelrunde

derselben,

n i c h t nur

Shakspeare ser

wie z. Ii.

den

die

Wallisische

Sage

vom

Arthur

und

e n t n a h m ihnen den Stoff zu seinem z a r t e n u n d r ü h r e n d e n C r m b e l i n e ,

zu m e h r e n seiner D i c h t u n g e n u n d M i l t o n u n d D r y d e n

n a c h j e n e n Urquellen Selbst

Könige

Normiiiinischen D i c h t e r n reiche A u s b e u t e geliefert, s o n d e r n

die Zeit

poetischer

seiner selbst Spen-

e n t w a r f e n P l ä n e zu G e d i c h t e n

Anschauung.

der L a t i u i t ä t

war

nicht an

Dichtern

arm.

Viele d e r

berühmtesten

I r l ä n d i s c h e n Bischöfe und G e k l u t e n dichteten a u s s e r in der lateinischen auch in i h r e r L a n dessprache,

ja

mehre

bemühten

sieh

geradezu

für die

Lewed

(das gemeine

Volk)***)

zu schreiben u n d n u r die allgemein v e r s t ä n d l i c h s t e n W ö r t e r in ihre Verse a u f z u n e h m e n ****). *)

La poesia inglese, salve poche eeeezioni, e una casta matrona, e una Minerva tutta chiusa

nella elamide.

Le sue ilonnc sono una infelice e fida moglie, qual d e s d e m o n a , una inseparabile e

pietosa figlia, corac Cordelia, una Eva angeliea purissima di Milton, una Lavinia sposa esemplare di Thomson, la immscolata Una di Spenser, e in prosa una prudente e afiettuosa Pamela, una tradita e pentita Clarissa, le modeste u ritrose amanti di Walter Scott . . . . Giuseppe Pecchio,

'Storia Critica della Poesia lnglese,'

Parigi, l ö 3 7 . **) Literature.' ***)

S. Näheres in dem verdienstvollen Werke von T h o m a s lb>16.

( 1 Bde.)

I. XXV.

B. S h a w , ' A Course of English

S. 1. ir.

Ebenso übersetzte man die wichtigsten Französischen Werke in die übliche Landessprache

für die l e w e d , von denen ein Dichter sagt: For lewed men I undyrtoke In English tonge to make this boke. ***•)

Von den gefeiertsten Dichtern jener Zeit nennt G e o . L . C r a i k (in seinen 'Sketches of

the History of Literature and Learning in England,'

London,

1811. 1. Introduction.):

Aus dem

5

EINLEITUNG.

Hätten nicht die Danen d u L a n d so entsetzlich verwüstet, dass Keinig A l f r e d MQhe hatte, einen Lehrer filr sich zu finden, indem die meisten der K l ö s t e r zerstört, die ohnehin

seltenen

Bücher auf j e d e m ö g l i c h e W e i s e vernichtet und die M ö n c h e vertrieben worden waren, und hfttte nicht die Normannische E r o b e r u n g die N a t i o n abermals in einen furchtbaren Gährungsprozess gestossen,

während

dessen

sie

ausserdem

durch

Entwicklung behindert wurde * ) ,

so h a t t e t

krystallisirt als es nun g e s c h a h ,

allein

despotische

Gewaltmittel

in

ihrer

freien

sich Sprache und Literatur unstreitig viel früher

sie

hätten

dann

auch

notwendigerweise

die

Viel-

seitigkeit nicht gewinnen können, in der wir sie jetzt, nach der Verschmelzung des schweren, d o c h gehaltreichen Germanischen Elements mit dem der quecksilbrigen Französischen B e w e g lichkeit, vor uns

sehen.

Diese M i s c h u n g

begann

ums Jahr 1 0 8 5

( S . I. T h e i l des H a n d b u c h e s , S . 7 )

und

war

u m 1 2 1 6 in sich als beeudigt anzusehen, obgleich erst in der M i t t e des X I V . Jahrhunderts eine Parlamentsaktc grössten

die Wiedereinsetzung

Entwicklungskauipfe

eine

der Landessprache empfiehlt. — Sie muss in ihrem

wahrhaft

babylonische

Sprachverwirrung

hervorgerufen

haben, von der C h a t e a u b r i a n d in seinen ' É t u d e s sur la Littérature A n g l a i s e '

(I. p. 7 3 ) f o l -

gendes schöne Bild g i e b t :

et Ton

en latin, Roman

en calédonitn,

de gestes,

contes,

des trouvères, normands. dalité

de nouveaux

des gestéors,

sirventois,

Nachdem

suivit

I.

ordonna

du cœur aber

La

prit

toute

des moeurs;

Cette époque

de mettre à mort

les ménestrels

le sentiment und

III.

la harpe

et la musette,

du pays

de la patrie

Selon

de Galles,

et la haine de

einmal

bardes, angloLa

le cercle

la montagne.

Kliirungsprozcss

des

anglo-saxons,

à Edouard

saischen Ausdrucke uud e r l a n g t e ,

gleich der Italienischen,

prirent

la

tradition

qui

nourris-

l'étranger.'

vorüber war

und

binnen K u r z e m j e n e

hier umd da wohl auch erreicht, schwerlich aber jemals üliert rotten Kitterthum, KreuzzUge,

unter Anderen:

Aldieben

VIII. Jahrh. D o n a t u s , *)

(Shiel),

einen Irländer;

Gildas

zwei Barden, die in der Landessprache dichteten; (lateinisch)

und

Beda

(lateinisch

noch

nachgeahmt,

wurde.

die Erfindung des Papiers und endlich die der

I V . Jahrh., den lateinischen Dichter S e d u l i u s dessen Bruder A n e u r i n ,

studirt,

die pro-

Klassicität

seit S b a k s |>e a r e im Grossen und G a n z e n ,

immer von allen Generationen als fast unerreichbares Muster g e l e r n t ,

féo-

des idées

Sprache eine feste Basis gewonnen hatte, entwickelte sie sich rasch im poetischen und

der künstlerischen G c s t a l t u u g , wie s i e ,

et

chansons

agrandirent

l'orgue, et sur

des

espèce de formes,

dictiés

les croisades

en

des ménestrels,

chansons à carole,

etc.

chanta

et quelquefois

rotruënges.

le Conquérant

dans les châteaux

Giihrungs-

des jongleurs.

des ménestrels anglo-guUiques,

le mouvement

Bretons

on écrivit

des trouvères

poésie

ballades,

cents ans, de Guillaume

des vieux dieser

en Roman

jeux-partis,

des jongleurs,

dans les abbayes,

Edouard

saient au fond

des harpéors.

son esprit et ses coutumes;

la poésie

successeurs,

des bardes,

satyres, fabliaux,

de trois

à peu

sons

en anglo-saxon,

toutes sortes de nom : lais,

dura près

et des images;

et ses premiers

y eut des poètes,

des troubadours,

altéra peu

populaire,

Il

des fabléors.

à ses œuvres

Guillaume

en gallique,

des troubadours.

contéors. donna

'Sous

Buclulrucker-

the

Wise

und

aus dem VIT. Jahrh.

und angelsächsisch);

aus

dem

J o b an n e s S c o t u s U . A .

Tun Lit c'était un évéque saxon chassé de son siège, parce qu'il ne savait pas le français;

tantôt des moines dont

on lacérait les chartes,

langue saxonne;

un accusé que les juges normands condamnaient,

tantôt

parce qu'il ne parlait

qu'anglais;

comme de nulle valeur,

parce qu'elles étaient en sans vouloir

l'ententre t

tantôt une famille dépouillée et recevant d'eux, à titre d'aumône,

une parcelle de son propre héritage. Aug. T h i e r r y ,

'Histoire de la Conquête de l'Angleterre

par les Normands.'

Paris, 1825.

«

HNURDNG.

drnekerkunst machten, wie Oberali, auch in England den Anfang der modernen Civilisation, in» dem aie diejenigen neuen Ideen hervorriefen und unter die Maasen verbreiteten, von denen die ganze moderne Bildung getragen wird, und die in der Reformation ihre innere geistige Schraube fanden, um die sie «ich in ewig unbeendigten, kurzen Kreisen drehen, ohne eben mehr an thun, als sich zu drehen. Es steht nun freilich nicht zu erwarten, dass bei der EigenthUmlichkrit der Englischen Sprache ihre Dichtungen so wohltonend seien, nie z. B. die der Italienischen oder Spanischen; dahingegen Übertrifft sie an Kühnheit der Metaphern jede andere Sprache der Erde, wenigstens steht sie gewiss keiner nach. Dabei ist zu bemerken, dass trotz aller dynastischer Veränderungen der Bestand des im gegenwärtigen Englisch noch vorhandenen Theiles des Angelsächsischen Elementes doch noch immer auf fünf Achttheile veranschlagt wird, die ausserdem die gebräuchlichsten Wörter für konkrete Begriffe umfassen, während die übrigen drei Achttheile Romanische Wörter, meistens KunstausdrUcke oder Wörter für abstrakte Begriffe enthalten; dass ferner die am meisten idiomatischen Schriftsteller (namentlich D e F o e ) bis Deun Zelintheile angelsächsische Wörter gebrauchen, während andere, wie G i b b o n , dem Romanischen Elemente den Vorzug gaben. Wir haben im ersten Theile des Handbuchs bereits ältere Sprachproben mitgetheilt; um nun keine ' Lavori chinesi' zumachen, • che costano gran fatica senza alcuna utilità' (Chinesische Arbeiten, die grosse Mühe kosten und ohne Nutzen sind), übergehen wir die Dichter der Angelsächsischen, der Dänisch - Sächsischen, und Normannisch-Sächsischen Perioden mit jenen R:esenschritten, mit welchen M i l t o n ' s i-a f an sich beeilte aus dem Chaos in's Paradies zu gelangen, uns darauf beschränkend, in der ersten Periode einige Dichtungen der Minstreis mitzulheilen. Die Geschichte der Englischen Poesie theilen wir, wie die der P r o s a , vier Perioden:

I. PERIODE. II. PERIODE.

HERRSCHAFT

DES

FRANZÖSISCHEN

ENDLICHE

FESTSETZUNG

SCHNITT,

von 13'.'4 — 1460.

ERSTER ABSCHNITT, DEN STOFF: FORM.

— DRA.UA.

UND

ITALIENISCHEN

EINFLUSSES;

Von 1324— 1558. E R S T E R ABA B S C H N I T T , von 1460—1558.

SPRACHE.

ZWEITER

FORTDAVEH DES ITALIENISCHEN EINFLUSSES

HÖCHSTE BLÜTHE

D E R KÜNSTLERISCHEN

GESTALTEN«

AUF DER

— Von 1558—1649.

ZWEITER ABSCHNITT. I H R E R GEGENSÄTZE

III. PERIODE. IV. PERIODE.

DER

in folgende

VERSTANDESPOESIE. NEUE BESTREBUNGEN

W I R K U N G DER PURITANISCHEN D E N K W E I S E UND Von

—

1649 — 1689.

SENTIMENTALITÄT.

IN BEZUG AUF

— Von 1689—1780.

INHALT

UND FORM.

Von 1780 bis

anf die Gegenwart, indem wir jeder derselben, wie bisher, eine kurze Charakteristik voranschirken werden. Werfen wir nun noch einmal einen Blick auf den Entwicklungsgang der Englischen Poesie seit dem Momente ihrer Entstehung, so sehen wir, dass die Celtischen und Angelsächsischen B a r d e n durch ihre Schlachtgesänge die Krieger zu begeisterten Tbaten des Heroismus anfeuerten oder die gefallenen Helden in ihnen beklagten, und dass in ihren Allegorien das religiöse Moment (selbst in den ältesten Zeiten) vorwaltet. Die M i n s t r e i s erzählten in ihren Romanzen die ritterlichen Abenteuer ihrer Vorfahren und hinterliessen in ihren epischen Sagenkreises den kommenden Generationen reichen Stoff poetischer An»

EINLEITUNG.

7

schaumigen. O o i r t r und C h a n e e r priesen m ihren Dichtungen das Thema der Troubadours ' F r ü h l i n g und Liebe' und die Pflichten und Gebrauche eines rechten Kavaliers; S p e n s e r feierte und lehrte unter dem Schleier der damals herrschenden Allegorie die ' Treue bis zum T o d e , dem Vaterland und seiner Liebe.' S h a k s p e a r e , für den kein Lob zu gross, kein Ruhm zu erhaben ist, brachte die Nationalgeschichte und die Gemälde menschlicher Leidenschaften auf die BQhne. M i 1 t o n besang, gleich Dante und Klopstock, die unsichtbaren Regionen des Chaos, der Hölle, des Himmels und des Paradieses, während T h o m s o n sich in Darstellung der Schönheiten der wirklichen, irdischen Natur erging und uns die herrlichen Schilderungen der Jahreszeiten hinterliess. P o p e geisselte in seinen philosophischen Meditationen die Laster und Gebrechen seiner ( u n d unserer) Zeitgenossen, während Y o u n g auf die Eitelkeit der Welt und des irdischen Daseins hinwies und die Seele durch den Hinblick auf eine unvergängliche Fortdauer zum vollsten Bewuastsein und Genus* ihres göttlichen Ursprungs zu erheben suchte. Die Leier W o r d w o r t h ' s ertönt unter der melodischen Inspiration seiner vom Anblick der ' s ü s s e n , heiligen N a t u r ' erglühten Seele; begeistert singen A k e n s i d e , C a m p b e l l und R o g e r s 'von allem Süssen, was Menschenbrust durchbebt, sie singen von allem H o h e n , was Menschenherz e r h e b t ! ' Welche Scenen der Engelliebe fuhrt M o o r e ' s erhabene Phantasie, im Paradiese der Peri, vor unsere entzückten Sinne! Welch' tief erschütternde Töne entloikt B y r o n seiner geisterbewegenden Zither, deren 'wundersame, gewaltige Melodeien' gleich dem Lorelei-Liede, die Seele mit lindem und wildem Wehe ergreifen, während S c o t t ' s Bardenharfe alle Töne der poetischen Vergangenheit Englands harmonisch durchklingen! Das weiss die Nation aber auch zu schätzen! Nicht verachtet noch verketzert wird hier der Dichter, der ' m i t süssem Klang nn« beweget die Brust und mit göttlich erhabenen L e h r e n ; ' der König schmückt ihn mit dem Lorbeer des Ruhmes; die Grossen öffnen ihm ihre Prunkgemächer, das Volk jauchzt ihm freudig Beifall zu! Auf der Kanzel, im Parlamente, bei jedem öffentlichen Akte schmücken der Dichtung edelste Perlen die goldenen Worte der Rede; kein Stand, für den nicht, so zu sagen, eine eigene Literatur existirte, kein H a u s , keine Werkstatt, in der nicht der erheiternde Trost der Dichtkunst willkommen wäre! So blüht sie denn jetzt, die Englische Poesie, wie die schaumgeborene Göttin, inmitten der krystalienen Fiuthen des sie umwogenden Oceans; gleich einer Riesenblume streckt sie ihre grünenden Ranken Uber die monotone Oberfläche des Alltagslebens und wird 'So lang nach Ungewittern Ein Regenbogen sprüht, Ein Basen noch dem Frieden, Noch der Versöbuung glüht; — So lang die Nacht den Aether Mit Sternensaat besä't, Und noch Ein Mensch die Züge Der gold'nen Schrift versteht; — So lang der Mond noch leuchtet, Ein Herz noch sehnt and fühlt; So lang der Wald noch rauschet Und Einen Müden kühlt; —

8

EINLEITUNG. So lang noch Lerne grünen Und Bosenlanben blöh'n, So lang noch Aogen lächeln Und hell von Freude gpröhn; — So lang noch Gräber trauern Und die Cypressen «Tran, So lang Ein Aug* noch veinen, Ein Herz noch brechen kann:'

so lange wird auch sie iten, dem sie die Weihe lieb, tröstend und ermuthigend auf seinem Zuge durch's alte Erdenhaus begleiten und erst mit dem letzten Menseben den letzten Dichter in die stille Gruft des Chaos legen!

ERSTE PERIODE. HERRSCHAFT DES FRANZÖSISCHEN UND ITALIENISCHEN EINFLUSSES. ENDLICHE FESTSETZUNG DER SPRACHE. VON 1324 — 1558.

ERSTER ABSCHNITT. VON Wir haben

bereits

unsere Aufgabe n i c h t i s t , hier zur vollständigen, diesem,

im

ersten

1321-1160.

Theile des H a n d b u c h e s

n o c h sein k a n n ,

hingewiesen,

dass es

die 'ältesten D e n k m ä l e r der Englischen

Sprache

systematischen Darstellung zu b r i n g e n ;

wie in d e m prosaischen Theile v e r s a g e n ,

modernen

englischen

durauf

Poesie

vorangehenden

von

wir müssen es uns daher m

d e n , dem eigentlichen Beginne der

Dichtern,

den

MiDstrels,

eben m e h r

als

eine P r o b e mitzutheilcn, um u u s in diesem ersten Abschnitte mit den G r ü n d e r n u n d F ö r d e r e r n der Englischen Poesie zu beschäftigen.

John Schiller,

Gower,

Sie sind in chronologischer

1)

John

2)

Gcoffrey Chaucer,

3)

John

4)

Andrew

5)

Blind H a r r y ,

Gowcr,

Chaucer,

der

Barbour,

geb. um 1 3 2 5 , g e s t . um

Wyntoun,

1408;

1328—1400; 1357; um

1420;

um 1 4 6 0 .

gleich dem Meister R a p h a e l ' » ,

überflügelt w u r d e ,

Reihe:

stand

Pciugiuo,

noch g a n z

unter

dem

von

seinem

grossen

Einflüsse der

Nor-

männisch-Französischcn P o e s i e ; nichtsdestoweniger t r u g er durch seine ' C o n f e s s i o Amantis,' (das einzige von ihm englisch geschriebene, sehr sentenziöse W e r k ) , viel dazu bei, die S p r a c h e seines L a n d e s festzusetzen, sie zu verfeinern und a b z u r a n d e n .

Fehlte es ihm auch an j e n e m

heiligen Feuer, welches das E i g e n t h u m n u r weniger Auserwählten i s t , und geriethen

dadurch

seine W e r k e in V e r g e s s e n h e i t , so übte doch die K u n s t m ä s s i g k e i t und Glätte seines Verses ohne

Zweifel keinen

s o w o h l , wie auf bestätigt,

geringen Einfluss

auf

die p o e t i s c h e

seine Zeitgenossen und Nachfolger a u s ;

dass S p e n s e r ,

um

seiner ' F a e r y Q u e e n '

S p r a c h e G o w e r ' s sehr häufig n a c h a h m t e .

Bildungsfähigkeit

der

Sprache

wir finden dies u. A. schon d a r i n

ein antikes Ansehen

zu g e b e n ,

die

ERSTE PERIODE.

10 Der

eigentliche

Chaucer,

Anfang

der

Englischen

modernen

Poesie

datirt

von

' t h e d a y - s t a r ' der Englischen D i c h t k u n s t ( S . I. T h e i l pg. 2 5 . ) .

eine r e i c h b e g a b t e , h o c h p o e t i s c h e N a t u r , der seine I n s p i r a t i o n e n zunächst

Geoffrey

Chaucer

A n s c h a u u n g e n s c h ö p f t e u n d weder die Vorbilder der alten Klassiker, noch der im Geringsten n a c h a h m t e . wirkte, war D a n t e ,

der wenige J a h r e vor seiner G e b u r t g e s t o r b e n w a r ,

aller D i c h t k u n s t

dieses

Riesengenie

Troubadours

D e r einzige D i c h t e r , der b e s t i m m e n d und n a c h h a l t i g auf ihn ein-

ganze Interesse der Zeitgemässheit Ideal

ivar

aus unmittelbaren

für ihn

vorschwebte.

einen

so

totalen

hatte

u n d ihm sein

Die Italienische S p r a c h e und

M ä n n e r wie P e t r a r c a und B o c c a c c i o

m i t h i n n o c h das

ganzes L e b e n h i n d u r c h als und Dichtkunst

mächtigen Umschwung

erhalten,

hatte

durch

d a s s nicht n u r

in Italien, s o n d e r n das ganze gebildete E u r o p a u n t e r

seinem Einflusse s t a n d e n , ein Einfluss, der d u r c h die Meisterwerke auch dieser beiden Dichter n o t w e n d i g e r w e i s e ein i m m e r d a u e r n d e r e r , weilgreifender werden musste. — Auch E n g l a n d , wo Italienische S p r a c h e , Person C h a u c e r s

L i t e r a t u r u n d K u n s t von j e h e r ein

unter

w u r d e , als C h n u c e r

diesen

Dantischen

Einfluss,

Asyl

der u m

so

gefunden *), fester

und

im J a h r e 1 3 6 0 in P a d u a die persönliche B e k a n n t s c h a f t

u n d später auch die B o c c a c c i o ' s

trat in der folgereicher Petrarch's

machte.

Die Folge davon war, neben vielfacher Benutzung Italienischer Stoffe, die E i n f ü h r u n g Italienischer Y e r s m a a s s e in die Englische Poesie, wie des Sonetts, der O t t a v a rima, der T e r z a rima,

der Sestine u n d ,

länder.

n a c h der M e i n u n g M e h r e r ,

D a s wichtigste

dieser Versmaasse

ist

s o g a r des

offenbar

die

heroischen Verses der E n g -

nach

ihrem E r f i n d e r

benannte

Spenserstanze (Vergi. II. P e r i o d e , S p e n s e r ) , die, von Manchen f ü r langweilig und einförmig erklärt,

von

dem

'Edinburgh

Review'

als

'by

far the

riebest

and t h e sweetest of o u r

m e a s u r e s ' bezeichnet wird, indem sie ' m o r e definite t h a a blank verse, adinits b o t h of simplicity and tnagnificence of sound and language.

W i t h o u t t h e terseness of unvaried r h y m e , a m e a s u r e

unfitted to l o n g n a r r a t i o n , it is sufficiently u n i f o r m to picase the ear, and sufficiently various to p r o t r a c i t h e pleasure' **). N i c h t s d e s t o w e n i g e r ist sie bis auf die j ü n g s t e Zeit im Ganzen n u r von Thomson

*)

und B y r o n

m i t E r f o l g angewendet w o r d e n .

Graf G i u s e p p e

Pecchio

spricht sich im

ersten Bande seiner 'Storia Critica della

Poesia I n g l e s e , ' pag. XII. folgendermaassen darüber a u s :

' F r a t u t t ' i popoli l'Inglese è quello

che ci rende più candidamente giustizia, quelloche più ci legge, più ci studia, e c'imita senza nasconderlo.

Chi visita in maggior numero degl' Inglesi l'Italia, con una venerazione pari a quella

con che gli antichi Romani visitano la Grecia? non si citino versi italiani,

Sto per dire che non si trova libro inglese dove

o non diensi lodi a qualche nostro poeta.

In qual altra lingua furono

meglio tradotti i nostri quattro grandi, Dante, Petrarca, Ariosto, Tasso, che nell' Inglese?

Mentre

Dante era deriso in Francia da Voltaire, e ignorato in tutto il resto dell' Europa, presso questo popolo

fu

da Chaucer

in

poi

constantemente ammirato.

In qual parte d'Europa coltivossi, e

coltivasi tuttora la lingua e letteratura italiana con più studio ed amore?

Chaucer e Gowei

nel decimoquarto secolo prendevano nonna ed argomenti da Boccaccio e Petrarca. Elisabetta,

la nostra

lingua e letteratura

erano in sommo favore.

O t w a y molti soggetti di tragedie toglievano dai nostri novellieri. Italiano.

Dry den

verseggiò molte novelle del Boccaccio.

Milton

Byron

Alla corte die

S h a k s p e a r e

e

scrisse dei sonetti in

a ' nostri di scrisse sull'

Italia il più bel c a n t o , de' suoi poemi il più bello, il Child Harold, e R o g e r s le più soavi delle sue reminiscenze . . ..' **)

Vol. XII., pg. 62.

April, 1808.

11

E R S T E PERIODfe.

Als fernere E l e m e n t e f r e m d e n Einflusses auf den vorliegenden Dichter u n d seine Zeitgenossen

d ü r f e n wir

die bereits in ihrem Verfall begriffene Provengalisclie Poesie

u n d die

sich s c h o n m ä c h t i g regenden r e f o r m a t o r i s c h e n Ideen ( S . W i c k l i f f e , I. Tlieil S. 2 4 . ) nicht u n e r w ä h n t lassen. Eine

Charakteristik

Chaucer's

view ' C h a u c e r and S p e n s e r , ' * )

entlehnen

vielleicht

einer

wir

einem

der h e s t e n

über diese beiden D i c h t e r h e r o c n geschrieben worden sind.

Artikel

der E d i n b u r g h

kritischen

Aufsätze,

' I t is n o t possible,' heisst es d a -

s e l b s t , ' f o r any two writers to be m o r e opposite t h a n Spenser and C h a u c e r . in luxurious e n j o y m e n t ; — Chaucer in severe activity of m i n d .

Spenser delighted

Spenser was, p e r h a p s , the m o s t

visionary of all the p o e t s ; C h a u c e r the m o s t a m a n of o b s e r v a t i o n and of the world, pealed directly to the b o s o m s and business of men.

Re-

welche j e

H e ap-

l i e dealt only in realities; and relying

t h r o u g h o u t on facts or c o m m o n t r a d i t i o n , could always p r o d u c e his vouchers in n a t u r e .

His

sentiment is n o t t h e voluntary indulgence of t h e poet's f a n c y , b u t is f o u n d e d o n t h e h a b i t u a l prejudices and passions of the very characters he introduces. II13 poetry, t h e r e f o r e , is essentially picturesque and d r a m a t i c ; in this h e chiefly differs f r o m B o c c a c c i o , whose power was t h a t of sentiment.

T h e picturesque and the d r a m a t i c in C h a u c e r are in a great m e a s u r e t h e s a m e t h i n g ,

for he only describes external objects as connected with character, — as t h e s y m b o l s of internal passion.

T h e c o s t u m e and dress of t h e C a n t e r b u r y pilgrims, — of the k n i g h t , — t h e squire, —

the g a t - t o o t h e d wife of B a t h , speak for themselves.

Again, t h e description of t h e equipage a n d

a c c o u t r e m e n t s of the two kings of T h r a c e and I n d e , in the K n i g h t ' s T a l e , g r a n d as the o t h e r s are lively and natural.

are as striking and

His descriptions of n a t u r a l scenery are in t h e s a m e

style of excellence; — their b e a u t y consists in their t r u t h and characteristic p r o p r i e t y . have a local f r e s h n e s s a b o u t t h e m ,

They

which r e n d e r s t h e m almost t a n g i b l e ; which gives the very

feeling of the a i r , the coldness or m o i s t u r e of the g r o u n d .

In o t h e r w o r d s , h e describes in-

a n i m a t e objects f r o m the effect which they have on t h e mind of the s p e c t a t o r , and as they h a v e a reference to t h e interest of the story.' Wennschon Barbour's, ersten

wir

Andr.

nicht

ebensoviel

Wyntoun's

zum

und

gereimten C h r o n i k e n s c h r i e b e n ,

i m m e r h i n von

relativ

getheilte O d e

zeigt

Zeitgenossen

so

sind

grosser Bedeutung. uns

eine

bei W e i t e m

Sprache,

überflügelt

Lobe

Der welche

und

durch

in

der

That

eine

Andrew

Wyntown,

Blick

auf

die

Reinheit

der

Formen

fast m o d e r n e s die

Berücksichtigung

der

Englisch

'Adventures der

die

drei S c h o t t e n

von B a r b o u r

mit-

die aller

seiner

scheint.

Den-

zu sein

of K i n g R o b e r t Bruce,'

denkwürdigen

Verhandlungen

ist,

für Schottland und

seiner Familie

die

d. i. eine C h r o n i k Schottischen

John

welche

P r i o r des St. S e r f s K l o s t e r s in Lochleven,

eine ' Orygynale Cronykil of Scotland,' besonderer

können,

erste an

Geschichte

vollständige

Chaucer's:

sagen

die D i c h t u n g e n dieser

welche K ö n i g R o b e r t I. die U n a b h ä n g i g k e i t

K r o n e erwarb. mit

Harry's

doch

selben sprachlichen W e r t h hat sein Gedicht ü b e r welches

der Zeitgenossen

Blind

der

Geschichte

allgemeinen

schrieb

Weltgeschichte,

in achtsilbigen V e r s e n ,

die

zwar n u r von geringem poetischen W e r t h e i s t , aber m a n c h e s Wichtige in B e z u g auf Schottische Geschichte

enthält.

Blind

Harry's

'Adventures

of Sir William W a l l a c e '

hingegen

be-

r u h e n einzig u n d allein auf mündlichen Ueberlieferungen, u n d enthalten d a h e r viel U n h i s t o r i s h e s u n d Abenteuerliches. Stellen von dar.

grosser

' I t differs,'

*)

Es

ist dies

dichterischer

Gedieht Schönheit

sagt C h a m b e r s

Vol. XXIV., pg. 58.

darüber,

June, 1815.

in zehnsilbigen Versen u n d nicht

geringer

geschrieben

patriotischer

u n d bietet Begeisterung

' f r o m t h e generality of m i n s t r e l p o e m s , in its

12

ERSTE PERIODE. — JOHN GOWER.

bearing the appearance of an unaffected narration, and in its metre, which is of the kind called epic. — The work of Blind Harry was reduced into modern popular verse, about a century ago, by Mr. Hamilton of Gilbertfield, and in that shape has ever since been a favourite book with the country people of Scotland,'

E N G L I S C H E DICHTER. I. JOHN GOWER, geb. um das Jahr 1 3 2 5 , war ein rcichcr L a n d e i g e n t ü m e r in der Grafschaft Nottingham. Wie Chaucer, scheint er ein Atihänger der Familie Lancasler gewesen z;i sein, welche später auf den Thron kam. E r starb 1408, nachdem er einige Jahre vorher erbliuiiet war, und wurde in der Kirche St. Mary Overee in Southwark begraben. G. war mit der alten klassischen, so wie mit der romantischen Literatur vertraut und galt überhaupt für einen der gelehrtesten Männer seiner Zeit: doch gingen ihm Erfindungsgeist und Phantasie ab, ein Mangel, den er durch die Moral zu ersetzen suchte, womit er alle seine Gedichte durchwebte, weshalb ihn auch Chaucer ' t h e m o r a l Guwer' nannte. Sein Hauptwerk besteht aus drei Theilen: der erste, 'Speculum Meditantis, the Mirrour of Meditation' ist in f r a n z ö s i s c h e n gereimten Versen geschrieben, der zweite, ' Vox claimintis, the Voice of one cryiDg in the Wilderness,' enthält eine Reihe l a t e i n i s c h e r Elegien, der dritte, 'Confessio Amantig, the Lover's Confession,' ist ein e n g l i s c h e s Gedicht, auf ISrfehl R i e h a r d ' s H . geschrieben und zuerst von Caxton, 1 4 8 3 , gedruckt; das Ganze soll eine Art moralischpoetischer Schilderung des menschlichen Ilerzens sein. (Vcrgl. Warton, Iiistory of English Poetry, II. 1 . )

1. EPISODE OF 'ROSIPHELE.' (Rosiphele, princess of Armenia, a lady of surpassing beauty, but insensible to the power of love, is represented by the poet as reduced to an obedience to Cupid, by a vision which befell her on a May-day ramble.) Whan come was the moneth of Maie, She wolde walke upon a daie, And that was er the son arist. Of women but a fewe it wist; And forth she went prively, Unto a parke was faste by, AU softe walkende on the gras, Tyll she came there the launde was, Through which ran a great rivere, It thought her fayre, and said, here

I will abide under the shawe; And had her women to witlulrawe : And tlier she stood alone stille To thinke what was in her wille: She sigh the swete Homes sprynge, She lierile glad fowles synge; She sigh beastes in her kynde. The buck, the iloo, the hert, the hyude. The males go with the femele: And so began there a (¡uarele Between love and her owne lierte Fro whiehe she coutlie not asterte. And as she cast hir eie aboute, She sigh, clad iu one suit, a route Of ladies where thei comen ride Alonge under the woodde side; On fayre ambulende hors thei set, That were al whyte, fayre, and gret;

13

JOHN GOWER. And everichone r i d e on side.

a n s w e r s , t h a t it w a s a b a d g e a n d reward for

T h e sadels were of such a pride,

h a v i n g loved a k n i g h t faithfully for the last

So riche sighe she never n o n e ;

f o r t n i g h t of her l i f e . )

W i t h perles and golde so wel b e g o n e ,

' X o w have ye h e r d e all mine answere;

In kirtels a n d in copes riche

T o Ged, m a d a m , I you b e t a k e ,

Thei were clothed all aliche.

And w a r n e t h ail, for my sake,

D e p a r t e d even of white and blewe,

O f love t h a t thei be not idell,

W i t h all lustes t h a t she knewe,

And bid t h e m thinke of my bridell.'

Thei wer e m b r o u d e r e d over a l l :

And with t h a t worde, all sodenly

Her bodies weren long and small,

She p a s s e t h , as it were a skie,

T h e b e a u t e e of hir fa}'re face.

All clean o u t of t h e ladies sight. ( I t is scarcely necessary t o r e m a r k ,

T h e r e mai n o n e erthly t h i n g d e f a c e :

that

Corownes o n their heades thei bare,

t h e hard heart of t h e princess is duly impressed

As eche of h e m a quene were.

b y tbis l e s s o n . )

T h a t all the golde of Cresus' hall T h e least coronall of all Might n o t have b o u g h t e , after t h e worth, T h u s comen thei ridend fortlie.

2)

T h e kynges doughtur, whiche this sigh,

(Reduced

F o r pure abasshe drewe hir adrigb, ( A t length she sees riding in t h e rear of this splendid t r o o p on a horse lean, galled, and her saddle m e a n , and much w o r n , bridle richly

studded

garment, but

Spelling.)

Of J u p i t e r thus I find y-writ,

And helde hir close undir the b o u g h .

l a m e , a beautiful lady in a tattered

T H E ENVIOUS MAN AND T H E MISER.

her

with gold and j e w e l s :

How whilom that he would wit, U p o n the plaints which he heard A m o n g the m e n , how it f a r e d , As of the wrong condition To do justification;

and round her waist were m o r e t h a n a h u n d r e d

And for t h a t cause down he sent

halters.

An angel, t h a t a b o u t went,

T h e princess asks the m e a n i n g of this

strange procession, and is answered by t h e lady

T h a t h e t h e sooth know may.

on the lean h o r s e , that these are spectres of ladies, w h o , when living, were obedient a n d

So it befel u p o n a day,

faithful votaries of love.

T h i s angel which him should inform

' A s to myself,'

she

adds, ' I am now receiving my annual penance

W a s clothed in a m a n ' s form,

for being a rebel to love.')

And o v e r t o o k , I u n d e r s t a n d ,

F o r I whilom no love h a d ;

Two men t h a t wenten over l a n d ;

My horse is now feble and badde,

T h r o u g h which he t h o u g h t to aspy

And al to torn in myu a r a i c ;

H i s cause, and g o ' t h in company.

And everic year this fieshe Maie These lustie ladies ride a b o u t e ,

T h i s angel with his words wise

And I must nedes sew her route,

O p p o s e t h them in s u n d r y w i s e ;

In this m a n n e r as ye nowe see,

Xow loud words and now soft,

And trusse her lialllers f o r t h with mee,

That m a d e them to disputen o f t ;

Aud am but her horse knave.

And each his reason had,

( T h e princess then asks her, why she wore

And t h u s with tales he t h e m led,

t h e rich bridle, so inconsistent with the rest of

W i t h g o o d examination,

her furniture, her dress, and h o r s e ?

Till he knew t h e c o n d i t i o n ,

T h e lady

14

JOHN 6 0 W E R . — GEOFFREY CHAUCER. W h a t men they were both t w o ;

For then be knew well how it s t o o d ;

And saw well at last tho

If that himself by double weight

{thea),

T h a t one of them was covetous.

Shall after take, and thus by sleight

And his fellow was envious.

Because that he would win,

And thus when he hath knowledging,

H e bade his fellow first begin.

Anon he feigned departing,

This Envious, though it be late.

And said he mote algate wend;

When that he saw be mote, algate.

But hearken now what fell at e n d !

Make his axing first, he t h o u g h t ,

For than he made them understond,

If he his worship and profit sought

T h a t he was there of God's sond,

It shall be double to his fere,

'

Thut he would chu.se in no manner.

And said them for the kindship, He would do them some grace again,

j

But then he showeth what be was

And bade that one of them should sain,

|

Toward envy, and in this case, Unto his angel thus he said,

W h a t thing is him levest to crave, And he it shall of gift hare.

J

And for his gift thus he prayed,

And over that ke forth with all

!

T o make him blind on his one ee,

He saith, that other have shall

j

So that bis fellow nothing see.

The double of that his fellow a x e t h ; And thus to them his grace he taxeth.

This word was not so soon spoke, I

T h a t his one ee anon was l o k e : And his fellow forth with also Was blind on both his eyes two.

The Covetous was wonder g l a d , And to that other man he bade,

\

T h o was that other glad e n o u g h :

And saith, that he first ax s h o u l d ,

j

T h a t one wept, and that other lough.

For lie supposeth that he would

He set his one ec at uo cost,

Make his axiog of world's g o o d ;

Whereof that other two bath lost.

II. GEOFFREY CIIALCER, geb. 1328, gest. 25. Oetbr. 1400.

Wir

besitzen

nur sehr

wenig Zuverlässiges

über

die

Lebensverhältnisse dieses Dichters: was seine liiographen darüber mittheilen, beruht grösstenteils

auf Vermuthungeu.

Dass er

seiuem 'Testament of L o v e ' h e r v o r , the place of his e n g e n d r u r e '

zu London wo er

nennt.

geboren w u r d e ,

sich ' a L o n d e u o l s '

geht aus

einer Stelle in

und die ' C i t y of London

Zu Cambridge soll er studirt h a b e n , wie man aus

einer Stelle in seinem ' C o u r t of L o v e ' schliesst, wo er von sich unter dem Namen ' Philogenet of Cambridge, Clerk' spricht. auf einer Vermuthung Leland's »hire geboren

Auch in Oxford soll er gewesen sein, was jedoch nur

( u n t e r Heinrich

VIII.)

sein soll, in geradem Widerspruche

beruht,

mit der

nach welcher er in Oxfordeignen

Angabe

des Dichters.

Dass er in London in dem ' Inner T e m p l c ' ( R c c h t s k o l l e g i u m ) war, scheint aus einem dort befindlichen ' R e c o r d ' zu folgen, worin es heisst: ' Geofi'rey Chaucer was fined two Shillings for beating a franciscane friar in Fleet-street.' reich beruhen nur auf der Angabe Leland's, voller Widersprüche ist. Patente,

Auch seine oft erwähnten Reisen in Frank-

dessen Bericht Uber CA. sehr unzuverlässig und

Die erste a u t h e n t i s c h e

Erwähnung Chaucer's findet sich in dem

durch welches e r , im 39sten J a h r e , von Eduard

III. ein Jahrgehalt von ' t w e n t y

15

G E O F F R E Y CHAUCER. m a r k s ' u n d den T i t e l : ' V a l e t t u t ( v a s s a l e t t u s ) n o s t e r seiner p o e t i s c h e n V e r d i e n s t e , ' T r o i l u s ' geschrieben

obsclion

haben

mochte:

e r h i e l t — w o h l nicht in Anerkennung

er damals bereits seinen R o m a n ' d e la R o s e ' denn

als er einige J a h r e

darauf

' C o m p t r o l l e r of the C u s t o m of W o o l s a n d C o m p t r . of t h e p a r v a the P o r t of L o n d o n '

ernannt

wurde,

hiess

es in

dem

vom

Könige

custuma

Patente:

vino rum

und zum in

' S o that the said Geffrey

write with his own h a n d his rolls t o u c h i n g t h e said office and continually reside there, and d o and execute all things pertaining to the said office in his own p r o p e r p e r s o n and not by his s u b stitute,' — wonach der K ö n i g sein poetisches Talent entweder nicht kannte, oder ihn wenigstens zur Ausbildung

desselben

nicht

K ö n i g e als Gesandter nach G e n u a Eduard's

ging

er in

dessen

ermuntern

geschickt

wollte.

worden

Auftrage n a c h

Zwei J a h r e

und

Frankreich,

frttber war er vom

im

letzten J a h r e der

um

eine Heirath

Prinzen von W a l e s u n d einer T o c h t e r des Königs von F r a n k r e i c h zu vermitteln. des Herzogs von Lancaster wurde er u n t e r der R e g i e r u n g Heinrich's

Regierung

zwischen

dem

Als F r e u n d

II. in die Unrnben in

L o n d o n verwickelt, an deren Spitze J o h n of N o r t h a m p t o n stand, mit dem er jedoch s p ä t e r zugleich

b e g n a d i g t w u r d e : er

erhielt

f ü r die verlorene Stelle

in den ' C u s t o m s , ' die sehr

einträglich gewesen zu sein scheint, ausser manchen anderen Zeichen königlicher G u n s t , die Stelle eines ' C l e r k of the W o r k s at W e s t m i n s t e r ' und ' a t W i n d s o r . '

In seinem

'Treatise

on t h e A s t r o l a b e ' erwähnt er — das einzige Mal, wo er von seiner Familie spricht — seines S o h n e s ' L o w i s , ' der im J a h r e 1 3 9 1 zehn J a h r e alt war. CA. war unstreitig einer der geistreichsten M ä n n e r seiner Z e i t : mit einem feinen G e schmacke vereinigt er einen hellen Verstand, reiche P h a n t a s i e , treffenden Witz, scharfe B e obachtungsgabe

und

vor Allem

Einfluss italienischer Dichter auf die B e h a n d l u n g späteren

Alter

'Canterbury

des Stoffes ganz

schrieb,

Tales.'

sind

Personen

D i c h t e r mit eingeschlossen, und unterhalten die meist

ein w u n d e r b a r e s T a l e n t

auf ihn

und

selbständig. dem

Sein

ist,

so

des

Geschlechts,

und

Boccaccio aus

durch E r z ä h l u n g e n theils l a u n i g e n ,

voller W a h r h e i t und Leben.

welches allen

Bezug erst

Ständen,

im den

Canterbury

theils ernsten I n h a l t e s , der Prolog dagegen,

der einzelnen Personen g i e b t , Ausserdem

in er

nachgebildeten

eine W a l l f a h r t n a c h

französischen D i c h t e r n entlehnt s i n d ;

setzung des französischen R o m a n s ' von der Rose,'

W e n n auch d e r

ist er d o c h

Hauptwerk,

' Decaineronc'

verschiedenen

welchem er eine meisterhafte B e s c h r e i b u n g Erfindung und

der Darstellung.

zu verkennen

u n t e r n e h m e n von L o n d o n aus

sich unterwegs

italienischen

seine

nicht

in

ist seine eigene

besitzen wir von ihm eine Ueber-

' T h e T e s t a m e n t of Love,' ' T h e Book of

Troilus and Creseide,' kleinere E r z ä h l u n g e n und allegorische Gedichte, Balladen, ' T b e B o o k of Boethius de Consolatione Philosophiae ' u n d ' A Treatise on the Astrolabe,' seines S o h n e s geschrieben.

zur Belehrung

(Vcrgl. T b . I. d. H a n d b . S. 2 5 . )

W h a n Zephirus eke with his s o t h e brethe 1) FROM THE PROLOGUE TO THE CANTER- ! Enspired h a t h in every holt and h i t h e BURY TALES. T h e tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne

(In the Original Spelling.)

H a t h in the Ram his halfe cours y r o n n e ,

W h a n n e that April with his shoures sote T h e ilroughte of March h a t h perced to the r o t e .

; And smale foules m a k e n melodie, T h a t slepen allé n i g h t with open eye,

A n d bathed every reine in swiche licour,

I So p r i k e t h hem n a t u r e in hir c o r a g e s ;

O f whiche vcrtue engendred is the

' T h a n longea folk to gun on pilgrimages,

flour;

16

GEOFFREY CHAUCER.

And palmeres for to » e ken strange strondes,

At Leves was he, and at Satalie,

T o serve halwes couth e in sondry londcs;

Whan they were wonne; and in the Orete w e

And specially, from every shires emle

At many a noble armee hadde he be.

Of Englelond, to Canterbury they wende,

At mortal batailles hadde he ben fiftene,

The holy blisful martyr f o r to seke,

And foughten for our faith at Tramissene

That hem hath holpeb, whan that they were

In listes thries, and ay slain his fo.

seke. Befelle, that in that seson on a day, In Southwerk at the Tabard as 1 lay,

This ilke worthy knight hadde ben also Somtime with the Lord of Palatie, , Agen another hethen in T u r k i e :

Redy to wooden on my pilgrimage

And evermore he hadde a sovereine pris.

T o Canterbury with devoute corage,

And though that he was worthy he was wise,

At night was come into that hostelrie

And of his port as meke as is a mayde.

Wei nine and twenty in a coinpagnie

He never yet no vilanie ne sayde

Of sondry folk, by avi> n ture yfalle

In alle his lif, unto no manere wight:

In felawsbip, and pilgrimes were they alle,

He was a veray parfit gentil knight.

T h a t toward Canterbury wolden ride.

But for to tellen you of his araie,

T h e chambres and the stables weren wide,

His hors was good, but he ne was not gaie.

And wel we weren esetl atte beste.

Of fustian he wered a gipon,

And shortly, whan the sonne was gon to reste,

Alle besmotred with his habergeon,

So hadde I spoken with hem everich on,

For he was late ycome fro his viage,

T h a t I was of hir felawship anon,

And wente for to don his pilgrimage.

And made forword erly for to rise, T o take oure way thei- as I you devise. But natheles, while I have time and space,

With him ther was his sone, a yonge Squier, A lover and a lusty bacheler, ; With lockes crull as they were laide in presse.

O r that I farther in this tale pace,

J Of twenty ycre of age he was I gesse.

Me thinketb it accordant to reson,

j Of his stature he was of even lengthe,

T o teilen you alle the condition

j And wonderly deliver, aud grete of s t r e n g t h e :

Of eclie of hem, so as it semed me.

| And he hadde be somtime in chevachie,

And wliiche they wercii, and of what degre;

j In Flaundres, in Artois, and in Picardie,

And eke in what araie that they were inne:

j And borne him wel, as of so litel space,

And at a knight than \ v o l I firste beginne.

| In hope to stonden in his ladies grace.

Embrouded was he, as it were a mede A K n i g h t ther was, and that a worthy man, ! i Alle ful of fresslie floures, white and rede. T h a t fro the time that he firste began T o riden out, he loved clievalrie,

; Singing he was, or floyting alle the day,

Trouthe and honour, i'redom and curtcsie.

| He was as fresslie as is the moneth of May.

Ful worthy was he in h i s lon'.es w e n e ,

| Short was his goune, with sieves long and wide.

And therto hadde he ridden, no man forre,

I Wel coude he sitte on hors, and fayre ride.

As wel in Christendom as in Ilethenesse,

I lie coude songes make, and wel endite,

And ever honoured for his worthinesse.

i Juste and eke d a n c e , and wel pourtraie and

At Alisandre he was whaii it was wonne.

write.

Ful often time he hadde the boid begönne

So hole he loved, that by nightertale

Aboven alle nations in Pruce.

He slep no more than doth the nightingale.

In Lettowe hadde he r^ysed and in Ruce, N o cristen man so ofte of his degre: In Gernade at the siege eke hadde he be Of Algesir, and ridden in Belmarie.

Curteis he was, lowly, and servisable, And carf before his fader at the table. A Yemen hadde he, and servantes n o mo At that time, for him luste to ride s o :

GEOFFREY CHAUCER. And b e was cladde in r o t e and bode of g r e n r .

In termea hadde he cas and dome« «lie,

A shefe of peacock arwei bright and kene

T h a t f r o the time of king Will, weren falle.

Under his belt be bare ful thriftily.

Therto he coude endite, and make a thing,

Wei eouile he dresse hi» take 1 y e m a n l y :

T h e r coude no wight pinfbe at his writing.

His arwes drouped not with fetheres lowe.

And every statute coude

And in bis bond he bare a mighty b o n e .

H e rode b u t homely in a roedlee cote,

A not-hed hadde b e , with a broune visage. Of wood-craft coude he wel alle the usage.

plaine by rote.

Girt with a seint of silk, *ith barret i m a l e ; Of his array tell I no lender tale.

»

Upon bis arme he bare a gaie bracer,

»

*

And by his side a swerd and a bokeler,

The Miller was a stout carl for the nonet,

And on that other side a gaie daggere,

Ful bigge be was of brauH, and eke of b o n e t ;

Harneised wel, and sharpe as point of s p c r e :

T h a t proved wel, for over all ther he came,

A Crislofre on his brest of silver sbene.

At wrastling he wold here away the ram.

A h o m e he bare, the baudrik was of grene,

He was short shuldered brode, a thikke gnarre,

A forster was he sothely as I gesse.

Ther n'as n o dore, that he n'olde heve of barre,

*

•

*

A Merchant was ther with a forked berd.

Or breke it at a renning vitb hit hede. His berd as any sowe or fox was rede,

In motlelce, and highe on hors he sat,

And therto brode, as though it were a spade.

And on bis hed a Flaundrish bever hat.

Upon the cop right of hit note he bade

His bootes elapsed fayre and fetisly.

A wert, and tberon t t o d e a tufte of heret,

His resons spake be ful solempoely,

Rede a t the brittle! of a iowet eret.

Souning alway the encrese of his winning.

His nose-thirlet blacke wire and wide.

He wold the see were kept for any thing

A swerd and bokeler bare he by hit tide.

Betwixen Middelburgb and Orewell.

H i t mouth as wide was as a forneit.

Wel coud he in eschanges sheldes selle.

He was a jangler, and a goliardeis,

This worthy man ful wel his wit b e s e t t e ; Ther wiste no wight that he was in dette, So stedefastly didde he bis governance, With his bargeines, and with bis chevisance. Forsothe he was a worthy man withalle, But soth to sayn, I n'ot how men him calle. * *

And that was most of sinfle, and harlotries. Wel coude he stelen corn«1. and tollen thriet. And yet be had a tbomb pf gold parde, A white cote and a blew bode wered he. A bxggepipe wel coude he blowe and soune, And therwithall be broughte u t out of toune. * •

*

A Sergeant of the Lawe ware and wise, T h a t often badde yben at the paruis, Ther was also, ful riche of excellence. Discrete he was, and of gret reverence: H e semed swiche, his wordes were so wise, Justice he was ful often in assise, By patent, and by plcine commissioun;

2)

DESCRIPTION OF A POOR COUNTRY WIDOW

(In the reduced tpelling adopted by Mr.

Clarke.)

A poore widow, tomedeal ttoop'n in age.

For his science, and for his high renoun,

Was whilom dwelling in a narwe cottage,

Of fees and robes bad he many on.

Beside a grove standing itf a dale.

So gretc a pourchasour was nowher non.

This widow, which I tell y" of my Tale,

All was fee simple to him in effect,

Since thilke day that she

His pourcbasing migbt not ben in suspect.

In patience led a full simple life.

Nowher so besy a man as he ther n'as,

For little was her cattle ai*d her r e n t ;

And yet he semed besier than he was.

By husbandry of such as G o d her tent,

II.

last a wife.

2

18

GEOFFREY CHAUCER.

Sbe found herself and eke her daughters two. i This noble ensample to his flock be gave, T h a t first b e w r o u g h t , a n d afterward h e t a u g h t . Three large aowei had she, and no mo, T h r e e kine, and eke a sheep that h i g h t e Mall;

T h e word of life h e f r o m t h e gospel c a u g h t ;

Full sooty was her bower and eke her hall,

And well this c o m m e n t added he t h e r e t o ,

I n which she ate many a slender m e a l ;

If t h a t gold rusteth what should iron d o ?

Of poignant sauce ne knew she never a d e a l ;

And if the priest b e foul on w h o m we t r u s t ,

N o dainty morsel passed t h r o u g h her t h r o a t ;

W h a t wonder if t h e unletter'd layman l u s t ?

H e r diet was accordant to her c o t e ;

And s h a m e it were in him the flock should k e e p ,

Repletion ne m a d e her never s i c k ;

T o see a sullied s h e p h e r d , and clean sheep.

Attemper diet was all her physic,

F o r sure a priest the sample o u g h t to give

And exercise, a n d heartes auffisance;

By his own cleanness how bis sheep should live.

T h e g o u t e let her n o t h i n g for to dance,

H e never set his benefice to hire,

N o apoplexy shente not her h e a d ;

Leaving his flock acomber'd in the mire,

N o wine n e d r a n k she neither white nor r e d ;

And ran to L o n d o n cogging at St. P a u l ' s ,

H e r board was served m o s t with white and black,

T o seek himself a chauntery for souls,

Milk and brown b r e a d , in which she found n o lack, Seinde b a c o n a n d sometime an egg or tway, F o r she was as it were a m a n n e r d e y . * )

O r with a b r o t h e r h o o d to be c n r o l l ' d ; But dwelt at h o m e , and guarded well his fold, So t h a t it should n o t by the wolf miscarry. H e was a s h e p h e r d and no mercenary. T h e holy in himself, and virtuous, l i e still to sinful m e n was mild and p i t e o u s : Not of reproach imperious or m a l i g n ;

3) T H E GOOD PARSON. (The

verse,

by a few slight changes,

modated to the present

is accom-

fashion.)

But in his teaching soothing and benign. T o draw them on to heaven, by reason fair And good example, was his daily care.

A true good man there was there of religion

But were there one perverse and obstinate,

Pious and poor — the p a r s o n of a town.

W e r e he of lofty or of low estate,

But rich he was in holy t h o u g h t and work;

Him would he sharply with reproof astound.

And thereto a right learued m a n ; a clerk

A better priest is no where to be found.

That Christ's pure gospel would sincerely preach,

He waited not on p o m p or reverence,

And his parishioners devoutly teach.

Nor m a d e himself a spiced conscience

Benign he was, and wondrous diligent,

T h e lore of Christ and his apostles twelve

And ¡n adversity full patient,

He t a u g h t : but, first, he followed it himselve.

As proven o f t , to all who laek'd a friend. L o t h for his tithes to ban or to contend, At every need much rather was he found U n t o his poor parishioners around Of his own substance and his dues to give; Content on little, for himself, to live. Wule was his c u r e ; the houses far asunder, Yet never fail'd he, or for rain or thunder,

4) LAST VERSES OF CHAUCER, WRITTEN ON HIS DEATHBED. Fly f r o m the press, and dwell with sothfastness;

Whenever sickness or mischance might call,

Suftlce unto thy g o o d t h o u g h it be small;

T h e most remote to visit, great or small,

For h o a r d h a t h h a t e , and climbing ticklecess,

And, staff in h a n d , on f o o t , the storm to brave.

Press hath envy, and weal is blent o'er all; Savour n o m o r e t h a n thee behoven shall;

*) Nach Tynchitt-. labourer.

a species of hired, or day- , Rede well thyself, t h a t otherfolk can'st red«, ! And t r u t h thee shall d e l i v e r ' t is n o drede.

19

GEOFFREY CHAUCER. — JOHN BARBOUR. Pain thee not each crooked to redress

That thee is sent receive in bnxomness,

Id trust of her that turneth as a ball;

The wrestling of this world asketh a fall;

Great rest standeth in little business;

Here is no home, here is but wilderness;

Beware also to spurn against a nalle;

Forth, pilgrim, forth, O beast out of thy stall;

Strive not as doth a crocke with a wall;

Look up on bigb, and thank thy God of all;

Deemeth thyself that deemest other's deed,

Waiveth thy lust and let thy ghost thee lead,

And truth thee shall deliver't is no drede.

And truth thee shall deliver't is no drede.

SCHOTTISCHE DICHTER. I.

JOHN

BARBOUR,

dessen Geburtsjahr ungewiss i s t , studirte von 1 3 5 7 — 1 3 6 5 zu Oxford und wurde darauf Archidiakonus zu Aberdeen. Dass er ein gewandter und gelehrter Mann war, scheint daraus hervorzugehen, dass er von dem Bischöfe von A. als Stellvertreter nach Edinburgh geschickt wurde, als man dort Uber die Auslösung D a v i d s II. verhandelte, und dass er mehre Male junge Leute von Stande auf die Universität zu Oxford begleitete. Er starb im J. 1396. Das einzige Werk, welches wir von ihm besitzen — ein anderes ' T h e Brüte' ist verloren gegangen — führt den Titel: ' The Bruce'; er besingt darin die Thaten de« ritterlichen Königs Robert Bruce, der sein Vaterland von der englischen Herrschaft befreite. Von dem Nachfolger Roberts, dem Könige David Bruce, erhielt B. für sein Gedicht einen besondern Jahrgebalt. Durch kräftige Sprache, lebendige Darstellung, warmes Gefühl und würdevollen Ausdruck steht es weit Uber allen gleichzeitigen Gedichten; nach Pinkerton (•Aucient Scottish Poems') ist es noch jetzt bei dem V o l k e in Schottland ungemein beliebt.

1) APOSTROPHE TO FREEDOM. A ! fredome is a nobili thing! Fredome makes man to haiff liking! Fredome all solace to man giffis, He levys at ese that frely levys! A noble hart may haiff nane ese, Na ellys nocbt that may him plese, Gyff fredome failythe : for fre liking Is yearoyt our all othir thing. Na he, that ay base levyt fre, May nocht knaw weill the propyTte, The angyr, na the wretchyt dome, That is cowplyt to foule thyrlilome. Bot gyff be had assayit it, Than all perquer he suld it wyt ; And suld think fredome mair to pryse Than all the gold in warld that is !

2) DEATH OF SIR HENRY DE BOHUN. (Reduced to modern »pelting.) And when the king wist that they were In bale battle, comand sae near, His battle gart (ordered) he weel array. He rade upon a little palfrey, Laweht and joly arrayand His battle, with an ax in band. And on bis bassinet he bare An hat of tyre aboon ay where; And, thereupon, into takin, Ane high crown, that be was king. And when Gloster and Hereford were With their battle approachand near, Before them all there came ridand, With helm on heid and spear in hand, Sir Henry de Boon, the worthy, That was a wicht knicht, and a hardy, 2*

20

JOHN BARBOUR. — ANDREW WYNTOUN.

And to the Earl of Hereford cousin; Armed in arms gude and fine; Came on a steed a bowshot near, Before all other that there were: And knew the king, for that he saw Him sae range his men on raw, And by the crown that was set Also upon his bassinet. And toward him be went in hy (haste). And the king sae apertly Saw him come, forouth all his fears, In hy till him the horse he steers. And when Sir Hebry saw the king Come on, foroutin abasing, Till him he rode in great hy. He thought that he should weel lichtly Win him, and have him at his will, Sin' he him horsit saw sae ill. Sprent they samen intill a lyng (line); Sir Henry missed the noble king; And he that in his stirrups stude; With the ax, that was hard and guile, With sae great main, rauclit (reached) him a dint. That nouther hat nor helm micht stint The heavy dush, that he him gave, That near the head till the hams clave. The hand-ax shaft frusliit in tway; And he down to the yird (earth) gan gae

II.

All flattings, for him failit micht. This was the first straik of the ficht, That was performit douchtily. And when the king's men sae stoutly Saw him, richt at the first meeting, Forouten doubt or abasing, Have slain a knicht sae at a straik, Sic hard'ment thereat gan they tak, That tbey come on richt hardily. When Englishmen saw them sae stoutly Come on, they had great abasing; And specially for that the king Sae smartly that gude knicht has slain, That they withdrew them everilk ane, And durst not ane abide to ficht; Sae dreid they for the king's micht. * * * * When that the king repairit was, That gart his men all leave the chase, The lordis of his company Blamed him, as they durst greatumly, That he bim put in aventure, To meet sae stith a knicht, and stour, In sic point as he then was seen. For they said weel, it micht have been Cause of their tynsal (destruction) everilk ane. The king answer has made them nane, But mainit (lamented) his hand-ax shaft sae Was with the straik broken in tway.

ANDREW WYKT0UN,

oder wie er sich selbst schreibt: Androire of Wyntoune, Prior des Klosters St. Serf in Lochleven, vollendete um d. J. 1420 eine: ' Orrgynale Chronykil of Scotland.' Erreicht er auch Barbour nicht, so ist doch sein Vers fliesseud, die Sprache rein und die Darstellung nicht ohne Leben. Ausserdem ist das Gedieht schätzbar als ein Gemälde der damaligen Sitten: es enthält eine Menge von Legenden, wie sie vielleicht in den Klöstern beim Kaminfeuer erzählt wurden und die uns einen Beweis von dem Aberglauben der damaligen Zeit gaben. Wir theilen zwei derselben mit.

1) ST. SERF'S RAM. COriginal Spelling.) This holy man had a ram, That he had fed up of a lam,

And ovsit him til folow ay, Quberevir be passit in his way. A theyf this scheppe in Achren stal, And et hym up in pecis smalle. Quhen Sant Serf his ram had myst,

21

ANDREW WYNTOUN. — BLIND HARRY. T h e devil askit him, ' Why God of noncht

Quha that it stal was few that wist: On presumption nevirtbeles

His werkis all full gude had wroucht?'

He that it stal arestyt was;

St. Serf answered, ' That Goddis will

And til Sanct Serf s j n e was he brought;

Was never to make his werkis ill. And as envious he had been seen,

T h a t scheippe he said that he stal noucht, And tharfor for to swer ane athe, He said that he walde nocht be laythe.

Gif nought but he full gude had been.' St. Serf the devil askit than,

Bot sone he worthit rede for schayme;

' W h e r e God made Adam, the first m a n ? '

The scheippe thar bletyt in his way me!

' I n Ebron Adam formit was,'

Swa was he taynctyt schamfully,

St. Serf said. And til him Sathanas,

And at Sanct Serf askyt mercy.

' Where was he, eft that, for his vice, H e was put out of Paradise ?' St. Serf said, ' W h e r e he was made.'

2) INTERVIEW OF ST. SERF WITH SATHANAS.

The devil askit, ' H o w lang he bade In Paradise, after his sin ?' 'Seven hours,' Serf said, 'bade he therein.' ' W h e n was Eve m a d e ? ' said Sathanas.

(Reduced Spelling.)

' I n Paradise,' Serf said, ' s h e was.' * * * *

While St. Serf, intil a stead,

The devil askit, ' Why that ye

Lay after matins in his bed,

And said: ' S t . Serf, by thy werk

Men, are quite delivered free. Through Christ's passion precious boucht, And we devils sae are noucht?' St. Serf said, ' For that ye

I ken tbou art a cunning clerk.'

Fell through your awn iniquity;

So Serf said: ' Gif I sae be, Foul wretch, what is that for thee ?'

And through ourselves we never fell, But through your fellon false counsell. * *

The devil said: ' This question

Then saw the devil that he could noucht,

The devil came, in foul intent. For til found him with argument,

I ask in our collation —

With all the wiles that be wrought,

Say where was God, wit ye oucht,

Overcome St. Serf. He said than

Before that heaven and erd was wroucht?' St. Serf said: ' In himself steadless

He kenned him for a wise man. Forthy there he gave him quit.

His Godhead hampered never was.'

For he was at him na profit.

The devil then askit, ' W h a t cause he had

St. Serf said, ' Thou wretch, gae

To make the creatures that he m a d e ? '

Frae this stead, and 'noy nae mae

To that St. Serf answered there,

Into this stead, I bid ye.'

' Of creatures made he was maker.

Suddenly then passed b e ;

A maker micht he never be,

Frae that stead he held his way, And never was seen there to this day.

But gif creatures made had he.'

HI.

BLLXD IIARRY.

Wir wissen von diesem Dichter nichts weiter, als dass er von Kindheit an gewesen sein soll, (wogegen die Wahrheit seiner Naturschilderungen

dass er um d. J. 1 4 6 0 ein Gedicht: ' T h e Adventures of Sir William Wallace' sich durch den Vortrag desselben seinen Lebensunterhalt

verdiente.

blind

zu streiten scheint), schrieb und

Es besteht aus zwölf

32

BLIND HARRT.

Büchern und «oll, nach Einigen, eine Übersetzung oder Umarbeitung einer l a t e i n i s c h e n Erz&hlung der Thaten des Sir W. Wallace sein. William Hamilton übertrug es vor ungefähr 100 Jahren in modernes Schottisch und es ist seitdem immer ein Lieblingsbuch des Landvolkes gewesen.

1) DESCRIPTION OF THE MORNING, AND OP WALLACE ARMING HIMSELF IN HIS TENT. Into a vale by a small river fair, On either side where wild deer made repair, Set watches out that wisely could them keep, To supper went, and timeously they sleep, Of meat and sleep they cease with suffisaunce, The night was mirk, overdrave the darksom

Adam Wallaice and Boyd forth with him yeed By a river, throughout a florisht mead. And as they walk attour the fields so green, Out of the south they saw when that the queen Toward the host came riding soberly, And fifty ladies in her company.

2) THE DEATH OF WALLACE. chance, The meny day sprang from the orient, On Wednesday the false Southron furth With beams bright illuminate Occident, brocht After Til an Phebus upriseth fair, To martyr him, as they before had wrocht. High in the sphere, the signs he made declare. Of men in arms led him a full great rout. Zephyrus then began his morning course, With a bauld sprite guid Wallace bleut about; The sweet vapour thus from the ground resourse; A priest he asked, for God that died on tree. The humble bregth down from the henven avail King Edward then commanded his clergy, In every mead, both frith, forest and dale. I And saiil, ' I charge you, upon loss of life, The clear rede among the rockis rang ! Nane be sae bauld yon tyrant for to shrive: Through grene branches where the bynls j He has reigned long in contrar my highness, blythly sang; j A blyth bishop soon, present in that place, 1 Of Canterbury he then was righteous lord; With joyous voice in heavenly harmony, Again' the king he made this richt record, When Wallace thought it was no time to lv: And said, 'Myself shall hear his confession, He crossyd him, syn suddenly arose, If I have micht in contrar of thy crown. To take the air out of his pallion goes An thou through force will stop me of this Maister John Blair was ready to revess, In goode intent syne bouned to the mass. When it was done, Wallace can him array, In his armore, which goodly was and gay; His shining shoes that birnisht was ful been, His leg-harness be clapped on so clean, Pullane grees he braced on full fast, A close birnie with many siker clasp, Breast-plate, brasars, that worthy were in wear; Beside him forth Jop could his basnet bear; His glittering gloves that graven on either side, He seemed well in battell to abide. His good girdle, and syne his buirly brand, A staffe of steel he gripped in his hand. The host him blest. * * •

thing, I vow to God, who is my righteous king, That all England I shall her intcrdite, And make it known thou art a heretic. The sacrament of kirk I shall him give: Syne take thy choice, to starve or let him live. It were mair weil, in worship of thy crown, To keep sic ane in life in thy bandoun, Than all the land and good that thou lisst reived, But cowardice thee ay fra honour dreived. Thou has thy life rougin (spent) in wrangeous deed; That shall be seen on thee or on thy seed?

BLIND HARRY. — ZWEITER ABSCHNITT. The king gart (caused)

charge they should the bishop ta, But sad lords couosellit to let him ga. All Englishmen said that his desire was richt. To Wallace then he rahit in their sicht And sadly heard his confession till ane e n d ; Humbly to God his sprite he there commend Lowly him served with hearty devotion Upon his knees and said ane orison. * * * A psalter-book Wallace had on him ever Fra his cbildheid — fra it wald nocht dissever; Better he trowit in wyage for to speed.

23

But then he was dispalyed of his weed (clothes). This grace he asked at Lord Clifford, that knicht, To let him have his psalter-book in sicbt. He gart a priest it open before him bald, While ihey till bim bad done all that they wald: Stedfast he read for ought they did him there; Feil (many) Southrons said that Wallace felt na sair. Guid devotion, sae, was his beginning, Conteined therewith, and fair was his ending. While speech and sprite at anis all can fare To lasting bliss, we trow, for evermair.

ZWEITER ABSCHNITT. VON 1 4 6 0 - 1 5 5 8 . Die letzte Hälfte des XV. Jahrhunderts ist als eine an poetischen Erzeugnissen unfruchtbare Zeit zu bezeichnen. Der Geschmack hatte sich mehr den Sagen des klassischen Altertbums zugewendet, von denen die über Tbeseus, Troja und Alexander den Grossen die ersten Stelleu einnahmen; die Dichter selbst sind zur Mehrzahl Schotten. Die Allegorie waltet besonders vor, wobei man sich namentlich an die grossen Italienischen Muster hielt, ohne indessen die vorangegangenen vaterländischen Dichtungen unberücksichtigt zu lassen. Die ersten 'Moralities' bahnen der eigentlichen dramatischen Dichtkunst den Weg, während die Einführung der Buchdruckerkunst durch C a x t o n ( S . I. Th. d. Handb. S. 17.) zur Wiederbelebung der Wissenschaft und der Verbreitung nützlicher Kenntnisse auch unter den mittleren Klassen viel beitrug. Die Wirkungen der Reformation zeigen sich noch langsam und bilden erst in der nächsten Periode ein wesentliches geistiges Moment in der Englischen Kulturgeschichte. Einen gedrängten Ueberblick dieses Abschnittes giebt D a n i e l S c r y m g e o u r in seinem neuesten Werke ' The Poetry and Poets of Britain (Edinburgh 1850, S. XXIII. ff.).' Es heisst daselbst: 'The fifteenth century, if deficient in poetic genius in the south, was rich in the northern portion of the island. It opened with the works of King J a m e s I., and closed with D u n b a r and D o u g l a s in their full reputation. The progress of taste and learning in Scotland is visible in the foundation of the Universities of St. A n d r e w s and G l a s g o w , the former in 1411 by Bishop Wardlaw, the latter in 1 4 5 0 by Bishop Turnbull. Literary improvements more slowly reached the more remote portion of the island, but they produced admirable results. The century is the era of the commencement of what is technically in history termed 'Revival of Learning'; the multiplication, by printing, of books, and especially of the Greek and Roman classics, enriched the intellect of Europe, and in the poets of this age we find a strong infusion of words adopted from the Latin. Hence, though poetic genius was at a low ebb in England, the language had begun to assume a form approximating to that of the present time. This fact is displayed in the proae as well as in the verse o f the period; it is visible in the work of S i r

ZWEITER ABSCHNITT. — JOHN LYD GATE.

24

J o h n F o r t e s c o e , ' on the 'Difference between an Absolute and a Limited Monarchy' (S. I. Th. d. Handb. S. 2 7 . ) ; and that thii improvement had descended into the speech of the country is shown in the P a s t o n L e t t e r s , which form a collection of correspondence between the members of the family of Paston in Norfolk, during the wars of York and Lancaster. Incidental notices of the political circumstances of the times are mingled with the more immediate subjects of the letters. Written without the most distant idea of publication, these epistles furnish a very good criterion from which to estimate the language of the upper classes in the fifteenth century.' ' A century after Chaucer's death, the better day, as has been remarked, begins to appear. In Henry Vll's reign, U a w e s the first writer, according to Warton, who dared to abandon the dull taste of the age for the brilliancy of Chaucer's imagination, whose ' House of F n m e ' he imitates in his 'House of Glass,' and the learned and daring satirist S k e l t o n , who bequeathed his name to the short doggerel style of his versification, precede the E a r l of S u r r e y , and his brother in verse, S i r T h o m a s W y a t t , the ornaments of the first half of the sixteenth century. The language had now made an immense stride; that of Surrey is pure and melodious English; the language of S i r T h o m a s M o r e ( S . I. Th. d. HanJb. S. 2 8 . ) the celebrated chancellor of Henry VIII., is admired for its excellence; and the letter of Queen A n n e B o y l e n to the King before her execution is given by H u m e , with the remark how little its phraseology differs from that of our own day. The cessation of domestic war, and the peaceful and regular government established by the high prerogative of the Tudor princes, enabled literature to effloresce unmolested.'

ENGLISCHE DICHTER, 1. JOHN LYDGATE, ein Benediktinermönch von Bury in Suffolk, um das J. 1430.

Er studirte eine kurze Zeit

zu Oxford, machte darauf eine Reise nach Frankreich und Italien, um Sprache und Literatur beider Länder zu studiren

und kehrte,

reich an Kenntnissen, in seiu Vaterland

zurück.

Dort erlangte er bald einen solchen Ruf, dass er eine Schule in seinem Kloster eröffnen konnte, wo er deu Söhnen der höbern Stände Unterricht, hauptsächlich in der Kunst des Versbaues ertheilte.

Warton

sagt von ihm: ' N o poet seems to have possessed a greater versatility of

talents. He moves with equal case in every mode of composition.' — 'His muse was of universal access, and he was not only the poet of his monastery, but of the world in general. If a disguising was intended by the company of goldsmiths, a mask before his majesty at Ellham, a maygame for the sheriffs and aldermen of London, a mumming before tbe Lordmayor, a procession of pageants from the creation for the festival of Corpus Christi, or a carol for the coronation, Lydgate was consulted and gave the poetry.'

Seine grösseren Gedichte sind:

Fall of Princes,' ' The Siege of T h e b e s ' und ' The Destruction of Troy.'

'The

Unter den Versarten

gelang ihm besonders die siebenzeilige Stanze, die seit Chaucer sehr beliebt wurde und die italienische

Ottava ganz verdrängte.

Wir theilen den Anfang eines kleineren

Gedichtes:

' T h e Life of our Lady' und ein Bruchstück aus einem Gelegenheitsgedichte mit, ' T h e London

25

J O H N LYDGATB. Lyckpenny.'

Der Dichter war n a c h L o n d o n gekommen, um wegen eine* erlittenen Unrecht*

gerichtliche Hülfe in Anspruch zu n e h m e n ;

er besucht

und beschreibt

unter Andern ' t h e

K i n g ' s B e n c h , ' ' t h e Court of C o m m o n Pleas,' «the Court of C h a n c e r y ' und ' W e s t m i n s t e r Hall.'

1) FROM ' T H E LYFE OF OUR LADY.' (Original

Spilling )

W h i c h seeing, I gat m e o u t of t h e door, Where Flemings began o n m e for to cry, ' M a s t e r , what will y o u copen or b u y ?

O thoughtfull herte, plonged in distresse

Fine felt h a t s ? or spectacles t o r e a d ?

W i t h slombre of slouth, this long wynter's n i g h t !

Lay down y o u r silver, and h e r e y o u may speed.

O u t of the slepe of m o r t a l hevinesse Awake a n o n , and loke upon the light

Then t o Westminster gate I presently went,

Of thilkc sterre, that with her bemys bright,

W h e n the sun was at high p r i m e :

And with (he shynynge o f h e r s t r e m e s merye,

C o o k s to me they t o o k g o o d intent,

Is wont to glad all our bemisperie!

And proferred m e bread, with ale, and wine, Ribs of beef, both f a t and full fine;

T h i s sterre iu beautie passith Pleiades, B o t h e in shynynge, and eke of stremes clere, Bootes, and Arctur, and also Jades,

A fair cloth they gan for to s p r e a d , But, wanting money, I might n o t be sped.

And Esperus, whan that it doth a p p e r e : Then u n t o L o u d o n I did me hie,

F o r this is Spica, with her brighte sphere, T h a t towarde evyn, at midnyght, and at morowe,

Of all the land it beareth the p r i c e ; ' H o t p e a s c o d s ! ' one b e g a n to cry,

D o w n e f r o m hevyn adawith al our sorowe.

' S t r a w b e r r y r i p e , and cherries in t h e rise And dryeth u p the bytter terys wete

(twig)'.'

Of Aurora, a f t e r the morowe graye, T h a t she in wepying dothe on

floures

One bade me come near, and b u y s o m e spice; Bete

(float)

Pepper a n d saffron they gan m e beed ( offer), B u t , for lack of m o n e y , I might n o t speed.

I n lusty Aprill, and in freshe M a y e : And causeth P h e b u s , the bryght somers daye, W i t h bis wayne gold-yborned (burnished with gold)

b r y g h t and fay re,

T o 'enchase the mystes of our cloudy ayre. Now fayre sterre, 0 sterre of sterrvs all!

T h e n to the C h e a p I gan me drawn, W h e r e much people I saw for t o s t a n d ; O n e offered me velvet, silk and lawn, Another be toketh m e by the b a n d , ' Here is Paris t h r e a d , the finest in t h e l a n d ! '

W h o s e lyght to se the angels do delyte,

I never was used to such things, i n d e e d ;

So let t h e gold-dtwe of thv grace yfall

And, wanting money, I might n o t speed.

I n t o my breste, lyke scalys fayre and wbyte, Me to enspire !

*

*

*

T h e n went I forth by L o n d o n S t o n e , T h r o u g h o u t all Canwick S t r e e t : D r a p e r s much cloth m e offered a n o n ;

2) T H E L O N D O N LYCKPENNY. (Reduced

Spelling.)

T h e n comes m e o n e cried, — ' h o t sheep's feet;' O n e cried m a c k e r e l , rushes g r e e n ,

Within the hall, neither rich nor yet p o o r Would do for me ought, although I should die:

another

gan greet, O n e b a d e me b u y a h o o d to cover my h e a d ; But, for want of m o n e y , I m i g h t n o t b e sped.

26

JOHN LTDGATE. — JOHN SKELTON.

Then I hied me unto East-Cheap,

To buy my own hood I thought it wrong:

One cries ribs of beef, and many a pie; Pewter pots they clattered on a h e a p ;

I knew it well, as I did my creed, But, for lack of money, I could net speed.

There was harp, pipe, and minstrelsy; Yea by cock! nay by cock! some began to cry; Some sung of Jenkin and Julian for their meed, Tut, for lack of money, I might not speed. Then into Cornhill anon I yode, Where was much stolen gear a m o n g ; I saw where hung mine owne hood, That I had lost among the throng;

The taverner took me by the sleeve, ' Sir,' saith he, ' will you our wine assay?' I answered, ' T h a t cannot much rne grieve, A penny can do no more than it may.' I drank a pint, and for it did p a y ; Yet, sure a-hungered from thence I yede, And, wanting money, I could not speed.

II. J O M SKELTON, studirte zu Oxford und Cambridge und wurde 1 4 6 9 zu O. und später auch zu C. als ' Poeta Laureatus' gekrönt. Er erhielt die Pfarre zu Dvsse iu Norfolk, von welchem Amte er jedoch wegen der satirischen Balladen, die er gegen seinen eignen Stand schrieb, vom Bischof von Norwich entfernt worden zu sein schcint. Diess erbitterte ihn nur um so mehr, und als er es endlich wagte, auch den Cardinal W'olsty anzugreifen, musste er sich, von diesem verfolgt, in die Westminstcr-Abtei flüchten, wo er unter dem Schutze des Abtes Islip bis an seinen 1 5 2 9 erfolgten Tod blieb. Er erhob sich allerdings nicht über seine Zeit, aber seine Darstellung der Sitten der Geistlichen ist voller Iluiiior. So bitter er übrigens in seinen Satiren ist, so konnte er sich doch auch von einer liebenswürdigeren Seite zeigen, wie z. B. im folgenden Liedchen:

MISTRESS MARGARET HUSSEY.

As midsummer flower, Gentle as falcon

Merry Margaret,

Or liawk of the tower;

As midsummer flower,

As patient and as still

Gentle as falcon, Or hawk of the tower;

And as full of goodwill

With solace and gladness

Coliander, Sweet Pomander,

Much mirth and no madness, All good and no badness; So joyously, So maidenly, So womanly,

As fair Isiphil,

Good Cassander; Stedfast of thought, Well made, well wrought Far may be sought

Her demeaning In every thing,

Ere you can find

Far, far passing

As merry Margaret,

T h a t I can indite, Or suffice to write

This midsummer flower,

Of merry Margaret,

Or hawk of the tower.

So courteous, so kind,

Gentle as falcon

EARL OF SURRET.

27

HL EARL OF SURREY. Thomas Howard, der älteste Sohn des Herzogs von Norfolk, gewöhnlich Earl of Surrey genannt, wurde 1516 geboren und zu Windsor erzogen. Schon früh zeichnete er «ich durch Kenntnisse und in allen ritterlichen Künsten aus, reiste dann nach Italien und studirte dort Dante, Petrarca, Boccaccio und Ariost. S. war nicht blos Dichter, er erwarb sich auch als Soldat, im Kriege gegen Schottland 1542, einen Ruf. Er fiel endlich bei Heinrich IUI. in Ungnade und wurde auf Tower Hill enthauptet. Obschon frühzeitig verheirathet, richtete er doch eine grosse Zahl von Gedichten an eine Tochter des Grafen von Kildare, die er unter dem Namen Geraldine verherrlicht. Chambers sagt von ihm: ' T h e poetry of Surrey is remarkable for a flowing melody, correctness of style, and purity of expression ; he was the first to introduce the sonnet and blank verse into English poetry.'

1) DESCRIPTION AND PRAISE OF HIS LOVE, GERALDINE. ( Original Spelling.) From Tuscane came my ladie's worthy race; Faire Florence was, sometyme, her auncient seat; The western yle whose pleasant shore doth face Wild Camber's cliff, did geve her lyvely heate. Foster'd she was with milke of Irishe breste; Her sire, an Erie; her dame of princes' blood: From tender yeres, in Britaine she doth rest, With kinges childe, where she tasteth costly food. Hunsdon did first present her to myne eyne; Bright is her hewe, and Geraldine she hight: Hampton me taught to wish her first for mine, And Windsor, alas ! doth chase me from her sight.

And every thought did show So lively in mine eyes, That now I sighed, and then I smiled, As cause of thoughts did rise. I saw the little boy, In thought how oft that he Did wish of God, to 'scape the rod, A tall young man to be. The young man eke that feels His bones with pains opprest, How he would be a rich old man, To live and lie at rest: The rich old man that gees His end draw on so sore, How he would be a boy again, To live so much the more.

Her beauty of kinde, her vertue from above, Happy is he that can obtain her love.

Whereat full oft I smiled, To see how all these three From boy to man, from man to boy, Would chop and change degree:

2) ' HOW NO AGE IS CONTENT WITH HIS OWN STATE, AND HOW THE AGS OF CHILDREN IS THE HAPPIEST IF THEY HAD SKILL TO UNDERSTAND IT.' (Reduced Spelling.)

And musing thus, I think, The case is very strange, That man from wealth, to live in woe, Doth ever seek to change.

Laid in my quiet bed, In study as I were, I saw within my troubled bead A heap of thoughts appear.

Thus thoughtful as I lay, I saw my withered skin, How it doth show my dented thews, The flesh was worn so thin;

28

E A R L OP S U R R E Y . And eke my toothless chaps,

The stately seats, the ladies bright of hue,

The gates of my right way,

The dances short, long tales of great delight,

That opes and shuts as I do speak,

With words and looks that tigers could but rue.

D o thus unto me s a y :

Where each of us did plead the other's right.

T h e white and hoarish hairs,

The palm-play, where, despoiled for the game

The messengers of age,

With dazed eyes oft we by gleams of love,

That show, like lines of true belief,

Have missed the ball and got sight of our dame

That this life doth a s s u a g e ;

T o bait her eyes, which kept the leads above.

Bids thee lay hand, and feel

The gravel ground with sleeves tied on the helm

Them hanging on my chin.

Of foaming horse, with swords and friendly

T h e which do write two ages past,

hearts;

The third now coming in.

With cheer, as though one should another whelm, Where we have fought and chased oft with darts;

H a n g up, therefore, the bit Of thy young wanton time; And thou that therein beaten art,

With silver drops the mead yet spread for ruth,

The happiest life define:

In acti\e games of liimblent ss and strength,

Whereat I sighed, and said,

Where we did strain, trained with swarms of youth.

Farewell my wonted joy,

Our tender limbs that yet shot up in length:

T r u s s up thy pack, and trudge from me, T o every little b o y :

T h e secret groves which oft we made resound i

And tell them that from me, Their time most happy is,

Of pleasant plain, and of our ladies' praise,

! Recording of what grace each one had found, What hope of speed, what dread of loDg delays:

If to their time they reason had T o know the truth of this.

The wild forest, the clothed holts with green, With reins dropped and swift y breathed horse; Willi cry of hounds and merry blasts between, Where we did chase the fearful hart of force.

3) PRISONER IN W I N D S O R , HE RECOL'NT E T H HIS P L E A S U R E T H E R E PASSED. S o cruel prison how could betide, a l a s !

The wide vales, eke, that harboured us each night, Wherewith, alas, reviveth in my breast, The sweet accord such sleeps as yet delight, T h e pleasant d r e a m s , the quiet bed of rest:

As proud W i n d s o r ! where I, in lust and jov, With a king's son, my childish years did puss, In greater f e a s t , than Priam's son of T r o y :

The secret thoughts imparted with such trust, T h e wanton talk, the divers change of play, The friendship sworn, each promise kept so j u s t ;

Where each sweet place returns a taste full s o u r !

Wherewith we passed the winter night away.

T h e large green courts where we were wont to hove. With eyes cast up into the Maiden Tower, And easy sighs s u c h as folk draw in love.

And with this thought, the blood forsakes the face, T h e tears berain my cheeks of deadly hue,

EARL OP SURREY. — SIR THOMAS WYATT.

29

The which, as soon as sobbing sighs, alas, 4) SONNET.

Upsupped have, thus I my plaint renew:

j Set me whereas the sonne doth parch the grene, ! Or where his beams do not dyssolve the vse, Give me accounts, where is my noble fere,*) 1 In temperate heat, where lie is felt, and sene, Whom in thy walls thou dost each night enclose; In presence prest of people, madde, or wise; j Set me in hye, or yet in low degree, To other leef,**) but unto us most d e a r : In longest night, or in the shortest day; In clearest skve, or where cloudes thickest be. Echo, alas ! that doth my sorrow rue, In lusty youth, or when my hairs are graye: Returns thereto a hollow sound of plaint. Set me in heaven, in earth, or else in hell, Thus I alone, where all my freedom grew, In hyll or dale, or in the foaming flood; In prison pine with bondage and restraint, Thrall, or at large, alyve where so I dwell, Sicke, or in helthe, in evyll fame or g o o d ; And with remembrance of the greater grief Hers will I be, and only with this thought To banish the less, I find my chief relief. Content myself although my chaunce be nought. *) companion. **) agreeable. 0 place of bliss! renewer of my woes,

IV. SIR THOMAS WYATT, geb. 1 5 0 3 , gest. 1 5 4 1 , ein Freund des Vorigen, erhielt eine vortreffliche Erziehung, machte grössere Reisen — er wurde wiederholt in Gesandtschaftsangelegenbeiten verwendet — und zeichnete sich durch Kenntnisse und allgemeine Bildung um Hofe Heinrich's VIII. aus.

rühmlich

Vorsichtiger, als Surret/, wusste er sich in die Launen des Königs zu fügen und soll

durch seine witzigen Einfalle mehr, als durch guten Rath erhielt den Auftrag, den Gesandten Kaiser Karl's

Uber ihn vermocht haben.

Er

V. in Falmouth zu empfangen und an den

Hof zu geleiten: der Tag war sehr lieiss und IV. zog sich durch den angestrengten Ritt ein Fieber zu, welches seinen Tod herbeiführte.

Wir besitzen von ihm eine ziemliche An-

zahl von Sonetten, Liedern und kleineren Gedichten: ist auch seine Sprache oft hart und nicht selten durch kleinliche Spielereien entstellt, so fehlt es ihm doch keineswegs an poetischem Gefühle.

Vorzüglicher ist er in seinen poetischen Episteln, in denen sich eine

grosse Weltkenntniss und gesunde Philosophie des Lebens ausspricht. Gedichte, so wie die des Grafen Surrey

Seine

sämmtlichen

wurden zuerst 1557 gedruckt; auch in 'Anderson'«

Works of tbe British Poets,' London und Edinb., 1795, Bd. I., sind sie vollständig enthalten.

I lead my life indifferently; THE RE-CURED LOVER EXULTETH IN HIS FREEDOM, AND VOWETH TO REMAIN FREE UNTIL DEATH.

I mean nothing but honesty; And though folks judge full diversely, I am as I aiu, and so will I die.

I am, as I am, and so will I b e ;

I do not rejoice, nor yet complain,

But how that I am none knoweth truly.

Both mirth and sadness I do refrain,

Be it ill, be it well, be I bond, be I free,

And use the means, since folks will feign;

I am as I am, and so will I be.

Yet I am as 1 am, be it pleasant or pain.

30

SIR THOMAS WYATT. — JAMES I. OP SCOTLAND. Divers do judge as they do trow,

B u t whether tbev j u d g e m e wrong o r r i g h t ,

S o m e of pleasure and some of woe,

I am as I a m , a n d so do I write.

Yet for all t h a t nothing they k n o w ; But I am as I am, wheresoever I go.

P r a y i n g you all that this do read, T o trust it as you do y o u r c r e e d ;

But since j u d g e r s do thus decay,

And not to think I c h a n g e my weed,

Let every m a n his j u d g m e n t s a y ;

F o r I am as I a m , however I speed.

1 will it t a k e iu sport and play, F o r I am as I am, whosoever say n a y .

But how that is I leave to y o u , J u d g e as ye list, false or true,

W h o j u d g e t h well, well God them s e n d ;

Ye know no more than afore ye knew,

W h o j u d g e t h evil, G o d tliem a m e n d ;

Yet I am as I am, whatever ensue.

T o judge the best therefore intend, F o r I am as 1 am, and so will I end.

And from this mind I will n o t flee, But to you all that misjudge me,

Yet some there be that take delight,

1 do protest, as ye may see,

T o j u d g e folk's thought for envy and s p i t e ;

T h a t I am as I am, and so will be.

SCHOTTISCH]-; D I C H T E R . I. JAMES 1. OF SCOTLAND, geb. 1 3 9 3 , S o h n Rot/ell's Albany,

III.

U m ihn den Nachstellungen seines Olieims, des H e r z o g s von

welcher nach der K r o n e s t r e b t e ,

zu e n t z i e h e n ,

wollte ihn sein Vater nach

Frank-

reich schicken: das Schill' wurde j e d o c h an die englische K ü s t e getrieben und Heinrich welcher eben mit Schottland Waffenstillstand des Friedens, zurück.

geschlossen

halle,

hielt i h n ,

IV.,

als U n t e r p f a n d

Neunzehn J a h r e lang blieb er als Gefangener in England, doch liess

ihn II. durch tüchtige I.einer ausbilden.

Von Heinrich

1. gegen L. 1 0 , 0 0 0 —

gelder — frei g e g e b e n , kehrte er 1 4 2 1 naeli Schottland z u r ü c k ,

Erziehungs-

wo er durch eine Menge

neuer E i n r i c h t u n g e n segensreich für das Volk wirkte, sich aber auch zugleich bei den Edelleuten verhasst machte, die zu einer Verschwörung gegen das Leben des Königs z u s a m m e n traten.

U m die E n t d e c k u n g derselben a b z u w a r t e n ,

hatte

er sich in ein Kloster bei Perth

mit seiner Gemahlin zurückgezogen, wurde aber, von einem Dii'ner verrathen, in der N a c h t vom 2 0 . F e b r . 1 4 3 7 durch eine in das Kloster e i n g e d r u n g e n e Baude, unter der A n f ü h r u n g Rob. Graham's, Somerset

ermordet.

k e n n e n lernte. lilsst

W. Tytler

Gemahlin

war Jane Beaufort,

Tochter

des

Herzogs

von

In einem langen Gedichte, ' T h e King's Q u h a i r ' (Book), hat er die Geschichte

seiner Liebe besungen. soll,

Seine

— eine Nichte Chaucer s, — die er wahrend seiner Gefangenschaft in W i n d s o r Castle

sich gab

Von a n d e r n Gedichten, welche er in Schottland geschrieben

nicht mit B e s t i m m t h e i t

nachweisen,

dass

sie James

haben

zum Verfasser haben.

' T h e Poetical R e m a i n s of J . I . , E d i n b . 1 7 ^ 3 h e r a u s ; ' T h e King's Q u h a i r ' ,

edit, by T h o m s o n , A y r , 1 8 2 4 .

Als Beleg für Chamber's

Urtheil,

dass ' t h e King's Quhair

contains p o e t r y superior to any besides t h a t of C h a u c e r , p r o d u c e d in E n g l a n d before the reign o£ Elizabeth,' theilen wir d a s folgende B r u c h s t ü c k d a r a u s mit.

31

JAMES I. O F SCOTLAND.

Were so overcome with pleasance and delight,

JAMES I. A PRISONER IN WINDSOR, FIRST

Only through letting of my eyen fall,

SEES L A D Y JANE B E A U F O R T .

That suddenly my heart became her thrall,

Bewailing in my chamber, thus alone,

\ For ever of free will — for of menace

Despaired of all j o y and remedy,

There was BO token in her sweete face.

For-tired of my thought, and woe-begone, And to the window gan I walk iu liv (Aaste)

And in my head I drew right hastily,

T o see the world and folk that went forbye,

And eftesoons I leant it out again.

As, for the time, though I of mirthis food

And saw her walk that very womanly,

Might hare no more, to look it did me good.

With no wight mo', but only woman twain. Then gan I study in myself, and sayn,

Now was there made, fast by the towris wall,

'Ah, sweet! are ye a wordly creature,

A garden fair; and in the corners set

Or heavenly thing in likeness of nature?

Ane arbour green, with wandis loDg and small Railed about, and so with trees set

Or are ye god Cupidis ewn princess,

Was all the place, and hawthorn hedges knet,

And comin are to loose me out of band ?

That lyf was none walking there forbye,

Or are ye very Nature the goddess,

That might within scarce any wight espy,

That have depainted with your heavenly hand,

So thick the boughis and the leavis green

What shall I think, alas! what reverence

Beshaded all the alleys that there were,

Shall I mister (minister) unto your excellence?

This garden full of flowers as they stand?

And mids of every arbour might be seen The sharpe greene sweete juniper,

If ye a goddess be, and that ye like

Growing so fair with branches here and there, ! T o do me pain, I may it not astart (fly): That as it seemed to a lyf without,

! If ye he wardly wight, that doth me sikc,

The boughis spread the arbour all about.

W h y list (pleased) God make you so, my dearest heart,

And on the smallc greene twistis (twigs) sat

j T o do a seely (wretched) prisoner this smart,

The little sweete nightingale, and sung

i That loves you all, and wot of nought but wo?

So loud and clear, the hymnis consecrat

i And therefore mercy, sweet! sin' it is so. * * *

O f lovis use, now soft, now loud among, That all the gardens and the wallis rung Right of their song.

i Of her array the form if I shall write,

* * *

Towards her golden hair and rich attire, In fretwise c o u c h i t * ) with pearlis white

And therewith cast I down mine eyes again,

;

And great balas **) learning***) as the fire,

Where as I saw, walking under the tower,

! With many ane emerant and fair sapphire;

Full secretly, now eornen here to plain,

; And on her head a chaplet fresh of hue,

The fairist or the freshest younge flower

; Of plumis parted red, and white, and blue.

That ever I saw, methought, before that hour, For which sudden abate, anon astart,

i | Full of quaking spangis bright as gold,

The blood of all my body to ray heart.

I Forged of shape like to the amorets, So new, so fresh, so pleasant to behold,

And though I stood abasit tho a lite,*)

The plumis eke like to the flower jonets (lily),

N o wonder was; for w h y ? my wittis all *) Inlaid like fretwork. *) Confounded for at little while.

cious stone.

***) glittering.

* * ) A kind of pre-

32

JAMES I. OP SCOTLAND. — ROBERT HENRYSON.

And other of shape like to the flower joneU;

Thus halflings loose for h a s t e , to such delight

And above all this, there was, well 1 wot,

It was to see her youth in goodlihede,

Beauty enough to make a world to doat.

That for rudeness to speak thereof I dread.

About her neck, white as the fire amail,*)

In her was youth, beauty, with bumble aport, Bounty, richess, and womanly feature, God better wot than my pen can report; Wisdom, largess, estate, and cunning sure, In every point so guided her measure, ji In word, in deed, in shape, in countenance,

A goodly chain of small orfevorv,**) Whereby there hung a ruby, without fail. Like to ane heart shapen verily, That as a spark of l o w , * * * ) so wantonly Seemed burning upon her white throat, Now if there was good party (match),

God it wot.

That nature might no more her child a v a n c e ! * * * *

And for to walk that fresh May's morrow,

And when she walked had a little thraw

Al)e hook slie had upon her tissue white,

Under the sweete greene boughis bent,

That goodlier had not

Her fair fresh face, as white as any snaw,

been seen to-forow (before).

She turned has, and furth her way is w e n t ;

But tho began mine aches and torment, As I suppose; and girt she was alite ( s l i g h t l y ) , To see her part and follow I na might; Methought the day was turned into night. * ) enamel.

**) gold work.

* * * ) flame.

II. ROBERT HENRYSON, von dessen Lebensverhältnissen wir nichts weiter wissen, als dass er ein Dunfermline war und um 1 5 0 0 starb, schrieb ' The Testament of Cresseid,' von Chaucer's ' T r o y l u s and Cresseide,' eine Anzahl Fabeln und vermischte sächlich moralischen Inhalts. Unter den F'abcin ist die bekannte Geschichte Mouse and Country Mouse die er mit vielem Humor behandelt und mit Moral beschliesst.

Schulmeister zu eine Fortsetzung Gedichte, hauptvon der ' Town einer trefflichen

Except ane thing — they drank the water clear Instead of wiue, but yet they made gude checr.

DINNER GIVEN BY THE TOWN MOUSE TO THE COUNTRY MOUSE.

With bly th upcast and merry countenance, * * * their liarboury was tane Intill a spence, where victual was plenty, ( The elder sister then spier'd at her guest, Baith cheese and butter on lang shelves richt hie, | Gif that sho thoucht by reason difference W i t h fish and flesh enough, baith fresh and salt, j Betwixt that chalmer and her s a i r y * ) nest And paekis full of groats, baith meal and malt. I ' Y e a , d a m e , ' quoth s h o , ' b u t how lang will ! After, when they disposit were to dine,

this l a s t ? '

I ' l ' o v evemair, I wait, and langer t o o ; ' 'Gif that be true, ye are at ease,' quoth sho.

Withouten grace they wuish*) and went to meat, On every dish that cookmen can divine,

To eik the cheer, in plenty furth they broucht

Mutton and beef stricken out in telyies g r i t ;

A plate of groatis and a dish of meal,

Ane lordisfare thus can they counterfeit, *) washed.

1

*) sorry.

35

ROBEftT HENRYSON. A tbreif ( 2 4 ) of cakes, I trow sho spared them

L e r e r I had tbis forty dayis fast,

noucht,

W i t h water kail, and green beans and peas,

Abundantly about ber for to deal.

T h e n all your feast with tbis dread and disease.

Furmage full fine slio broucht instead of jeil, A white candle out of a coffer staw,

With fair 'treaty, yet gart she her rise;

Instead of spice, to creish their teeth witha.'

T o board they went, and on together sat,

Thus made they merry, while they micht nae

When in cam Gib Hunter, our jolly cat,

But scantly had they drunken anes or twice, mair,

And bade God speed. The burgess up then gat,

And, ' H a i l , Yule, h a i l ! ' they cryit up on h i e ;

And till her bole she fled as fire of flint;

But after joy aftentimcs comes care,

Bawdrons the other by the back has bent.

And trouble after grit prosperity. Thus as they sat in all their solity,

Frae foot to foot h e cast her to and frae.

The Spenser cam with keyis in his hand,

While up, while down, as cant as only k i d ;

Opened the door, and tbem at dinner f a D d .

While wald he let her run under the strae,

They tarried not to wash, as I suppose,

Thus to the silly mouse great barm he d i d ;

But on to gae, wha micht the foremost win;

While at the last, through fair fortune and hap,

The burgess had a hole and in sho goes,

Betwixt the dresser and the wall she crap.

While wald he wink and play with her buik-bid;

Her sister bad nae place to hid her i n ; T o see that silly mouse it was great sin,

Syne up in haste behind the paneling,

Sae desolate and wild of all gude rede,

Sae hie sho clam, that Gilbert might not get her,

For very fear sho fell in swoon, near deed.

And by the cluiks craftily can hing, Till he was gone, her cheer was all the b e t t e r ;

Then as God wald it fell in happy case,

Syne down sho l a p , when there was nanc to

The Spenser had nae leisure for to bide,

let h e r ;

Nowther to force, to seek, nor scare, nor chase

Then on the burgess mouth loud couth sho cry,

But on he went and cast the door up-wide.

'Fareweel, sister, here I thy feast defy.

This burgess mouse his passage weel has spied. Out of her bole sho cam and cried on hie,

Thy mangery is m i n g e t * ) all with care.

' How, fair sister, cry peep, where'er thou be.'

Thy guise is gude, thy gane-full sour as gall; T h e fashion of thy feris is but fair,

The rural mouse Jay flatlings on the ground,

So'shalt thou find hereafterward may fall.

And for the deid sho was full dicadand,*)

I thank yon curtain, and yon parpane wall,

For till her heart strake mony wacful stound,

Of my defence now frae yon cruel b e a s t ;

As in a fever trembling foot and h a n d ;

Almighty God, keep me from sic a feast.

And when her sister in sic plight her fand, For very pity sho began to greet.

Were I into the place that I cam frae, Syne comfort gave, with words as honey sweet. j F o r weel nor wae I should ne'er come again.' : With that sho took her leave, and forth can gae,

' W h y lie ye t h u s ?

Rise up, my sister dear,

Come to your meat, this peril is o'erpast.'

| While through the com, while through the plain. ' When sho was furth and frea sho was right fain,

The other answered with a heavy cheer,

| And merrily linkit unto the muir,

I may nought eat, sae sair I am aghast.

j I cannot tell how afterward she fure.

*) She was iu fear of immediate death. II.

J

*)

mixed.

3

34

ROBERT HENRYSON. — WILLIAM DUNBAR. (From the Moral.)

But I heard syne sho passit to her den, As warm as woo', suppose it was not grit,

Blissed be simple life, withouten dreid;

Full beinly stuffit was baith butt and ben,

Blissed be sober feast in quieté;

With peas and n u t s , and beans, and rye and

Wha has eneuch of no more has be neid,

wheat; Whene'er sho liked, she had enough of meat,

Though it be little into quantity.

In quiet and ease, withouten ony dread,

Oft timis make ane evil conclusion ;

But till her sister's feast nae mair sho gaed.

Grit abundance, and blind prosperity, The sweetest life, theirfor, in this country Is of aickerness, with small possession.

ID. WILLIAM DUNBAR geb. um das J. 1460, gest. um 1 5 2 0 , studirte zu St. Andrews, trat dann in den Franziskaner-Orden und durchwanderte, predigend und von Almosen lebend, Schottland, England und selbst das nördliche Frankreich. Von 1491 an scheint er in besseren Verhältnissen gelebt und namentlich von James IV. in mehren Gesandtschaftsangelegenheiten verwendet worden zu sein, die ihn nach Deutschland, Italien, Spanien und Frankreich führten. Später lebte er zwar am Ilofe, in vielen seiner Gedichte spricht er indessen den sehnlichen Wunsch nach irgend einer u n a b h ä n g i g e n Stellung aus; ob ihm dieser Wunsch erfüllt wurde, ist unbekannt. — Sir Hl Scott nennt D. ' a poet, unrivalled by any that Scotland has ever produccd.' Kr ist gleich gross im Erhabenen, Ernsten, Komischen und Satirischen; voll tiefen, poetischen Gefühls und Meister in malerischer Darstellung. Seine Gedichte lassen sich eintheilen in a l l e g o r i s c h e , m o r a l i s c h e und k o m i s c h e ; ausserdem schrieb er eine ziemliche Anzahl Gelegenheitsgedichte. Unter den ersteren sind die vorzüglichsten: ' The Thislle and the Rose,' veranlasst durch durch die Vermählung Jacob's IV. mit der englischen Prinzessin Margarethe, ' T h e Dance' und ' T h e Golden Terge.' Vielleicht das merkwürdigste unter allen seinen Gedichten ist ' T h e Dance,' worin er die Eitelkeit der Welt, den Leichtsinn und die Verderbtheit der Menschen geisselt. Die Scene ist in der Hölle, wo sich Satan zu seiuer Unterhaltung von den sieben Todsünden ein Ballet tanzen lässt; an Kraft und Lebendigkeit der Schilderung möchte ' T h e Dance' kaum einem Gedichte in der ganzen Sprache nachstehen. Von seinen m o r a l i s c h en Gedichten ist das hier mitgetheilte ' T h e Merle and the Nightingale' das vorzüglichste; unter den k o m i s e b e n ist ' T h e Two Married Women and the Widow' zu nennen, in welchem sich die drei Damen, freilich nicht eben auf die zarteste Weise, über die Tugenden ihrer Ehemänner und die Mittel unterhalten, durch welche die Frau ihr eignes Interesse am Besten fördern kann. — Vergl. Harbin, II. und Pinktrlon, ' Ancient Scotish Poems,' I.

And with thy neighbours gladly lend and 1) WITHOUT GLADNESS AVAILES NO TREASURE. *

*

*

*

Be merry, man, and tak not sair in mind The wavering of this wretched world of sorrow; To God be humble, to thy friend be kind,

borrow ; His chance t o - n i g h t , it may be thine tomorrow; Be blyth in hearte for my aventure, For of with wise men it has been said aforow, ' Without Gladness availes no Treasure.

WILLIAM DUNBAR. Make thee gude cheer of it that God thee sends, For warld's wrak but welfare nought avails; Nae gude is thine save only that thou spends, Remanant all thou bruikes but with bails; Seek to solace when sadness thee assails; In dolour lang thy life may not endure, Wherefore of comfort set up all thy sails; Without Gladness availes no Treasure. Follow on pity, flee trouble and debate, With famous folkis hald thy company; Be charitable and hum'le in thine estate, For warldly honour lastes but a cry. For trouble in earth tak no melancholy; Be rich in patience, if thou in gudes be poor; Who lives merrily he lives mightily; Without Gladness availes no Treasure.

2) THE MERLE AND THE NIGHTINGALE.

35

Ne'er sweeter noise was heard with living man, Na made this merry gentle nightingale; Her sound went with the river as it ran, Out through the fresh and flourished lusty vale; O Merle! quoth she, 0 fool! stint of thy tale, For in thy song good sentence is there none, For both is tint, the time and the travail Of every love bnt upon God alone. Cease, quoth the Merle, thy preaching, Nightingale : Shall folk their youth spend into holiness ? Of young sanctis, grows auld feindis, but fable; Fye, hypocrite, in yeiris tenderness, Again' the law of kind thou goes express, That crookit age makes one with youth serene, Whom nature of conditions made diverse: A lusty life in Lovis service been.

In May, as that Aurora did upspring, With crystal een chasing the cluddes sable, I heard a Merle with merry notis sing A sang of love, with voice right comfortable, Again' the orient beamis, amiable, Upon a blissful branch of laurel green; This was her sentence, sweet and delectable, A lusty life in Lovis service been.

The Nightingale said, Fool, remember thee, That both in youth and eild, and every hour, The love of God most dear to man «uld be; That him, of nought, wrought like his own figour, And died himself, fro' dead him to succour; O, whether was kythit there true love or none ? He is most true and stedfast paramour, And love is lost but upon him alone.

Under this branch ran down a river bright, Of balmy liquor, crystalline of hue, Again' the heavenly azure skyis light, Where did upon the tother side pursue A Nightingale, with sugared notis new, Whose angel feathers as the peacock shone; This was her song, and of a sentence true, All love is lost but upon God alone.

The Merle said, Why put God so great beauty In ladies, with sic womanly having, But gif he woidd that tbey suld lovit be? To love eke nature gave them inclining, And He of nature that worker was and king, Would nothing frustir put, nor let be seen, Into his creature of his own making; A lusty life in Lovis service been.

With notis glad, and glorious harmony, This joyful merle, so salust she the day, While rung the woodis of her melody, Saying, Awake, ye lovers of this May; Lo, fresh Flora has flourished every spray, As nature has her taught, the noble queen, The field been clothit in a new array; A lusty life in Lovis service been.

The Nightingale said, Not to that behoof Put God sic beauty in a lady's face, That she suld have the thank therefor or luve, But He, the worker, that put in her sic grace; Of beauty, bounty, riches, time, or space, And every gudeness that been to come or gone The thank redounds to him in every place: All love is lost, but upon God alone. 3*

36

WILLIAM DUNBAR. — GAVIN DOUGLAS.

O Nightingale! it were a story nice,

Fame, goods, and s t r e n g t h ; wherefore well »ay

T h a t love suld not depend on charity;

I daur,

And, gif that virtue contrar be to vice,

All love is lost but upon God alone.

T h e n love maun be a virtue, as thinks m e ; F o r , aye, to love envy miiun contrar' be:

Then said the Merle, Mine error I confess:

G o d bade eke love thy neighbour fro the spleen;

This frustis love is all but vanity:

And who than ladies sweeter neighbours b e ?

Blind ignorance me gave sic hardiness,

A lusty life in Lovis service been.

T o argue so again' the verity; Wherefore I counsel every man that he

T h e Nightingale said, Bird, why does thou rave?

With love not in the feindis net be tone,

M a n may take in his lady sic delight,

But love the love that did for his love d i e :

H i m to forget that her sic virtue gave,

All love is lost but upon God alone.

And for bis heaven receive her colour white: H e r golden tressit hairis redomite,

Then sang they both with voices loud and clear,

Like to Apollo's beamis tbo' they shone,

The Merle sang, M a n , love God that has thee

Suld not him blind fro' love that is perfite;

wrought.

All love is lost but upon God alone.

The Nightingale s a n g , M a n , love the L o r d

T h e Merle said, Love is cause of honour aye.

T h a t thee and all this world made of nought.

Love makis cowards manhood to purchase,

ThrMerle said,Love him that thy love has sought

most dear,

Love makis knichtis bardy at essay,

Fro' heaven to earth and here took flesh and bone.

Love makis wretches full of largeness,

The Nightingale sang, And with his dead tbee

Love makis sweir folks full of business,

bought:

Love makis sluggards fresh and well be seen,

All love is lost, but upon him alone.

Love changes vice in virtuous nobleness; A lusty life in Lovis service been.

Then flew thir birdis o'er the boughis sheen,

T h e Nightingale said, True is the contrary;

Whose eidant plead yet made my thoughtis grein,

Sic frustis love it blindis men so far,

Both sleeping, waking, in rest and in travail:

Into their minds it makis them to vary;

Me to recomfort most it does avail,

Singing of love amang the leavis small;

In false vain glory they so drunken are,

Again for love, when love I can find none,

Their wit is went, of woe they are not waur,

T o think how sung this Merle and Nightingale;

While that all worship away be fro' them gone,

AH love is lost but upon God alone.

IV. GAVIN DOUGLAS, geb. um 1 4 7 4 , ein jüngerer Sohn von Archibald,

Earl

nf Angus,

widmete sich dem geist-

lichen Stande, stieg bis zum Bischof von Dunkeid und stand in grossem Ansehen. an der Pest, zu London, im J. 1522.

E r starb

Auch dieser Dichter huldigte noch dem A l l e g o r i e n -

w e s e n , obschon er einer der ersten war, die, bei dem wieder erwachten Studium der alten Klassiker, durch ihr Beispiel zeigten,

wie Viel von den

Alten

zu lernen sei.

Chambers

charakterisirt ihn s o : ' D o u g l a s wants the vigorous sense, and also the graphic force of D u n b a r ; while the latter is always close and nervous, Douglas is soft and verbose. The genius of Dunbar is so powerful, that manner sinks beneath i t : t h a t of Douglas is so much matter of culture, that

GAVIN DOUGLAS.

37

manner is its most striking peculiarity. Tbis manner is essentially scholarly: be employs an immense number of words derived from tbe Latin and yet comparatively a novelty in English composition.' — Ein längeres Gedicht führt den Titel: ' The Palace of Honour'; es war bestimmt ' a s an apologue for tbe conduct of a king and therefore addressed to James IV.' Ein anderes: ' K i n g H a r t , ' ist eine bildliche Darstellung des menschlichen Lebens. Sein Hauptwerk ist aber eine Uebersetzung der A en e i d e , die erste, welche von einem Klassiker in eDglischer Sprache gemacht wurde; es gilt allgemein für ein vorzügliches Werk, obscbon sich der Uebersetzer manche Freiheiten mit dem Originale nimmt. Jedem der zwölf Bücher schickt er übrigens einen p o e t i s c h e n P r o l o g eigner Erfindung voran, die zu dem Besten gehören, was er geschrieben hat. Vergl. Pinkerton, a. a. O. — Warton, II., 2 8 2 . — Irving, Lives of the Scottish Poets. —

MORNING IN MAY. (Part

of the Prologue to the \2th Book oj the Aeneid.J

As fresh Aurore, to mighty Tithon spouse, Ished of her saffron bed and ivor house, In cram'sy clad and grained violate, With sanguine cape, and selvage purpurate, Unshet the windows of her large hall, Spread all with roses, and full of balm royal, And eke the heavenly portis chrystalline Unwarps braid, the warld till illumine; The twinkling streamers of the orient Shed purpour spraings, with gold and azure ment; Eous, the steed, with ruby harness red, Above the seas liftis furth his head. Of colour sore, and somedeal brown as berry, For to alichten and glad our emispery; Tbe flame out-bursten at the neisthirls, So fast Phaeton with the whip him whirls. * * While shortly, with the bleezand torch of day, Abulyit in his leuand fresh array, Furth of his palace royal ishit Phoebus, With golden crown and visage glorious, Crisp hairs, bricht as chrysolite or topaz; For whase hue micht nane behald his face. * * The auriate vanes of his throne soverane With glitterand glance o'erspread the oceane; The large Slides, lemand all of Iicht, But with ane blink of his supernal sicht. For to behald, it was ane glore to see The stabled windis, and the calmed sea, The soft season, the firmament serene,

The loune illuminate air and firth amene. * * And lusty Flora did her bloomis spread Under the feet of Phoebus' sulyart steed; The swarded soil embrode with selcouth hues, Wood and forest, obnumbrate with bews. * * Towers, turrets, kiroals, and pinnacles hie. Of kirks, rastles, and ilk fair citie, Stude painted, every fane, phiol, and stage, Upon the plain ground by their awn umbrage. Of Eolus' north blasts havand no dreid, The soil spread her braid bosom on-breid; The corn crops and the beir new-braird With gladsome garment revesting the yerd. * * The prai besprent with springand sprouts diapers For caller humours on the dewy nicht Rendering some place the gerse-piles their licht; As far as cattle the lang summer's day Had in their pasture eat and nip away; And blissful blossoms in the bloomed yerd, Submits their heids to the young sun's safeguard. Ivy leaves rank o'erspread the barmkin wall; The bloomed hawthorn clad his pikis all; Furth of fresh bourgeons the wine grapes ying Endland the trellis did on twistis h i n g ; The loukit buttons on the gemmed trees O'erspreadand leaves of nature's tapestries; Soft grassy verdure after balmy sbouirs, On curland stalkis smiland to their flouirs. • * The daisy did on-breid her crownal small, And every flouer unlappit in the dale. * * Sere downis small on dentilion sprang, The young green bloomed strawberry leaves amang; Jimp jeryflouirs thereon leaves unshet,

38

GAVIN DOUGLAS. — SIR DAVID LYND8AY.

Fresh primrose and the pnrpoar violet; * *

By rinnand strandis, Nymphis and Naiadis,

Heavenly lillies, with lockerand toppia white.

Sic m we clepe wenches and damysels,

Opened and shew their crestis redemite. * *

In gersy graves wanderand by spring wells;

Ave paradise it seemed to draw near

Of bloomed branches and flowers white and red,

Thir galyard gardens and each green herbere

Plettand their lusty cbaplets for their bead.

Mailt amiable wax the emeraut meads;

S o m e sang r i n g - s o n g e s , d a n c e s , leids, a n d

Swarmis souchis through out the respand reeds. Over the lochis and the fludis gray, Searchand

by

rounds, W i t h voices shrill, while all the dale resounds.

kind ane place where

they

should lay.

Whereso they walk into their caroling, For amorous lays does all the rockis ring.

Phoebus' red fowl, his cural crest can steer,

Ane sang, ' T h e ship sails over the salt iaem,

Oft streikand furth his heckle, ctawand cleer.

Will

bring the

merchants

Amid the wortis and the rutis gent

and

my

leman

hame.'

Pickand his meat in alleys where he went,

Some other sings, ' I will be blytbe and licht,

His wivis T o p p a and Partolet him b y —

My heart is l e s t upon so goodly wicht.'

A bird all-time that hauntis bigamy.

And thoughtful lovers rounis to and fro,

The painted powne pacand with plumes gym,

T o leis their pain, and plein their jolly woe.

Kest up his tail ane proud plesand wheel-rim,

After their guise, now singand; now in sorrow,

Ishrouded in his feathering bright and sheen,

With heartis pensive the lang summer's morrow.

Shapand the prent of Argus' hundred een.

Some ballads list indite of his lady;

Amang the bowis of the olive twists,

Some Iivis in h o p e ; and some all utterly

Sere small fowls, workand crafty nests,

Despairit is, and sae quite out of grnce,

Endlang the hedges thick, and on rank aiks

His purgatory he tinds in every place. * *

Ilk bird rejoicand with their mirthful makes.

Dame Nature's menstrals, on that other part,

In corners and clear fencstres of glass,

Their blissful lay intoning every art, * *

Full busily Arachne weavand was,

And nil small fowlis siugis on the spray,

T o knit her nettis and her wobbis slie,

Welcome the lord of licht, and lampe of day,

Therewith to catch the little midge or flie.

Welcome fosterer of tender berbis green.

So dusty powder upstouvs in every street,

Welcome quickener of flourist flouirs sheen,

While corby gaspit for the fervent heat.

Welcomc support of every rutc and vein,

Under the bowis bene in lufely vales,

Welcome comfort of all kind fruit and grain,

Within fermance and parkis close of pales,

Welcome the birdis beild upon the brier,

The busteous buckis rakis furth on raw,

Welcome master and ruler of the year,

Herdis of hertis through the thick wood-shaw.

Welcome wcclfnre of husbands at the plews,

The young fawns followand the dun daes,

Welcome repairer of woods, trees, and bews,

Kids, skippand through, runnis after raes.

Welcome depainter of the bloomit meads,

In leisurs and on leyis, little lambs

Welcome the life of every thing that spreads,

Full tait and trig socht bletand to their dams.

Welcome storer of all kind bestial,

On salt streams wolk Dorida and Thetis,

Welcome be thy bricht beamis, gladdand all. * *

V. SIR DAVID LYNDSAY, geb. um 1 4 9 0 , stammte aus einer alten und angesehenen I'nmilie und war von Jugend auf ein treuer Diener und Gesellschafter Jacob V. Brüssel,

an den Hof Kaiser Karl's

Als Gesandter desselben ging er, 1 5 3 1 , nach

V. und starb um das Jahr 1553.

L.

schricb haupt-

SIR DAVID LYND8AY.

39

sächlich »atirüeke Gedichte imd («honte darin weder die Geistlichen leiner Zeit, noch die Missbrkuche bei Hofe, obscbon er selbst Staatsdiener war und d u wichtige Amt eine« 'Lord Lyon Kmg at Jmu' bekleidete. Seine Gedichte sind von Ckalmers herausgegeben worden, der sie in folgender Reihe auffahrt: ' T h e Dreme,' geschrieben um 1528; ' T h e Complaynt,' 1 5 2 9 ; ' T h e Complaynt of tbe King's Papingo (Pcacock),' 1 5 3 0 ; 'The Play (or Satire) of the Three Estates,' 1 5 3 5 ; 'Kitteis Confession,' 1541; ' T h e History of Squire Meldrum,' 1 5 5 0 ; ' T h e Monarchie,' 1 5 5 3 , die fast alle dieselbe moralisch-politische Tendenz haben. L. hat bei Weitem nicht die Phantasie, wie Dunbar: seine Vaterlandsliebe liess ihn die Poesie oft nur als Mittel betrachten, den König auf die Gebrechen und Missbrfiuche aufmerksam zu machen, wodurch das Verderben des Landes herbeigeführt wurde. Doch machen seine Innigkeit und Treuherzigkeit selbst seine politischen Reflexionen interessant. Das erstere der folgenden beiden Bruchstücke, aus seinem 'Complaynt,' bezieht sich auf die zu frühe Regierungsübergabe an James V.

1) FROM 'THE COMPLAYNT.' Imprudently, like witles fules, Thay tuke the young prince from the scules, Quhere he, under obedience, Was learnand vertew and science, And hastilie pat in his band The governance of all Scotland: As quba wald, in ane stormie blast, Quhen marinaris been all agast, Throw danger of the seis rage, Wald tak ane child of tender age, Qubilk never had bin on the sey, And gar his bidding all obey, Geving him bail the governall, To ship, marchand, and marinall, For dreid of rockis and foir land, To put the ruthir in his hand. * * I give them to , Quhilk first devisit that counsell; I will nocht say that it was tressoun, But I dar sweir it was na ressoun. I pray God lat me never see ring Into this realme sa young ane king.

2) SUPPLICATION IN CONTEMPTION OF SIDE TAILS. (The over - long thirU the iadiet' drenet of thote dayI.J Sovereign, I mean of thir side tails, Whilk through the dust and dubs trails,

Three quarters lang behind their heels, Express again' all commonweals. Though bishops, in their pontificals, Have men for to bear up their tails, For dignity of their office; Richt so ane queen or ane emprice; Howbeit they use sic gravity, Conformand to their majesty, Though their robe-royals be upborne, I think it is ane very scorn, That every lady of the land Should have her tail so side trailand; Howbeit they been of high estate. The queen they should not counterfeit.

,

Wherever they go it may be seen How kirk and causay they soop clean. The images into the kirk May think of their side tails irk; For when the weather been maist fair, The dust flies highest into the air, And all their faces does beg? ry, Gif they could speak, they wald them wary. * * But I have maist into despite Poor claggocks clad in Raploch white, Whilk has scant twa merks for their fees, Will have twa ells beneath their knees. Kittock that cleckit was yestreen, The morn, will counterfeit the queen. * * In barn nor byre she will not bide, Without her kirtle tail be side. In burghs, wanton burgess wives

S1K DAVID LYNDSAY.

40

* Wht may have sideat taila strives, Weel bordered with velvet fine, But followand tbem it is ane pyne: In summer, when the streets dries, They raise the dust aboon the skies; Nane may gae near them at their ease, Without they cover mouth and neese. * * I think maist pane after ane rain, To see them tuckit up again; Then when they step furth through the street Their fauldings flaps about their feet; They waste mair clailh, within few years, Nor wald cleid' fifty score of freirs. * * Of tails I will no more indite, For dread some duddron me despite: Notwithstanding, I will conclude, That of side tails can come nae gude, Sider nor may their ankles hide, The remanent proceeds of pride, And pride proceeds of the devil, Thus alway they proceed of evil.

Ane other fault, Sir, may be seen, They hide their face all bot the een; When gentlemen bid tbem gude day, Without reverence they slide away. * • Without their faults be soon amended, My flyting, Sir, shall never be ended; But wald your grace my counsel tak, Ane proclamation ye should mak, Baitb through the land and burrowstouns, To shaw their face and cut their gowns. Women will say, this is nae bourds, To write sic vile and filthy words; But wald they clenge their filthy tails, Whilk over the mires and middings trails, Then should my writing clengit be, None other mends they get of me.

Quoth Lindsay, in contempt of the side tails, That duddrons and duntihours through the dubs trails.

Wir beschliessen diese Periode mit einigen Bruchstücken aus den ältesten metrischen Erzählungen, deren Verfasser man vergeblich zu ermitteln versucht hat. Nur so viel lässt sich mit einiger Wahrscheinlichkeit sagen, dass der Ursprung dieser ' Metrical Romances' in die Zeit Edward's II. ( 1 3 0 7 — 2 7 ) fällt. Sie blühten bis zum Schlüsse des fünfzehnten Jahrhunderts und viele Balladen, welche sieb im Volke fortgepflanzt haben, sollen ihnen entlehnt sein. Warton (a. a. O.) führt die folgenden an: 'Sir Gay,' ' T h e Squire of Low Degree,' ' S i r Degore,' 'King Robert of Sicily,' 'The King of Tars,' 'Impomcdon,' 'La Mort Artur,' und einige spätere: 'Sir Thopas,' 'Sir Isenbras,' 'Sir Bevis.' Wir geben zunächst ein Bruchstück aus: 'The Kiny of Tars.' Die Sprache hat grosse Aehnlichkeit mit der des Robert of Gloucester und es lässt sich das Gedicht deshalb mit Sicherheit in den Anfang des fünfzehnten Jahrhunderts setzen.

FROM 'THE KING OF TARS.' (The Soudan of Damascus, having asked the daughter of the King of Tarsus in marriage, receives a refusal. The extract describes his conduct on the return of the messengers with this intelligence, and some of the subsequent transactions.) The Soudan sat at his dess, Y-served of the first mess;

They comen into the hall To-fore the prince proud in press, Their tale they tolden withouten lees, And on their knees 'gan fall; And said, ' Sire, the king of Tars Of wicked words is not scarce, Heathen hound he doth thee call; And ere his daughter he give thee till Thine heart-blood he will spill, And thy barons all!'

THE 1

OP TARS.

«

**

When the Soudan this y-heard, As a wood (mad) man he fared (became), His robe he rent adown; He tare the hair of head and beard, And said he would her win with swerd, By his lord St Mahoun.

And when they were «11 at his heat (order), The Soudan made a well-greast feast, For love of bis bataiL The Soudan gathered a host unride, With Saracens of muckle pride. The king of Tan to assail.

The table adown right he smote, Into the floor foot hot, He looked as a wild lion. All that be bit he smote downright, Both sergeant and knight, Earl and eke baron.

When the kifig it heard that tide, He sent about on each a-side, AH that he might of send; Great war then began to wrack, For the marriage ne most be take, Of that maiden hend (gentle).

So he fared forsooth aplight, All a day and all a night, That no man might him chast: A-morron, when it was daylight, He sent his messengers full right, After his barons in haste,

Battle they set upon a day, Within the third day of May, Ne longer nold they lend. The Soudan come with great power, With helm bright, and fair banner, Upon that king to wend.

That they comen to his parliament, For to hearen his judgment. Both least and maist. When the parliament was playner, Thus bespake tbe Soudan fier' (proud), And said to 'em in haste:

The Soudan led an huge host, And came with much pride and cost, With the king of Tars to fight; With him mony a Saracen fier', All the fields far and near Of helms learned light.

'Lordings,' he said, 'what to rede? Me is done a great misdeed, Of Tars the Christian king; I bade him both lond and lede To have his doughter in worthy weed, And spouse her with my ring.

The king of Tars came alsq, The Soudan battle for to do, With mony a Christian knight. Either host gan other assail. There began a strong batail, That grisly was of sight,

And he said, withouteo fail, Erst (first) he would me slay in batail, And mony a great lording. Ac certes he shall be forswore, Or to wroth-hail that he was bore. But he it thereto bring.

Three heathen again two Christian men, And felled them down in the fen, With weapons stiff and good. The stern Saracens, in that fight, Slew our Christian men downright, They fought as they were wood.

Therefore, lordings, I have after you sent, For to come to my parliament, To wit of you counsail.' And all answered with good intent, They would be at his commandement Withouten any fail.

When the king of Tars saw that sight, Wood he was for wrath aplight, In hand he hent (took) a spear, And to the Soudan he rode full right, With a dunt (blow) of much might, Adown he 'gan him bear.

42

THE KING OF T^tS. — THE SQUIRE OF LOW DEGREE.

The Sondan nigh he had y-slsw, But thirty thoniand of heathen law, Comen him for to weir (defend); And brought him again upon his steed, And holp him well in that need, That no man might him der (hurt). When he was brought upon bis steed, He sprung as sparkle dotb of gleed (red For wrath and for envy. And all that he bit be made 'em bleed, He fared as he wold a weed, 'Mahoun help!' he 'gan cry. Mony a helm there was unweaved. And mony a bassinet to-cleaved, And saddles mony empty Men might see upon the field, Mony a knight dead under shield. Of the Christian company.

coal),

to the Sondan, although a Pagan: and notwithstanding the king her father refuses consent, and resolves to continue the war, with much difficulty she finds means to fly to the Soudan's court, in order to produce a speedy and lasting reconciliation by marrying bim.)

FROM 'THE SQUIRE OF LOW DEGREE.' (The daughter of the king of Hungary having fallen into melancholy, in consequence of the loss of her lover, the squire of low degree, her father thus endeavours to console her. The passage is valuable, ' because,' says Warton, 'it delineates, in lively colours, the fashionable diversions and usages of ancient times.')

To-morrow ve shall in hunting fare; And yede (go), my dougbter, in a chair; ! It shall be covered with velvet red, When the king of Tars saw liim so ride, ¡ And cloths of fine gold all about your head, No longer there be wold abide, ! With damask white and azur blue, Well diapered (figured) with lilies new. But fleetb to his own city. Your pommels shall be ended with gold, The Saracens, that ilk tide, Your chains enamelled many a fold, Slew adown by each side, Your mantle of rich degree, Our Christian men so free. Purple pall and ermine free. : Jennets of Spam, that ben so wight, The Saracens that time, sans fail, i Trapped to the ground with velvet bright. Slew our Christians in batail, Ye shall have harp, sautry, and song, That ruth it was to see; Aud other mirths you among. And on the morrow for their sake, Ye shall have Rumney and Malespine, Truce they gan together take Both Ilippocras and Vernage wine; A month and days three. I Montrcse and wine of Greek, j Both Algrade and despice (spiced wine) eke, As the king of Tars sat in his hall, Autioch and Tastard, He made full great dool withal, Pyment also and garnard; For the folk that he bad i-lorc (lost). Wine of Greek and Muscadel, His dougbter came in rich pall. Both claré, pyment, and Rochelle, On knees she 'gan be/ore him fall, The reed your stomach to defy, And said, with sighing sore: And pots of Osy set you by. 'Father,' she said, Met me be his wife, You shall have venison y-bakc, That there be no more strife.' The best wild fowl that muy be take; A leish of harehound with you to streek, (To prevent future bloodshed the princess And bart, and hind, and other like. voluntarily declares she is willing to be married

43

THE SQUIRE OF LOW DEGREE. — PRAISE OF THE POET'S LADT. Ye ahall be net at such a tryst,

With long paper fair burning,

That hart and hynd shall come to your fist,

And cloves that be sweet smelling.

Your disease to drive you fro,

Frankincense snd olibanum,

To hear the bugles there y-blow.

That when ye sleep the taste may come;

Homeward thus shall ye ride,

And if ye no rest can take,

On-hawking by the river's side,

All night minstrels for yoo shall wake.

With gosshawk and with gentle falcon, With bugle horn and merlion. When you come home your menzie among,

A PRAISE OP THE POET'S LADY.

Ye shall have revel, dances, and song;

(Verfauer

Little children, great and small.

Zeit Heinrick'i

Shall sing as does the nightingale.

vnbtkmU,

leahrtcheMick

ma dtr

V1JI.)

Give place, you ladies, and be gone,

Then shall ye go to your even song, With tenors and trebles among.

Boast not yourselves at all!

Threescore o f copes of damask bright,

F o r here at hand approacheth one.

Full o f pearls they shall be pight (sef).

*

*

Whose face will stain you all!

Your censors shall be o f gold, The virtue of her lively looks

Indent with azure many a fold.

Excels the precious stone:

Your quire nor organ song shall want, With contre-note and descant.

I wish to have none other books

The other half on organs playing,

T o read or look upon.

With young children full fain singing. Then shall ye go to your supper,

In each of her two crystal eyes

And sit in tents in green arber,

Smileth a naked boy:

With cloth of arras pight to the ground, With sapphires set of diamond.

*

It would you all in heart suffice

*

T o see that lamp o f j o y .

A hundred knights, truly told, Shall play with bowls iu alleys cold,

I think Nature hath lost the mould,

Your disease to drive away;

Where she her shape did take;

T o see the fishes in pools play,

Or else I doubt if Nature could

T o a drawbridge then shall ye,

So fair a creature make.

Tli' one half of stone, th' other of tree; A barge shall meet you full right,

She may be well compared

With twenty-four oars full bright,

Unto the phoenix kind,

With trumpets and with elniion, The fresh water to row up and down.

Whose like was never seen nor heard, *

*

That any man can find.

Forty torches burning bright, At your bridges to bring you light. Into your chamber they shall you bring, With much mirth and more liking. Your blankets shall be of fustian, Your sheets shall be of cloth of Rennes. Your head sheet shall be of pery pight. With diamonds set and rubies bright. When you are laid in bed so soft, A cage of gold shall hang aloft,

In life she is Diana chaste. In troth Penelope, In word and eke in deed steadfast: What will you more we say? * * *

Her roseal colour comes and goes With such a comely grace, More ruddier too than doth the rose, Within her lively face.

44

FRAISE OF THE POETS LADY. — THE NOT-BROWN MAYDE. At Bacchus' feaat none shall her meet, Ne at no wanton play; Nor gazing in an open street, Nor gadding as a stray.

Yet, yf a newe do them persue, Theyr first true lover than Laboureth for nought: for from her thought He is a banyshed man.

The modest mirth that she doth use Is mix'd with shamefae'dness;

I say nat nay, but that all day It is bothe writ and sayd That womans faith is, as who sayth,

All vice she doth wholly refuse, And hateth idleness. O Lord, it is a world to see How virtue can repair, And deck in her such honesty Whom Nature made so fair! Truly she doth as far cxceed Our women now-a-days, As doth the gilly flower a weed, And more a thousand ways. How might I do to get a graff Of this unspotted tree? For all the rest are plain but chaff Which seem good com to be. This gift alone I shall her give: When Death doth what he can, Her honest fame shall ever live Within the mouth of man.

THE NOT-BROWNE MAYDE. (Zeit und Verfasser ungewiss. Prior, welcher diesem Gedichte sein: ' Henry and Emma ' entlehnt hat. setzt es um 1 4 0 0 ; Andere schliessen aus der verhäUnissmässig modernen Sprache, dass es der Zeit nach Surrey angehört.) Be it ryght, or wrong, these men among On women do complayne; Aflyrmynge this, how that it is A labour spent in vayne, To love them wele; for never a dele They love a man agayne: For late a man do what be can, Theyr favour to attayne,

All utterly decayd; But, neverthelesse ryght good wytnesse In this case might be layd, That they love true, and continue; Recorde the Not-browne Mayde: Which, when her love came, her to prove, To her to make his mone, Wolde nat depart; for in ber hart She loved but liym alone. Than betwayne us late us dyscus What was all the manere Betwayne them two: we wyll also Tell all the payne, and fere, That she was in. Now I begyn, So that ye me answere; Wherfore, all ye, that present be I pray you, gyve an ere. • I am the knygbt; I come by nygbt, As secrct as I can; Saving, Alas: thus standeth the case, I am a banyshed man.' ' She• And I your wyll for to fulfyll In this wyll nat refuse; ; Trustying to shewe, in wordes fewe, ' That men have an vll use 1 ( T o theyr own shame) women to blame, I And causelesse them accuse; Therfoie to you 1 answere nowe, I All women to excuse, — Myne owue hart dere, with you what chere? I pray you, tell anone; For, in my mynde, of all mankynde I love but you alone. He: It standeth s o ; a dede is do' Wherof grete harme shall growe:

THE N O T - B R O W N E MAYDE. My destiny is for to dy A shamefull deth, I trowe; Or elles to fle: the one must be,

Alltliough it were anone; For, in my mynde, of all mankynde I love but you alone.

None other way I knowe, But to withdrawe as on outlawe, And take me to my bowe. Wherfore, adue, my owne hart true! None other rede I c a n ; For I must to the grene vvode go, Alone, a banyshed man.

HeYet

I you rede to take good liede

W h a t men wyll thinke, and say: Of yonge and olde it shall be tolde That ye be gone away, Your wanton wyll for to fulfill, In grene wode you to play; And that ye myght from your delyght

She: O Lord, what is thys worldys blvsse, T h a t changeth as the m o n e ! My somers day in lusty may Is derked before the none. I here you say, farewell: Nay, nay,

No longer make delay. Rather than ye sholde thus for me Be called an yll woman, Yet wolde I to the grene wode go Alone, a banyshed man.

W e depart nat so sone. Why say ye so ? wheder will ye go ? Alas! what have ye done ? All my welfare to sorrowe and care Sholde chaunge, yf ye were gone; For, in my mynde, of all mankynde I love but you alone.

She: Though it be songe of old and yonge, That I sholde be to blame, Theyrs be the charge, that speke so large In hurtynge of my name: For I wyll prove, that faythfull love It is devoyd of s h a m e ; In your dystresse, and lievynesse,

He: I can beleve, it shall you greve,

To part with you, the same:

And somewhat ypu dystrayne;

And sure all tho', that do not so,

But, aftyrvvarde, your paynes harde Within a day or twayne Shall sone aslake; and ye shall take

True lovers are they n o n e ; For, in my mynde, of all mankynde I love but you alone.

Comfort to you agayne. Why sholde ye ought, for to make thought? Your labour were in vayne. And thus I d o , and pray to you, As hartely, as I can; For I must to the grene wode go, Alone, a banyshed man.

He: I couneeyle you, remember hovve, It is no maydens lawe, Nothynge to dout, but to renne out T o wode with an outlawe: For ye must there in your hand bere A bowe, redy to drawe; And, as a thefe, thus must you lyve,

She: Now, syth that ye have shewed to me The secret of your mynde, I shall be playne to you agayne, Lyke as ye shall me fynde. Syth it is so, that ye wyll go,

Ever in drede and awe; Wherby to you grete harme myght growe: Yet bad I lever than, That I had to the grene wode go, Alone, a banyshed man.

I wolle not leve beliynde ; Shall never be sayd, the Not-browne Mayde Was to her love unkvnde: Slake you redy, for so am I,

She: I thinke nat nay, but as ye say, It is no maydens lore: But love may make me for your sake,

45

m

T H E N O T - BROWNE MA.YDE.

As I have sayd before, T o come on fote, to hunt, and shote

That I had to the grene wode go, Alone, a banyshed man.

T o gete us mete in store; For so that I your company May have, I aske no more: From which to part, it maketh my hart As colde as ony stone; For, in my mynde, of all mankynde I love but you alone.

She: Syth I have here bene partynere With you of joy and blysse, I must also parte of your wo Endure, as reson is: Yet am I sure of one plesurc; And, shortely, it is this: That, where ye be, me semetli, parde,

He: For an outlavve this is the lawe, That men hym take and b y n d e ; Without pite, hanged to be, And waver with the wynde, If I had nede, (as God forbede!)

I coude nat fare amysse. Without more speche, I you beseche T h a t we were sone agone; For, in my mynde, of all mankynde I love but you alone.

W h a t rescous coude ye fynde? Forsoth, 1 trowe, ye and your bowe For fere wolde drawe behynde: And no mervayle; for lytell avayle Were in your counceyle t h a n : Wherfore I wyll to the grene wode go, Alone, a banyshed man.

He: If ye go thyder, ye must consider, Whan ye have lust to dyne, There shall no mete be for you gete, Nor drinke, bere, ale, ne wyne. No shetes clene, to lye betwene, Made of tlirede and tvvyne; None other house, but leves and bowes,

She: Ryght wele knowe ye, that women be But feble for to fyglit; No womanhede it is indede T o be bolde as a knyght: Yet, in such fere yf that ye were

T o cover your hed and myne ; O myne harte swete, this evyll dyete Sholde make you pale and wan; Wherfore I wyll to the grene wode go, Alone, a banyshed man.

With enemyes day or nyght, I wolde witlistande, with bowe in hande, T o greve them as I myght, And you to save; as women have From deth ' m e n ' many one: For, in my mynde, of all mankynde I love but you alone.

She:

Amonge the wylde dere, such an archere,

As men say that ye be, W e may nat fayle of good vitayle, Where is so grete plente: And water clere of the ryvere Shall be full swete to m e ; With which in hele I shall ryght wele

He: Yet take good liede; for ever I drede That ye coude nat sustayne The thornie wayes, the depe valeies, The snowe, the frost, the rayne, The colde, the liete; for dry, or wetc,

Endure, as ye shall see; And, ere we go, a bedde or two I can provyde anone; For, in my mynde, of all mankynde I love but you alone.

W e must lodge on the playne; And, us above, none other rofe B u t a brake bush, or tvvayne: Which sone sholde greve you, I beleve; And ye wolde gladly than

He: Lo yet, before, ye must do more/ Yf ye wyll go with m e : As cut your here up by your ere, Your kyrtel by the k n e ;

THE NOT-BROWNE MAYDE. With bowe in bande, for to withstande Your enemyes yf nede be: And this tame nyght before day-lyght, To wode-warde wyll I fle. Tf that ye will all this fulfill, Do it shortely as ye can: Els wyll I to the grene wode go Alone, a banyshed man. She: I shall as nowe do more for you Than 'longeth to womanhede; To short my here, a bowe to bere, To shote in tyme of nede. O my swete mother, before all other For you I have most drede: But now, adue! I must ensue, Where fortune doth me lede. All this make ye: Now let us fle; The day cometh fast upon; For, in my mynde, of all mankynde I love but you alone. He: Nay, nay, nat so; ye shall nat go, And I shall tell yc why, — Your appetyght (disposition) is to be lyght Of love, I wele espy: For, lyke as ye have sayed to me. In lyke wyse hardely Ye wolde answere whosoever it were, In way of company. It is said of olde, Sone hote, sone colde; And so is a woman. Wherfore I to the wode wyll go, Alone, a banyshed man. She: Yf ye take hede, it is no nede Such wordes to say by me; For oft ye prayed, and longe assayed, Ere I you loved, parde: And though that I of auncestry A barons daughter be, Yet have you proved howe I you loved A squyer of lowe degre; And ever shall, whatso befall; To dy therfore anone; For, in my mynde, of all mankynde I love but you alone.

He: A barons chylde to be begylde! It were a cursed dede; To be fellawe with an outlawe! Almighty God forbede! Yet beter were, the pore squyere Alone to forest yede, Than ye sholde say another day, That, by my cursed dede, Ye were betrayd: Wherfore, good mayde, The best rede that I can, Is, that I to the grene wode go, Alone a banyshed man. She: Whatever befall, I never shall Of this thyng you upbrayd; But yf ye go, and leve me so, Than have ye me betrayd. Remember you wele, howe that ye dele; For, yf ye, as ye sayd, Be so unkynde, to leve behynde, Your love, the Not-browne Mayde, Trust me truly, that I shall dy Sone after ye be gone; For, in my mynde, of all mankynde I love but you alone. He: Yf that ye went, ye sholde repent; For in the forest nowe I have purvayd me of a mayde, Whom I love more than you; Another fayrere, than ever ye were, I dare it wele avowe; And of you bothe eche sholde be wrothe With other, as I trowe: It were myne ese, to lyve in pese; So will I, yf I can; Wherfore I to the wode wyll go. Alone, a banyshed man. She: Though in the wode I undyrstode Ye had a paramour, All this may nought remove my thought, But that I wyll be your: And she shall fynde me soft, and kynde And courteys every hour; Glad to fulfyll all that she wyll

48

THE NOT-BROWNE MAYDE. — ÜBERSICHTSTABELLE. Commaunde me to my power:

F o r had ye, lo, an hundred mo, Of them I wolde be o n e ; F o r , in my mynde, of all mankynde I love but you alone. He: Myne owne dere lore, I se the prove T h a t ye be kynde, and t r u e ; Of mayde, and wyfe, in all my lyfe, T h e best that ever I knewe. Be mery and glad, be no more «ad, The caae it chaunged newe; F o r it were ruthe, that, for your truthe. Ye sholde have cause to rewe. Be nat dismayed; whatsoever I sayd T o you, whan I began; I wyll nat to the grene wode go, I am no banyshed man.

And I more wo-begone: For, in my mynde, of all mankynde I love but you alone. He: Ye shall nat nede further to drede; I wyll nat dysparage You, ( God d e f e n d ! ) syth ye descend Of so grete a lynage. Nowe undyrstande: to Westmarlande, Which is myne herytage, I wyll you brynge; and with a rynge By way of maryage I wyll you take, and lady make, As shortely as I c a n : Thus have you won an erlys son And not a banyshed man. Author: Here may ye se, that women be In love, meke, kynde, and stable: Late never man reprove them than,

She: These tydings be more gladd to me, T h a n to be made a quene,

Or call them variable; But, rather, pray God, that we may

Yf I were sure they sholde endure:

To them be comfortable; Which sometyme proveth such, as he lovetb, Yf they be charitable. For syth men nolde that women sholde

But it is often sene, 'Whan men wyll breke promyse, they speke The wordes on the splene. Ye shape some wyle me to begyle, And stele from me, I mene: T h a n were the case worse than it was,

Be meke to them each one, Moche more ought they to God obey, And serve but hym alone.

ÜEBERSICHTSTABELLE DER DICHTER DIESER PERIODE. Adam Davie, um 1312, schrieb religiöse und moralische Gedichte, * Visions,' ' Lamentations of Souls,' u. s. w.

S. Warton. 'History of the English Poetry,' I. 2 1 4 .

John Gower, 1325, S. 12. — Geoffrey Chaucer. 1328, S. 14. — John Barbour,

um

1 3 3 0 , S. 19. Richard Hampole, Dr. of Divin., um 1 3 4 9 , ' P r i c k of Conscience.' Robert Longland,

S. Warton, I. 2 5 5 .

um 1 3 5 0 , Lehrer zu O x f o r d , schrieb, unter dem Namen 'Pierce

Plowman,' satirische 'Visions,' in denen er hauptsächlich die Geistlichen seiner Zeit geisselte. E r führte die Alliteration wieder ein, welche sich schon in den ältesten angelsächsischen Gedichten findet, aber eine Zeit lang verschwunden war. — James I. 1393, S. 30. John Harding, um 1 4 0 0 , ' T h e Chronicle of England unto the reign of King Edward IV., in Verse,' werthlos, obschon sie einzelne schöne Stellen hat.

ÜBERSICHTSTABELLE.

19

John Kay. um 1400, der erste 'Poet Laureate.' *) John Skelton. um 1400, S. 26. — Andrew WyUotm. um 1420, S. 20. — John Lydgate, um 1430, S. 24. Thomas Occleve, um 1430, ' a lawyer, who wrote several poem« of considerable merit, though now very little read.' (Chambers.) Robert Fabyan, um 1450, schrieb gereimte Chroniken. Robert Henryson, 1460, S. 32. — Blind Harry. um 1460, S. 21. John Norton, um 1470, 'Ordinal, or a Manual of the Chemical Art,' ohne poetischen Werth; George Ripley, um 1471, 'The Compound of Alchemie,' — Anfinge von Lehrgedichten. Alexander Barclay, um 1500, Geistlicher, bearbeitete das Narrenschiff des Sebast. Brandt; die ersten Eklogen. Stephen Howes, um 1500, 'Pastimes of Pleasure' — ' i t contains no common touches of romantic and allegoric fiction.' William Dunbar, um 1500, S. 34. — Gavin Douglas, um 1500, S. 36. — Sir Thontat Wyatt, um 1 5 0 3 , S. 29. — Earl of Surrey, um 1 5 1 6 , S. 27. — Sir David Lyndsay. um 1520, S. 38. Thomas Tusser, um 1523, schrieb: ' A Hundreth Good Points of Husbandrie,' das e r s t e didaktische Gedicht. Robert Weve, um 1540, Verfasser der Morality: 'Lusty Juventus,' eines Theaterstücks, worin sich schon Spuren des Einflusses zeigen, welchen da% erneuerte Studium der alten Klassiker auf die Englische Literatur hatte. S. Hawkins. ' Origin of the English Drama,' I. *) Warton sagt darüber: Great contusion has entered into this «abject, on account of the degrees in grammar, which included rhetoric and versification, anciently taken in onr universities, particularly at Oxford: on which occasion, a wreath of laurel was presented to the new graduate, who was afterwards usually styled poeia laureatus. (When any of these graduated grammarians were licensed to teach boys, they were publicly presented in the convocationhouse with a rod and ferret.) These scholastic laureations seem to have given rise to the appellation in question. I will give some instances at Oxford which at the same time will explain the nature of tbe studies for which our academical philologists received their rewards. About 1470, one John Watson, a student in grammar, obtained a concession to be graduated and laureated in that science, on condition, that he composed one hundred latin verses in praise of the university and a latin comedy. Another grammarian was distinguished with the same badge, after having stipulated, that, at the next public act, he would affix the same number of hexameters on the great gates of St. Mary's church, that they might be seen by the whole university. — About the same time one Maurice Byrchensavt took his degree, with a provision, that he should write one hundred verses on the glory of the university and not suffer Ovid's Arf of Love and the Elegies of Pamphilus to be studied in his auditory. — With regard to the Poet Laureate of the kings of England, an officer of the court remaining under that title to this day, he is undoubtedly the same that is styled the King's Versifier and to whom one hundred shillings were paid as his annual stipend, in 1251. — It seems most probable, that the barbarous and inglorious name of Verti/ltr gradually gave way to an appellation of more elegance and dignity: or rather, that at length, those only were in general invited to this appointment, who had received academical sanction and had merited a crown of laurel in the universities for their abilities in Latin composition, paticularly Latin versification. Thus the King's Laureate was nothing more than ' a graduated rhetorician, employed in the service of the king'. TT. II., 129.

n.

ZWEITE PERIODE. FORTDAUER DES ITALIENISCHEN EINFLUSSES. DRAMA. HÖCHSTE BLÜTHE DER KÜNSTLERISCHEN GESTALTUNG. VON 1 5 5 8 - 1689.

ERSTER ABSCHNITT. •

VON 1558 — 1649.

Hauptmomente dieser Periode sind: 1) die Wirkungen der Reformation auf die Wiedererstehung der Wissensehaften und deren allseitigste Verbreitung. in Bezug auf kirchliche, literarische und politische Dinge.

2 ) Erwachen der Kritik

3 ) Zeitalter grosser Monarchen

( K a r l V . , F r a n z I . , Papst L e o X . , H e n r y VIII., E l i s a b e t h , M a r i a S t u a r t , r i c h I V . , Papst S i x t u s V . ) , und grosser Künstler, Dichter und Gelehrten: t 1616,

M a r i a n a f 1624,

H e r r e r a f 1625, 1635,

Lope

de

M a r i n i f 1625, M a l h e r b e t

K e p l e r t 1630,

Callotf

Vega t 1635,

R u b e n s t 1640,

V a n D y c k f 1641 , G a l i l e i f 1642,

Tycho-Brahe f

G u i d o R e n i t 1643,

v o g l i o f 1 6 4 4 ; G r o t i u s f 1C45 , T o r i c e l l i f 1 6 4 7 , D o m i n i c h i n o f 1 6 4 8 , der Aeltere f 1 6 4 9

u. A.)

4)

Feststellung

der Englischen

Sprache

und

5)

Hein-

(Cervantes 1628, 1636, BentiTeniers

Entwicklung

und Vollendung des Englischen Dramas. Daniel Scrymgeour

entwirft in dem S. 23. bereits erwähnten Werke ' T h e Poetry

and Poet« of Britain (p. XXIV.) folgende treffende Charakteristik dieser E p o c h e : 'All national movements have the effect of stirring from its depths the heart and intellect of the people; and the English R e f o r m a t i o n in the middle of the sixteenth century was just the event most likely to awaken the depths of a nation's feeling. The struggle was a severe one, and it was not until the vigour and wisdom of Elizabeth's sway had again restored internal tranquillity, that unrrprcssed genius, in all the luxury of new freedom and increased vigour, burst forth in unshackled enjoyment.

It is difficult, perhaps, to fix the connection of cause and

effect in the sequence of the phenomena of literature and political circumstances. Suffice it to say that the sixteenth century was an era that changed by its events the face of the world. T h e f e u d a l s y s t e m was in ruins; the dominion of the R o m a n C h u r c h over one half of Europe was gone; C h i v a l r y hnd become a past thing, and hence we find that its association* and subjects assume n more picturesque form for poetry in Elizabeth's reign than they possessed in the prolix and tedious heraldic details of preceding poets; they wore somewhat of the antique

2WKITE PEKIODE.

51

splendour in which they appear to utin the Marmum and novels of Scott. The icholMtie philosophy, with its mind-repressing influences had passed away, and the more genial and nurturing philosophy of Plato was watering all the schools. The English mind wis enriched from ft thousand sources, especially from the l i t e r a t u r e of I t a l y , which has acted as literary none to all the modern nations of the north. This reign, accordingly, produced a body of poefiy far exceeding in extent, and in variety of complexion and of subject, any that preceded i t ' ' I t is an interesting speculation to evolve from the literature of any period a leading complexion of mind, or prevalent bias of idea, or phase of society that may be embodied in it. Shaw thus speaks of the " four great evangelists of the human mind, Homer, Virgil, Dante, and M i l t o n : Homer is a short expression for the heroic or mythic epoch, taken in its sublimer and more lovely expression; Virgil is the incarnation of the power, grandeur, and development of the nationality of empire; Dante was no less the literary embodiment of Mediaeval Christianity— that wild and wondrous phase of humanity which is found petrified, as it were, and presented to us in a tangible form, in the great triumphs of G o t h i c a r t ; and our great countryman will seem no inapt or imperfect type of the Christianity of the Reformation, — that is, of Christianity combined with freedom of opinion and the right of private judgment carried to its extremest consequences." 'In like manner we might conceive S h a k s p e a r e i n the sixteenth century as embodying the inquiring spirit which was then abroad in the English mind. He is the 'abstract and brief chronicle of the time' which was guaging the depth of every principle in politics, religion, and morals even under the sternness of a Tudor despotism. It was the age when B a c o n ' s vast intellect (and he also may be called a poet in the wealth and pregnancy of his imagery) was beginning to map out the geography of all science; when J o n s o n was anatomizing the surface 'humours' of society, and reconstructing on a Gothic stage the principles of the ancient drama; when S p e n s e r was weaving faith, and morfls, and history, and intrigue, into his endless web of romance; when S y d n e y was impersonating in a nobler shape the departed spirit of chivalry; and when the language itself was running riot in novelty in the Euphuism of L i l l y . The ' myriad-minded1 poet is a fit type of this variegated age: his apothegms would construct a moral philosophy; his maxims, a systenj of enlightened policy; his observations, a treatise on natural history; his characters, a psychological discourse on human nature. Nor is what Shakspeare dreamed less wonderful; the world of'fancy' was not the only land over which the fine phrenzv of his imagination's eye rolled; not only could he give flesh and blood to the sbadowy images of chronicle history, or the filamental outlines of Italian romances, but art, in a perfection which his visual eye never witnessed, and his hand was utterly incspable of outlining, lived in bis imagination in the perfection of exquisite forms. The pure Italian character of Shakspeare's artistic taste is visible in his thousand references to statuary whose exalted beauty he could only have conceived; 'Niobe all tears'; 'A feathered Mercury new lighted on a heavenkissing hill'; 'Patience on a monument smiling at grief'; — these sketches are but a few instances of his perfectness of conception of this art, whose specimens he could have so little opportunity of actually witnessing. Shakspeare's universality, therefore, may be reckoned as the reflex of that of his age.' Eine ausgezeichnete Charakteristik Shakspeare's, welche die vorstehende noch wesentlich erg&nzt, theilte der Rector der Kaiserlichen Universit&t zn St. Petersburg, Professor Pletnjeff, in den 'LiteraturnUch Pribawliniach' (Literarische Beilage zu einer rus'sischen Zeitschrift) von 1837 n i t ; wir lassen sie hier folgen und bedauern nur die Kraft, SchSrfe und Schttnheit des Originals in unserer Uebersetzung bei Weitem nicht erreicht su haben. 4*

52

ZWEITE PERIODE.

'Unter allen Zügen, au» welchen die Natnr Shakspeare's Talent bildete, tritt einer ganz besondere hervor und iit ohne Zweifel jedem Leser aufgefallen. Man könnte diesen Zug • die Leidenschaft zur Analyse' nennen. Niemand halt öfter und kühner als Shakspeare die Handlung im alleranziehendsten Momente auf, bloss um sich irgend einer Spekulation hinzugeben; nicht eine Gelegenheit l a u t er entschlüpfen um uns seine Gedanken Ober einen Gegenstand mitzutheilen, den sein umfassender Geist einmal ergriffen. Was irgend je der menschlichen Seele theuer war oder ihr nahe stand, ob in der Einsamkeit, im Familienkreise, oder im Öffentlichen bürgerlichen Leben, er weiss Alles: als ob durch sein Herz die Strömungen aller unserer Gefühle und aller unserer Leidenschaften geflossen waren. Selbst diejenigen engeren Lebensverhältnisse, die uns nur in gewissen Lebenskreisen bekannt werden, da sie von gewissen Standen oder Beschäftigungen abhangig sind, fDbrt er uns in ihrer vollsten, klarsten und sichersten Theorie vor, mit der er uns übrigens jederzeit entgegen tritt, als ob wir Bestimmung, Eintheilung, die charakteristischen Zeichen der äusseren Erscheinung, so wie alle andern metaphysischen Feinheiten jedes Gegenstandes nur von ihm lernen sollten.' 'Ware dieser analytische Geist Shakspeare's nicht von einem nur ihm eigentümlichen Scharfsinne befruchtet gewesen, und hätte er nicht die unschätzbarsten und unumstösslichsten Wahrheiten umfasst, so hätten seine Werke, bei einer derartigen Richtung seines Talents, unfehlbar sehr ermüdend werden mUssen. Doch ist es eben die Natur dieser ewigen Wahrheiten, dass sie Uberall gleichmässig auf den Menschen wirken: inmitten auch der interessantesten Dialoge und in der Fülle der dramatischen Bewegung selbst ziehen sie Geist und Herz an, nähren, entzünden und erheben sie unsere Phantasie zum Genüsse der höchsten Poesie.' ' Shakspeare's Metaphysik ist die Frucht praktischer Weisheit. Bei ihm ist Alles Leben, mithin Alles Poesie. Die Seele des Dichters umspannte und bewahrte unvermischt bis in die kleinsten Einzelheiten die unmerklichsten Uebergänge der menschlichen Gedanken und Wünsche, die vollständige Geschichte jeder Leidenschaft uud jedes geistigen Organismus. Aus diesem unschätzbaren Vorrathe bildete Shakspeare eine allgemeine Philosophie und führte sie in seinen Schöpfungen durch. Sie wirbt ihm Leser aus allen Nationen, aus allen Ständen, jeden Alters. Sie sehliesst einen Erfahrungsschatz in sich ein, der nie an seinem Werthe verlieren wird, welchem Wechsel auch die literarischen Ideen unterliegen mögen.' 'Zu diesen Schätzen eines klaren, Alles belebenden Geistes sind noch folgende nicht minder gläuzende hinzu zu rechnen: Reichhaltigkeit an den mannichfachsten Gebilden der Phantasie, welche rasch an uns vorüber schweben, in so bestimmten, reichbegabten und unerschöpflich vielgestaltigen Umrissen, dass man unwillkürlich zum Glauben an deren Vorhandensein hingerissen wird. Shakspeare liebte das Phantastische nicht aus Berechnung, nicht aus vorher bestimmten Grundsätzen: es war dasselbe vielmehr eben so sehr eine Grindbedingung seiner Begabung, wie die Herrschaft in die Reihe der Bedingungen der Kraft tritt. Andere Dichter versetzen ihre Leser in diese übersinnliche Welt, damit sie ihnen leichter ein Staunen der Verwunderung abdringen, ihren Geist entzücken, ihr Vorstellungsvermfgen bezaubern mögen; SA. blieb aber auch hierin seinem einzigen inneren Berufe treu: alle Geheimnisse der menschlichen Seele aufzudecken. In der phantastischen Welt schritt er einher wie ein erobernder Held, sie allgemeinen Gesetzen unterwerfend und aus den unermesslichen Schätzen seines reichen Geistes ergänzend, indem er alle ihre Erscheinungen auf Naturgesetze zurückführte. Der Macht seines Genius war der gewöhnliche Bereich der Sterblichen offenbar zu enge und so Uberschritt er dessen Grenzen ohne die geringste Anstrengung, ohne es fast selbst zu wisaen. Wieviel aber gewann er durch dieae Freheit

ZWEITE PERIODE.

53

«einer Bewegungen «I« Künstler! Er ertchien gleich einem Herneber, der mit jedem Schritte einem von Niemand geahnten Siege entgegen ichritt.' ' Dr» Schöpferkraft «eine« Genie« verlieh die Natur eine «olche Fähigkeit ior Innern Manifestation, wie in «olchem Grade noch kein Sterblirher «ie je gezeigt. Wir «prechen von seiner Befähigung für'« Drama, durch welche er wahrlich an die Fabel vom Protena erinnert. Man kann sagen, da«« man bei der Lektüre seiner skmmtlichen Werke ihn seibat nirgendwo wahrnimmt. Wer aber vermag anzugeben, auf welche Weite e r «ich ausspracht Giebt es unter den vielen Gestalten seiner Schöpfungen auch nur Eine, von der man sagen konnte: Das ist der Lieblingscharakter Sbakspeare'«? V e r f a s s t e er auch nur eine einzige Scene, einen einzigen Monolog? Nein, alles gehört zum Wesen der vorgeführten Handlung. Eine persönliche Leidenschaft Sbakspeare't, die subjektiven Gedanken und Meinungen des Dichters wird man vergebena sich bemühen in seinen gesammten Werken aufzusuchen. Rund um ihn wogt die ganze bewegte Welt, alle Lebensverhältnisse, alle Altersstufen, Menschen mit allen nur denkbaren Empfindungsweiseo, und auf den verschiedenartigsten Bildungsstufen «lebend; Alles handelt, streitet, kämpft, überwindet oder unterliegt; nur Er, gleich einem Geiste, unsichtbar und Niemandem zugewandt und über Alles erhaben, steht innerhalb de* von ihm gezogenen magischen Kreises und schaut leidenschaftslos auf da« bunte Gewirr und beherrscht Alles und Jeden, in jeder Spracbweise, jedem Worte, jeder Bewegung, jedem Tone. Das vermag Keiner durch Anstrengungen irgend welcher Art zu erreichen, diss er seine eigene Seele im Momente des Scbaffena den Leidenschaften, Gef&blen und Gedanken der Schöpfungen «eine« eigenen Geistes kalt entgegenstelle, den nicht die Natur selbst auf die Hohe eines dramatischen Dichters stellte.' 'The most distinguished feature,' fUfart Daniel Scrymgeour am Schlüsse seiner Einleitungfort, 'of the character of Elizabeth's reign is the d e v e l o p m e n t of the d r a m a t i c a r t *). The rudeness of the preceding centuries had been amused by the 'Miracle Plays,' which ripened into the improved shape of M y s t e r i e s or M o r a l i t i e s ; and by the pantomimic exhibition of the Masque, on which was ultimately engrafted a spoken literature, which raised it in the sixteenth century to a respectable literary rank. These Miracles and Mysterie« were adoptationi of Scripture «tories, such as the Creation, the Deluge, &c. in which the devil in a ridiculous guise was the leading personage; the Divine Persons form characters in these drama«; and, iu their improved form, personifications of virtues, vices, and other abstract ideas, are introduced. Very strangely, this literature, if it may be ao termed, waa the invention of the Church, and was used as a means of popular instruction in an age, when reading was a scarce commodity. These were acted on stated occasions, often by churchman. The first English comedy that may properly deserve the appellation is the 'Ralph Royster Doyster' (1551?) of N i c h o l a s U d a l l , Master of Westminster School. The earliest tragedy is the 'Gorboduc' or, as it was afterwards named, 'Ferres and Porrex,' of S a c k v i l l e , L o r d B u c k b u r s t , founded on a British legend similar to that of Eteocles and Polynices.' ' A crowd of writers followed Sackville: dramatic entertainments became extravagantly po') Ein werthvoller, umfangreicher Artikel über die Entstehung und Entwicklung des Drmmaa im Allgemeinen und des Englischen in's Besondere befindet sich im ' Edinburgh Review,' voL XL1X, p. 317, June 1829, dem wir, seiner Länge und seines in sich abgeschlossenen Charakters wegen, leider nichts entlehnen können. Ueber die Einrichtung der Englischen Theater zu Shakspeare's Zeit gaben Vebse in seiner 'Weltgeschichte mit besonderer Berücksichtigung derCultur&c.'; A.W. v.Schlegel in der 13ten seiner Vorlesungen über dramatische Kunst and Literatur und L. Tieck in: Shakspeare's Vorschule, Leipzig 1829, die interessantesten Nachrichten.

54

ZWEITE PERIODE. — THOMAS SÄCKYILLB.

polar, and theatrical property extremely valuable. Tbe «object« were drawn from classical a n d mythological sources and from Greek, Roman, and English history. The taste for poetiiced history was extremely prevalent. Examples are found in tbe series of Shakspeare's historical plays, and, in general poetry, in Daniel's 'Civil Wars.' The accession of James did not check the impulse which literature bad received, litany of the great writers of Elizabeth's era were still living. The King, though with little true taate, was himself an author, and tbe partiality of his queen, Anne of Denmark, for elegant amnsement, nursed among the nobility the passion for theatrical representations.' In der nächsten Epoche werden wir leider Ober den Verfall des Dramas zu sprechen haben.

ENGLISCHE DICHTER. L THOMAS SACKVILLE, der erste Lord BuckJmrtt und Graf von Dorsel, wurde 1536 ( 1 5 3 0 ? ) zu Buckhurst in Sussex geboren. Schon als Knabe zeichnete er sich durch seinen lebendigen Geist a u s ; er erhielt seine Bildung zu Oxford und Cambridge und studirte dann in dem ' Inner Temple' die Rechte, wie es jetzt bei jungen Männern von Stande Mode geworden war, ehe sie auf Reisen gingen oder in das Parlament traten. Von der Königin Elisabeth bald bemerkt und ausgezeichnet, erhielt er verschiedene hohe Staatsämter und wurde, bei der Thronbesteigung Jakob's, in seiner Würde als 'Lord High Treasurer of England' ,auf Lebenszeit bestätigt Er starb 1608 mitten in seinen Berufsgeschäften. Eine Tragödie ' G o r b o d u c ' , oder, wie sie später genannt wurde, ' F e r r e x a n d P o r r e x ' , die er während seines Aufenthaltes im Inner Temple schrieb (s. die D r a m a t i k e r ) , und die ' I n d u c t i o n ' und ' L e g e n d o f t h e D u k e o f B u c k i n g h a m ' in dem ' M i r r o u r f o r M a g i s t r a t e s * sind seine einzigen poetischen Arbeiten. Staatsgeschäfte zogen ihn bald von seinen literarischen Studien ab. Die Idee zu dem letzteren Werke entlehnte er Dante's ' I n f e r n o ' ; die Ausführung Uberliess er seinen Freunden B a l d w i n und F e r r e r s , die jedoch später noch andere Dichter dazu heranzogen. Das in der Geschichte der englischen Poesie so merkwürdige Gedicht ist eine Gallerie von tragischen Gemälden; die vorzüglichsten Personen, welche in der Geschichte Englands durch ihr Schicksal berühmt geworden waren, erzählen selbst die merkwürdigsten Begebenheiten ihres Lebens. Die E i n l e i t u n g beginnt mit der Beschreibung einer finstern Winternacht: in melancholische Betrachtungen versunken, wird der Dichter durch die Erscheinung einer furchtbaren Gestalt — S o r r o w — erschreckt; mit Schaudern entschliesst er sieb, ihr in den Vorhof der Hölle zu folgen. Dort findet er 'Remorse of Conscience', ' D r e a d ' , 'Revenge', 'Misery' und eine Menge anderer allegorischer Personen und gelangt endlich an den Acheron, wo die unglücklichen Seelen ihm ihre Leiden erzählen. Zuerst H e i n r i c h , H e r z o g v o n B u c k i n g h a m , der ihm unter Wehklagen seine Geschichte mittheilt — die einzige, welche von S. herrührt. Sie zeichnet sich durch tragische Kraft, Würde des Stils und wahrhaft poetisches Gefühl aus, während die folgenden nur schwache Nachahmungen der Manier des Dichters sind. Die erste Ausgabe des 'Mirrour for Magistrates' ist vom J. 1550: er wurde mehremale ge-

THOMAS SACKVILLB.

55

druckt und 1587 erschien von Joki Higgmi eine neue Autgabe mit Zuslixen nnd einer neuen Einleitung; die letzte ist vom J. 1610. — Die Erzählungen im ' S p i e g e l fttr S t a a t s m ä n n e r ' förderten wesentlich die Entstehung und Ausbildung de« englischen Trauerspiels im 16. Jahrhundert; auch Shaktpeare sollen sie die Idee zu seinen historischen Dramen gegeben haben. Vergl. Warton, III. 209.

ALLEGORICAL CHARACTERS FROM THE 'MIRROUR FOR MAGISTRATES.' And first, within the porch and jaws of hell, Sat deep Remorse of Conscience, all besprent With tears; and to herself oft would she tell Her wretchedness, and, cursing, never stent To sob and sigh, but ever thus lament With thoughtful care; as she that, all in vain, Would wear and waste continually in pain. Her eye* unstedfaat, rolling here and there, Whirl'd on each place, as place that vengeance brought; So was her mind continually in fear, Toss'd and tormented with the tedious thought Of those detested crimes which she b»d wrought; With dreadful cheer, and looks thrown to the sky, Wishing for death, and yet she could not die. Next, saw we Dread, all trembling how he shook, With foot uncertain, profer*d here and there; Benumb'd with speech; and, with a ghastly look, Searched every place, all pale and dead for fear, His cap born up with staring of his hair; 'Stoin'd and amazed at his own shade for dread, And fearing greater dangers than was need. And, nest,within the entry of this lake, * Sat fell Revenge, gnashing her teeth for ire; Devising means how she may vengeance take; Never in rest, 'till she have her desire; But frets within so far forth with the fire Of wreaking flames, that now determines she To die by death, or 'vepg'U by death to be.

When fell Revenge, with bloody foul pretence, Had show'd herself, as next in order set, With trembling limbs we softly parted thence, 'Till in our eyes another sight we met; When from my heart a sigh forthwith I fet, Rpeing, alas, upon the woeful plight Of Misery, that next appear'd in sight.* His face was lean, and some-deal pin'd away, And eke his bands consumed to the bone; But, what his body was, I cannot say, For on his carcase raiment had he none, Save clouts and patches pieced one by one; With staff in band, and scrip on shoulders cast, His chief defence against the winter's blast: His food, for most, was wild fruits of the tree. Unless sometime some crumbs fell to his share, Which in his vallet loDg, God wot, kept he, As on the which full daint'ly would he fare; His drink, the running stream, his cup, the bare Of bis palm closed; his bed, the bard cold ground: To this poor life was Misery ybound. Whose wretched state when we bad well beheld. With tender rutb on him, and on his feers, In thoughtful cares forth then our pace we held; And, by and by, another shape appears Of greedy Care, still brushing up the briers; His knuckles knob'd, his flesh deep dinted in, With tawed hands, and hard ytanned skin: The morrow grey no sooner hath begun To spread his light e'en peeping in our eyes, But be is up, and to his work yrun; But let the night's black misty mantles rise,

56

THOMAS S A C K t H X E .

And with foul dark never 10 much disguise

1

The fair bright day, yet ceaseth he no while, But hath hi« candles to prolong his toil.

And not so soon descend into the pit; Where Death, when he the mortal corpse bath slain, With reckless hand in grave doth cover i t :

By him lay heavy Sleep, the cousin of Death, Flat on the ground, and still as any stone,

Thereafter never to enjoy again The gladsome light, but, in the ground ylain,

A very corpse, save yielding forth a breath;

In depth of darkness waste and wear to nought

Small keep took be, whom fortune frowned on,

As be bad ne'er into the world been brought:

Or whom she lifted up into the throne Of high renown, but, aa a living death,

But who had seen him sobbing how he stood

So, dead alive, of life he drew the breath:

Unto himself, and how he would bemoan His youth forepast — as though it wrought him

The body's rest, the quiet of the heart, The travel' 8 ease, the still night's feer was he, And of«ur life in earth the better part; Riever of sight, and yet in whom we see Things oft that chance and oft that never be; Without respect, esteem(ing) equally King Croesus' pomp and Irus! poverty.

good To talk of youth, all were bis youth foregone — He would bave mused, and marvel'd much, whereon This wretched Age should life desire so fain, And knows full well life doth but length his pain: Crook-back'd he was, tooth-shaken, and blear-

And nest in order sad Old-Age we found:

eyed,

His beard all hoar, bis eyes hollow and blind;

Went on three feet, and sometime crept on four;

With drooping cheer still poring on the ground,

With old lame bones, that rattled by his side,

As on the place where nature him assign'd

His scalp all pil'd, and he with eld forelore,

T o rest, when that the sisters had untwin'd

His wither'd fist still knocking at death's door;

His vital thread, and ended with their knife

i Tumbling, and driveling, as be draws his breath;

The fleeting course of fast declining life:

There beard we him with broken and hollow plaint Rue with himself bis end approaching fast, And all for nought bis wretched mind torment With sweet remembrance of bis pleasures past, And fresh delights of lusty youth forewaste; Recounting which, how would he sob and shriek, And to be young again of Jove beseek!

For brief, the shape and messenger of Death. And fast by him pale Malady was placed; Sore sick in bed, ber colour all foregone; Bereft of stomach, savour, and of taste, | Ne could she brook no meat but broths alone; ' Her breath corrupt; her keepers every one ' Abhorring her: her sickness past recure, Detesting physic, and all physic's cure. But, ob, the doleful sight that then we see! We turn'd our look, and on the other side

Bat,'an' the cruel fates so fixed be

A grisly shape of Famine mought we see :

That time forepast cannot return again,

With greedy looks, and gaping mouth, that

This one request of Jove yet prayed he, —

cried

That, in such wither'd plight, and wretched pain, | And roar'd for meat, as she should there have As eld, accompany'd with her loathsome train,

died;

Had brought on him, all were it woe and grief, | Her body thin and bare as any bone, He might a while yet linger forth bis lief,

| Whereto was left nought bat the case alone.

57

THOMAS SACKVUXE. And that, alms, was goawen w e i j where.

And in bis left (that king* and kingdoms rued)

All full of hole*; that I ne mought refrain

Famine and fire he held, and therewithal

From tear«, t o see how «he her arms could tear,

He rased towns, and threw down towers and all:

And with her teeth gnash on the bones in vain, When, all for nought, she fain would so sustain

Cities he sack'd, and realms (that whilom flower'd

Her starren corpse, that rather seem'd a shade

In honour, glory, and rale, above the rest)

Than any substance of a creature made:

He overwhelm'd, and all their fame devour'd,

Great was her force, whom stone-wall could

'Till he their wealth, their n a m e , and all op-

Consum'd, destroy^, wasted, and never ceas'd, not stay:

press'd:

Her tearing nails snatching at all she saw;

His face forehew'd with wounds; and by his side

With gaping jaws, that by no means ymay

There hung his targe, with gashes deep and

Be satisfy'd from hunger of her maw,

wide.

But eats herself as she that hath no law; Gnawing, alas, her carcase all in vain, Where you may count each sinew, bone, and vein. On her while we thus firmly fixed our eyes,

2) HENRY DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM IN T H E INFERNAL REGIONS. (The description of the Duke of Bucking-

That bled for ruth of such a dreary sight,

bam — the Buckingham, it must be recollected,

L o , suddenly she shriek'd in so huge wise

of Richard I I I . — h a s been much admired, as

As made hell gates to shiver with the might;

an impersonation of extreme wretchedness.)

Wherewith, a dart we saw, how it did light

Then first came Henry Duke o f Buckingham,

Right on her breast, and, therewithal, pale Death

His cloak of black all piled, and quite forlorn.

Enthrilling it, to rieve her of her breath:

Wringing bis hands, and Fortune oft doth blame, Which o f a duke had made him now her scorn;

And, by and by, a dumb dead corpse we saw,

With ghastly looks, as one in manner lorn,

Heavy, and cold, the shape of Death aright,

Oft spread his arms, stretched bands he joins

That daunts all earthly creatures to his law, Against whose force in vain it is to fight;

as fast, With rueful cheer, and vapoured eye» upcast.

Ne peers, ne princes, nor no mortal wight, No towns, ne realms, cities, no strongest tower,

His cloak he rent, his manly breast he b e a t ;

But all, perforce, must yield unto bis power:

His hair all torn, about the place it lain:

His dart, anon, out of the corpse he took,

As feelingly, methought, it dropped away:

And in his hand (a dreadful sight to see)

His eyes they whirled about withonten stay:

With great triumph eftsoons the same he shook,

With stormy sighs the place did so complain,

That most of all my fears affrayed m e ;

As if bis heart at each had burst in twain.

My heart so molt to see his grief so great,

His body dight with nought but bones, pardy; The naked shape of man there saw I plain,

Thrice he began to tell bis doleful tale,

All save the flesh, the sinew, and the vein.

And thrice the sighs did swallow up his voice;

Lastly, stood W a r , in glittering arms yclad,

As though the heavens ryved with the noise;

With visage grim, stern look, and blackly hued:

Till at the last, recovering of bis voice,

In bis right hand a naked sword he had,

Supping the tears that all his breast berained,

That to the hilts was all with blood imbrued;

On cruel Fortune weeping thus he plained.

At eaeh o f which he shrieked so withal,

SB

ROBERT SOUTHWELL.

IL ROBERT SOUTHWELL, geb. 1550, stammte i u i einer alteo, katholischen Familie in Norfolk und trat in den JesuitenOrden zu Rom. Während derVerfolgungen, welche die Intriguen dieses Ordens unter Elisabeth veranlassten, wurde er, 1595, ergriffen, gefoltert und zu Tyburn hingerichtet — " T h e features of his poetry", sagt Serymgeour von ihm, " a r e sad and contemplative, breathing a spirit of gentleness and amiability, and it is impossible to read his prose compositions,' Mary Magdalene's Tears' and the 'Triumph over Death ', without lamenting that their author should have been either the instrument of bigotry or the object of persecution."

1) THE IMAGE OF DEATH. Before my face the picture hangs, That daily should put me in mind Of those cold names and bitter pangs That shortly I am like to find; But yet, alas! full little I Do think hereon, that I must die. I often look upon a face Most ugly, grisly, bare, and tbin: I often view the hollow place Where eyes and nose had sometime been; I see the bones across that lie, Yet little think that I must die.

My ancestors are turn'd to clay, And many of my mates are gone; My youngers daily drop away, And can I think to 'scape alone? No, no; I know that I must die, And yet my life amend not I. *

*

• If none can 'scape Death's dreadful dart; If rich and poor bis beck obey; If strong, if wise, if all do smart, Then I to 'scape shall have no way: Then grant me grace, O God! that I My life may mend, since I must die

2) TIMES GO BY TURNS. I read the label underneath, That telleth me whereti I must; I see the sentence too, that saith, 'Remember, man, thou art but dust.' But yet, alas! how seldom I Do think, indeed, that I must die! Continually at my bed's head A hearse doth hang, which doth me tell That I ere morning may be dead, Though now I feel myself full well; But yet, alas! for all this, I Have little mind that I must die. The gown which I am used to wear, The knife wherewith I cut my meat; And eke that old and ancient chair, Which is my only usual aeat; All these do tell me I must die, And yet my life amend not l

The lopped tree in time may grow again, Most naked plants renew both fruit and flower; The sorriest wight may find release of pain, The driest soil suck in some moistening shower: Time goes by turns, and chances change by course, From foul to fair, from better hap to worse. The sea of Fortune doth not ever flow; She draws her favours to the lowest ebb: Her tides have equal times to come and go; Her loom doth weave the fine and coarsest web: No joy so great but runneth to an end, No bap so bard but may in fine amend. Not always fall of leaf, nor ever spring, Not endless night, yet not eternal day:

ROBERT 80UTUWKLL. — 8IR PHILIP STONST. The saddest bird« i season find to sing, The roughest »torn a calm may soon allay. Thus, with succeeding turn*, God tempereth all, That man may hope to rise, yet fear to fall.

A brief wherein all miracle* rammed lie, Of fairest forms and sweetest shapes die store, Most graceful all, yet thought may grace them more.

A chance may win (hat by mischance was lost ; That net that holds no great, takes little fish; In some things all, in all things none are cross'd; Few all they need, bat none have all they wish. Unmingled joys here to no man befall ; Who least, hath some; who most, hath never all.

The mind a creature is, yet can create, To nature's patterns adding higher skill Of finest works; wit better could the state, If force of wit bad eqaal power of will. Devise of man in working hath no end; What thought can think another thought can mend.

3) SELF-CONTEMPLATION. Retired thoughts enjoy their own delights, As beauty doth in self-beholding eye: Man's mind a mirror is of heavenly sights,

Man'* soul of endless beauties image is, Drawn by the work of endless dull and might This skilful might gave many sparks of bliss, And, to diseern this bliss, a native light; To frame Ood's image as his worth required, His mighty his skill, his word, and will conspired.

UL SR PHILIP SIDNEY, geb. 1554, gest. 1586. Ueber seine Lebensverhältnisse s. Theil I. des Handbuchs, S. 39. In seinem dort angeführten Schftferroman 'Aresdia' hat S. eine Anzahl von Liedern und Eklogen, in Hexametern und Alexandrinern, eingestreut; die Hexameter sind aber riemlich holprich und die Alexandriner geben den Eklogen einen Ernst und eine Abgemessenheit, die sich nicht mit der bukolischen Poesie vertragen. Werthvoller sind seine kleineren Gedichte, namentlich die hundert und achtzig Sonette, unter dem Titel: 'Astrophel and Stella', die sn den schönsten gehöret», welche die Englische Literatur des sechszehnten Jahrhunderts aufzuweisen bat. — The Works of tbe Hononrable Sir Philip Sidney, London, 1726. 3 Bde.

1) SONNETS OF SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. Because I oft in dark abstracted guise Seem most alone in greatest company, With dearth of words, or answers quite awry To them that would make speech of speech arise, They deem, and of their doom the rumour flies, That poison foul of bubbling Pride doth lie So in my swelling breast, that only I Fawn on myself, and others do despise. Yet Pride, I think, doth not my soul possess,

Which looks too oft in bis unflattering g l » s ; But one worse fault Ambition I confess, That makes me oft my best friends overpass, Unseen, unheard, while thought to highest place Bends all his powers, even unto Stella's grace. • * • • With how sad steps, O Moon! thou climb'st the skies, How silently, and with how wan a face! What may it be, that even in heavenly place That busy Archer his sharp arrows tries? Sure, if that loipy witi) love acquainted eye«

CO

SIB raiLIP SIDNEY.

Can judge of love, thou feel'st • lover's ease; I read it in thy look«, thy langaish'd grace To me that feel the like thy state descries. Then, even of fellowship, 0 moon, tell me, Is constant love deem'd there but want of wit? Are beauties there as proud a« here they be? Do they above love to be lov*d, and yet Those lovers scorn whom that love doth possets? Do they call virtue there ungratefulness? • • * * Come, Sleep, O Sleep, the certain knot of peace, The baiting place of wit, the balm of woe, The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release, The indifferent jodge between the high and low. With shield of proof shield me from out the prease (throng) Of those fierce darts, Despair at me doth throw; 0 make in me those civil wars to cease: 1 will good tribute pay, if thou do so. Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed; A chamber, deaf to noise, and blind to light; A rosy garland, and a weary head. And if these things, as being thine by right, Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me Livelier than elsewhere Stella's image see. • » » • In martial sports I had my cunning tried, And yet to break more staves did me address; While with the people's shouts, I must confess, Youth, luck, and praise, even fill'd my veins with pride. When Cupid, having me (bis slave) descried In Mars's livery, prancing in the press, 'What now, Sir Fool,' said he, ' I would no less. Look here, I say.' I Iook'd, and Stella spied, Who hard by made a window tend forth light. My heart then quaked, then dazzled were mine eyes; One hand forgot to rule th' other to fight; Nor trumpet's sound I heard, nor friendly cries; My fee came on, and beat the air for me, Till that her blash taught me my shsme to see. • • • « 0 happy Thames, that didst my Stella bear! 1 saw thee with full many a smiling line Upon thy cheerful &ce joy's livery wear,

While those fair planet* on thy streams did shine. The boat for joy could not to dance forbear; While wanton winds, with beauties so divine Ravish'd, staid not, till in her golden hair They did themselves (O sweetest prison) twine; And fain those (Eol's youth there would their stay Have made; but, forced by Nature still to fly, First did with puffing kiss those locks display. She, so dishevilt'd, blush'd. From window I, Wilh sight thereof, cried out, 'O fair disgrace; Let Honour's self to thee grant highest place.'

2) SONG.

O Tou that beare this voice, O you that see this face, Say whether of the choice Deserves the former place: Feare not to judge this bate, For it is void of hate. This side doth beauty take, For that doth musike speake, Fit oratours to make The strongest judgements weake: The barre to plead their right Is only true delight. Thus doth the voice and face, These gentle lawyers wage, Like loving brothers case For father's heritage: That each, while each contends, It selfe to other lends. For beautie beautifies, With heavenly hew and grace The heavenly harmonies; And in this faultlesse face, The perfect beauties be A perfect harmony. Musike more loftly swels In speeches nobly placed: Beauty as farre excels,

SOI PHILIP SIDNEY. — SIR WALTER RALEIGH. In action aptly graced: A friend each party drawn, To countenance hi* cause: Love more affected teenies, To beauties lovely light, And wonder more esteemes Of musikes wondrous might, But both to both so bent, As both in both are spent. Musike doth witnesse call The eare hit truth to trie: Beauty brings to the hall, Eye-judgement of the eye.

Both in their objecto such As no exceptions tutch. The common sense, which might Be arbiter of this, To be forsooth upright, To both sides partiall is; He layes on this chiefe praise, Chiefe praise on that he layes. Then reason princesse try, Whose throne is in the mind, Which musike can in sky And hidden beauties find, Say whither thou wilt crowne With limitlesse renowne.

IV. SIR WALTER RALEJGH, geb. 1552, hingerichtet 1618. S. Ober ihn Theill. des Handbuchs, S. 36. — Es ist besonders die l y r i s c h e Poesie, welche Aufmerksamkeit verdient in dieser Periode: es herrschte in ihr keine Gattung, keine Manier, wohl aber der poetische Geist, welcher zugleich Geist des Zeitalters war. Trug man auch fUr Korrektheit der Gedanken und des Ausdrucks weniger Sorge, so gehört doch Vieles von dem Vortrefflichsten, was sich in den Liedersammlungen findet, dieser Periode an. Auch Sir Waller'» Dichtungen zeichnen sieh durch Leichtigkeit und Anmuth aus.

FROM 'THE COUNTRY'S RECREATIONS.' Heart - tearing cares and quiv'ring fears, Anxious sighs, untimely tears, Fly, fly to courts, Fly to fond worldling's sports; Where strained sardonic smiles are glozing still, And Grief is forced to laugh against her will; Where mirth's but mummery, And sorrows only real be.

Fly from our country pastimes, fly, Sad troop of human misery! Come, serene looks, Clear as the crystal brooks,

Or the pure azur'd heaven that smiles to see The rich attendance of our poverty. Peace and a secure mind, Which all men seek, we only find.

Abused mortals, did you know Where joy, heart's ease, and comforts grow, You'd scorn proud towers, And seek them in these bowers; Where winds perhaps our woods may sometime* shake. But blustering care could never tempest make, Nor murmurs e'er come nigh us. Saving of fountains that glide by ua. « »

SIR WALTER BALÉIGH. — KDliOND SPÉNSER. Blest silent grove*! O may ye be

And peace «till slumber by these purling foun-

For ever mirth'« best nursery!

tain«,

May pure contents

Which we may every year

For ever pitch their tents

Find when we come a-fishing here.

Upon these down*, these meads, these rocks,

*

*

these mountains.

V. EDMUND SPENSER, geb. 1 5 5 3 zu London,

studirte zu Cambridge

und ging von d a ,

unter welchen Verhält-

nissen ist unbekannt, nach dem n&rdlichen England, no er, wahrscheinlich auf dem Lande im Kreiie von Verwandten oder Freunden, «einen ' Shepherd'« Calendar' «chrieb. das Wohlwollen des edlen Sidney,

Harvey widmete, «o wie die Freundschaft des Earl de« Lord

Er genos«

dem er dieses Gedicht auf die Empfehlung «eine« Freunde«

Grey, Lord-Lieutenant'« von Irland,

doch ebenfall* nach England zurückkehrte.

of Leicester

ernannt,

und wurde zum Sekretair

bei dessen Zurückberufung er je-

Auf Sidney's Verwendung erhielt er aber bald

darauf von der Königin aus den eingezogenen Giltern de« rebellischen Earl of Desmond Landgut in der Grafschaft Cork.

Hier schrieb

ein

er seine 'Faery Queen': doch kaum war

sie vollendet, als er das Unglück hatte, die letzte Hälfte des grossen Gedichtes

durch

die Nachlässigkeit eines Dieners zu verlieren, welcher das Manuscript von Irland nach England bringen sollte. rone in Irland aus:

Nicht lange darauf brach ein neuer Aufstand unter Desmond

und Ty-

der friedliche Landsitz des Dichters wurde geplündert und verwüstet,

eins «einer Kinder kam in den Flammen um.

Arm und von Kummer gebeugt kehrte er

nach England zurück und «tarb zu London, am 16. Januar 1 5 9 8 (9).

Er ruht, wie man

aagt, nach «einem eigenen Wunsche, in der Westminster-Abtei neben Chaucer. — Auster der 'Fairy Queen' und dem 'Shepherd's Calendar' schrieb S. noch eine Ekloge: 'Colin Clout's come home again' {Chut,

der Name, unter welchem der Dichter selbst erscheint): eine

Uebersetzung des Virgil'schen ' C u l e x ' ; 'Mother Hubbard's Tale,' eine satirische Erzählung in der Manier Chaucer's;

'Hymns and Visions';

' T h e Tears of the Muses';

'Spousal

Poems' (unter denen das vorzüglichste das zur Feier seiner eigenen Vermählung), 'Pastoral Elegies'; 'Sonnets' ( 8 8 ) .

Ein grosser Theil der Werke des Dichters ist indessen verloren

gegangen.

„

Wir fügen dieser Skizze einen Auszug aus dem bereits angeführten Werke D. geour's

hinzu:

Scrym-

' Spenser • stands alone in the history of English poetical literature: he is a

school in himself, for he was never successfully imitated. His language in structure and cadence differs from that of all the writers of his age, as if it had been elaborated for his subject. It is coloured with the antiquity o f Chaucer's phraseology; but Jonson's charge against Spenser of corrupting the language by ancient barbarisms applies only to some of the eclogues of bis earlieat production, the 'Shepherd's Calendar.'

The archaism of dialect in t h e ' F a i r y Queen'

harmonizes with the supernatural and elfin character of the subject. The voluptuous languor of the antique versification carries the mind along in a dreamy pleasure through varied scenes of luxury and of terror: solitary wilds, forests, caves; castles, with the terrible miracles of enchantment, or with gardens, bowers, the music of life and nature, and the splendours of chivalry.

EDMUND 3MSNSB&.

«3

The reader wanders with gorgeous impersonation! in a maze of intertwisted allegory, either picturing facts in the nature of man, or referable to the events and persons of the times in which Spenser lived, and not nnfrequently susceptible of double application. The feature» of Elizabeth, the Fairy Queen Gloriana, flit before us in the portraits of Belphoebe and Britomart. The false Duessa is at once the Church of Rome and the equally abhorred Mary, Queen of Scots. The interest of the poetry, however, does not depend on the allegory. 'If rtaders do not meddle with the allegory, the allegory mill not mettle with them.' (Hazlitt) Pictures are the things with which Spenser catches oar poetical conscience, and his poems contain a gallery that may furnish forth the studies of ages. He is the poet of pictures^ as Chancer is the poet of objects. The opinions of critics vaiy considerably with respect to Spenser, from the cautions coldness of Hume to the enthusiasm of Hazlitt. 'This poet,' says Hume, 'contains great beautie«, a sweet and harmonious versification, easy elocution, a fine imagination; yet does the perusal of his work become so tedious, that one never finishes it from the mere pleasure it affords: it soon becomes a kind of task-reading.'— • * * Ellis writes: 'It is scarcely possible, to accompany Spenser's allegorical heroes to the end of their excursions. They want flesh and blood, a want for which nothing can compensate. * * * Personification protracted into allegory affects a modern reader almost as disagreeably as inspiration continued to madness.' — 'He has,' says Hazlitt, 'in some measure borrowed the plan of his poem from Ariosto; but he has engrafted upon it an exuberance of fancy, and an endless voluptuousness of sentiment, which are not to be found in the Italian writer.—Farther, Spenser is even more of an inventor in the subjectmatter. There is a richness and variety in his allegorical personages and fictions, which almost vies with the splendour of the ancient mythology. If Ariosto transports ns into the regions, of romance, Spenser's poetry is all fairy-land. In Ariosto, jve walk upon the ground, in a company, gay, fantastic, and adventurous enough; in Spenser, we wander in another world among ideal beings. The poet takes and lays us in the lap of a lovelier nature, by the sound of softer streams, among greener hills, and fairer valleys. He paints nature, not as we find it, but as we expected to find it, aud fulfils the deluding promise of our youth. He waves his wand of enchantment,— and at once embodies airy beings, and throws a delicious veil over all actual objects. The two worlds of reality and of fiction seem poised on the wings of his imagination. His ideas, indeed, seem always more distinct than his perceptions. He is the painter of abstractions, and describes them with dazzling minuteness. The love of beauty, however, and not of truth, is the moving principle of his mind; and bis delineations are guided by no principle bi|t the impulse of an inexhaustible imagination. He luxuriates equally in scenes of Eastern magnificence or the still solitude of a hermit's cell — in the extremes of sensuality or refinement. With all this, he neither makes us laugh nor weep. The only jest in his poem is an allegory. But he has been falsely charged with a want of passion and of strength. He has both to an immense drgree. He has not indeed the pathos of sentiment and romance, all that belongs to distant objects of terror, and uncertain, imaginary distress. His strength, in like manner, is not coarse and palpable, — but it assumes the character of vastness and sublimity, seen through the same visionary medium, and blended with all the appalling associations of preternatural agency.' ' The Fairy Queen, had we possessed it complete, would have been a monster poem; it was to have extended to twelve books; six only survive; fortunately, perhaps, as some have said, for the poet's reputation: for the strength of what remains, is acknowledged to be concentred in the first three books. * * * The want is all the less felt, as each book constitutes a separate poem, and that of tolerably gigantic size. Prince Arthur alone, who flits from song to song, acts as a link among the parts of the whale. Each book was to be dedicated to the chi-

61

EDMUND SPENSER.

valfOBi adventures of a certain virtne, the probationary personage» uniting at last in the Fairy Court of Gloriana.' Die von S. erfundene and nach ihm benannte, neunzeilige Stanze ist seitdem selten, und nur von Thomson, in seinem ' Castle of Indolence,' und von Byron in seinem ' Childe Harold' mit Glück benutzt worden. 1) ADVENTURE OF UNA WITH THE LION. Yet she, most faithful lady, all this while Forsaken, woeful, solitary maid, Far from all people's prease, as in exile. In wilderness and wasteful deserts strayed, To seek her knight; who, subtily betrayed Through that late vision which th' enchanter wrought, Had her abandoned; she of nought afraid Through woods and wasteness wide him daily sought; Yet wished tidings none of him unto her brought. One day, nigh weary of the irksome way, From her unhasty beast she did alight; And on the grass her dainty limbs did lay. In secret shadow, far from all men's sight; From her fair head her filleth she undight, And laid her stole aside: her angel's face, As the great eye of Heaven, shined bright, And made a sunshine in the shady place; Did never mortal eye behold such heavenly grace. It fortuned, out of the thickest wood A ramping lion rushed suddenly, Hunting full greedy after savage blood: Soon as the royal virgin he did spy, With gaping mouth at her ran greedily, To have at once devour'd her tender corse: But to the prey when as he drew more nigh, His bloody rage assuaged with remorse, And with the sight amazed forgat his furious force. Instead thereof he kiss'd her weary feet, And lick'd her lily hands with fawning tongue; AM he her wronged innocence did weet. O bow can beauty master the moat strong,

And simple truth subdue avenging wrong! Whose yielded pride and proud submission, Still dreading death, when she had marked long, Her heart gan melt in great compassion, And drizzling tears did shed for pure affection. 'The lion, lord of every beast in field,' Quoth she, 'his princely puissance doth abate, And mighty proud to humble weak does yield. Forgetful of the hungry rage, which late Him prick'd, in pity of my sad estate: But he, my lion, and my noble lord, How does he find in cruel heart to hate Her that him loved, and ever most adored, As the God of my life ? why hath be me abhorred!' Redounding tears did choke th' end of her plaint, Which softly echoed from the neighbour wood; And, sad to see her sorrowful constraint, The kingly beast upon her gazing stood: With pity calm'd down fell his angry mood. At last, in close heart shutting up her pain, Arose the virgin born of heav'nly brood, And to her snowy palfrey got again, To seek her strayed champion if she might attain. The lion would not leave her desolate, But with her went along, as a strong guard Of her chaste person, and a faithful mate Of her sad troubles and misfortunes hard: Still when she slept, be kept both watch and ward; And when she waked, he waited diligent, With humble service to her will prepared; From her fair eyes he took commandement, And ever by her looks conceived her intent.

EDMUND 3T5N8ER. • Infinite streams continually did well 2) THE BOWER OF BLISS. There Ibe most dainty paradise on ground Itself doth offer to his sober rye, In which all pleasures plenteously abound. And none does others happiness envy; The painted flowers, the trees upahooting bigb, The dales for shade, the hills for breathing space, The trembling groves, the crystal running b y ; And that which all fair works doth most aggrace. The art, which all that wrought, appeared in no place.

Out of this fountain, sweet and fair to see, The which into an ample later fell, And shortly grew to so great quantity. That like a little lake it seem'd to b e ; Whose depth exceeded not three cubits height, That through the waves one might the bottom see, All pav'd beneath with jasper shining bright, That seem'd the fountain in that iea did tail upright. And all the margin round about was set With shady laurel trees, thence to defend The sunny b e a m s , which on the billows beat,

One would have thought (so cunningly the rude And scorned parts were mingled with the fine) That nature had for wantonness ensued Art, and that art at nature did repine; So striving each th' other to undermine, Each did the other's work more beautify; So differing both in wills, agreed in fine: So all agreed through sweet diversity, This garden to adorn with all variety.

And those which therein bathed might offend. • • • Eftsoons they heard a most melodious sound, Of all that might delight a dainty ear. Such as at once might not on living ground, Save in this paradise, be heard elsewhere: Right hard it was for wight which did it hear, To read what manner music that might be: For all that pleasing is to living ear. Was there consorted in one harmony; Birds, voices, instruments, winds, waters, all

And in the midst of all a fountain stood agree. Of richest substance that on earth might be, So pure and shiny, that the silver flood Through every channel running one might sec; | The joyous birds, shrouded in cheerful shade, Their notes unto the voice attemper'd sweet; Most goodly it with curious imagery Th' angelical soft trembling voices made Was overwrought, and shapes of naked boys, • To th' instruments divine respondence meet; Of which some seem'd with lively jollity The silver sounding instruments did meet To fly about, playing their wanton toys, With the base murmur of the water's fall: While others did embaye themselves in liquid The winter's fall with difference discreet, joys. Now soft, now loud, unto the wind did call: The gentle warbling wind low answered to all. And over all, of purest gold, was spread A trail of ivy in his native h u e :

The while, some one did cbaunt this lovely lay;

For, the rich metal was so coloured,

' 'Ah see, whoso fair thing thou dost fain to see,

That wight, who did not well advis'd it view.

\ In springing flower the image of thy day;

Would surely deem it to be ivy true:

j Ah see the virgin rose, bow sweetly she

Low his lascivious arms adown did creep,

| Doth first peep forth with bashful modesty,

That themselves dipping in the silver dew,

That fairer seems, the leas ye see her m a y ;

Their fleecy flowers they fearfully did steep,

Lo, see soon after, how more bold and free

Which drops of crystal seem'd for wantonness to weep. II.

Her bared bosom she doth broad display; 1 Lo, see soon after, how she fades and falls away 1 5

66

EDMUND SPENSER.

So passeth, in the pissing of a day, Of mortal life, the leaf, the bad, the flower, Nor more doth flourish after first decay, That erst was sought to deck both bed and bower Of many a lady, and many a paramour; Gather therefore the rose, while yet is prime, For soon comes age, that will her pride deflower: Gather the rose of love, while yet is time, While loving thou mayst loved be with equal crime.'

Some made in books, some in long parchment scrolls. That were all worm-eaten and full of canker boles. Amidst them all he in a chair was set, Tossing and turning them without an end ; Bat for be was unable them to fett (fetch), A little boy did on him still attend To reach, whenever he for ought did send; And oft when things were lost, or laid amiss. That boy them sought and unto him did lend: Therefore he Anamnestes*) cleped is, And that old man, Eumnestes, **) by tbeir properties.

3) THE CHAMBER OF MEMORY IN THE CASTLE OF ALMA. That chamber seemed ruinous and old, And therefore was removed far behind; Yet were the walls that did the same uphold, Right firm and strong, though somewhat they declin'd; And therein sat an old, old man, half blind. And all decrepid in his feeble corse, Yet lively vigour rested in his mind, And recompensed him with a better source: Weak body well is chang'd for mind's redoubled force.

4) WEDDING OF THE MEDWAY AND THE THAMES. (This piece is a remarkable specimen of the allegorical manner of the poet. Natural objects are here personified in an abundance, and with a facility which almost bewilders the reader. Chambers.) It fortun'd then a solemn feast was there, To all the sea-gods and their fruitful seed, In honour of the spousals which then where Betwixt the Medway and the Thames agreed. Long had the Thames (as we in records read) Before that day her wooed to his bed, But the proud nymph would for no wordly meed, Nor no entreaty, to his love be led, Till now at last relenting, she to him was wed.

This man of infinite remembrance was, And things forgone through many ages held, Which he recorded still as they did pass, Nor suffer'd them to perish through long eld, As all things else, the which this world doth weld, But laid them up in his immortal serine, i So both agreed that this, their bridal feast, Where they for ever incorrupted dwell'd; Should for the gods in Proteus' house be rcade, The wars he well remcmber'd of King Nine, | To which they all repair'd, both most and least, Of old Assaracus and Inachus divine. , As well which in the mighty ocean trade As that in rivers swim, or brooks do wade; The years of Nestor nothing were to bis. All which not if an hundred tongues to tej, Nor yet Methusalem, though longest liv'd; I And hundred mouths, and voice of brass, I had, For he remember'd both their infancies: And endless memory, that mote excell, Nor wonder, then, if that he were depriv'd Of native strength, now that he them aurviv'd. In order as they came could I recount them well. His chambcr all was hung about with rolls, And old Records from ancient times deriv'd,

*) Recollection.

**) Memory.

EDMUND SPENSER. Help, therefore, O thou »acred imp of Jove! The nursling of dame memory, hi* dear, To whom those rolls, laid up in heaven above, And records of antiquity appear, To which no wit of man may comen near; Help me to tell the names of all those floods, And all those nymphs,which then assembled were To that great banquet of the watery gods, And all their sundry kinds, and all their bid abodes. First came great Neptune, with his threeforkt mace, That rules the seas, and makes them rise or fall; His dewy locks did drop with brine apace Under his diadem imperial; And by hia side his queen with coronal. Fair Amphitrite, most divinely fair, Whose ivory shoulders weren cover'd all, As with a robe, with her own silver hair, And deck'd with pearls which the Indian seas for her prepare. These marched far afore the other crew, And all the way before them, as they went, Triton his trumpet shrill before them blew, For goodly triumph and great jollyment, That made the rocks to roar as they were rent; And after them the royal issue came, Which of them sprung by lineal descent; First the sea-gods, which to themselves do claim The power to rule the billows, and the waves to tflfce. Next came the aged ocean and his dame, Old Tetbys, th' oldest two of all the rest, For all the rest of those two parents came, Which afterward both sea and laud possest. Of «11 which Nereus, th' eldest and the best, Did first proceed, than which none more upright, Ne more sincere in word aud deed profest, Most void of guile, most free from foul despite, Doing himself, and teaching others to do right. And after him the famous rivers came Which do the earth enrich and beautify;

67

The fertile Nile, which creatures BOW doth frame; Long Rhodanua, whose eourae springs from the sky; Fair Ister, flowing from the mountains high; Divine Scamander, purpled yet with blood Of Greeks and Trojans, which therein did die; Pactolus, glistering with his golden flood, And Tigris fierce, whose streams of none may be withstood. Great Ganges, and immortal Euphrates; Deep Indus, and Meander intricate; Slow Peneus, and tempestuous Phaaidea; Swift Rhine and Alpheus still immaculate; Ooraxes, feared for great Cyrus* fate; Tybris, renowned for the Roman's fame; Rich Oranochy, though but knowen late; And that huge river which doth bear hi* name Of warlike Amazons, which do possess the same. Then was there heard a most celestial sound Of dainty music, which did next ensue Before the spouse, that was Arion crown'd, Who playing on his harp, unto him drew The ears and hearts of all that godly crew: That even yet the dolphin which him bore Through the Egean seas from pirate's view, Stood still by him, astonish'd at his lore, And all the raging seas for joy forgot to roar. So went he playing on the watery plain; Soon after whom the lovely bridegroom came, The noble Thames, with all his goodly train; But him before there went, as best became, His ancient parents, namely th' ancient Tbame; But much more aged was his wife than he, The Ouse, whom men do Isis rightly name; Full weak, and crooked creature seemed she, And almost blind through eld, that scarce her way could see. Therefore on either side she was sustain'd Of two small grooms, which by their namea were bight The Chum and Charwell, two small streams which pain'd 5*

68

E D M U N D SPENSER.

T h e m s e l v e s h e r f o o t i n g to direct aright,

A n d t h e still D a r e n d in whose waters clean,

W h i c h failed o f t t h r o u g h faint and feeble p l i g h t ;

T e n t h o u s a n d fishes p l a y , and deck his pleas-

B u t T h a m e was s t r o n g e r , and of better stay,

ant stream.

Y e t seem'd full aged by his outward sight, W i t h head all h o a r y and his b e a r d all gray, Dewed with silver d r o p s t h a t trickled

T h e n came his n e i g h b o u r floods which nigh

down

ahvay:

him dwell, And water all the English soil t h r o u g h o u t ; T h e y all on him this day a t t e n d e d well, A n d with m e e t service waited h i m about,

And eke s o m e w h a t seemed to s t o o p afore W i t h bowed back, b y r e a s o n of the load

Ne n o n e disdained low t o him to l o u t ;

And ancient heavy b u r d e n which he b o r e

N o , n o t the stately Severn g r u d g ' d at all,

Of t h a t fair city, wherein m a k e a b o d e

N e s t o r m i n g H u m b e r , t h o u g h he looked s t o u t ,

S o m a n y learned imps, t h a t s h o o t a b r o a d ,

B u t b o t h him h o n o r ' d as their principal,

A n d with their b r a n c h e s spread all Britany,

And let their swelling waters low before him fall

N o less t h a n do her elder sister's b r o o d : J o y to you b o t h , ye double n u r s e r y

T h e r e was the speedy T a m a r , which divides

Of a r t s , b u t O x f o r d ! thine d o t h T h a m e m o s t

T h e C o r n i s h and t h e D e v o n i s h confines,

glorify.

T h r o u g h b o t h whose b o r d e r s swiftly down it glides, And meeting P l i m ,

B u t h e their son full fresh and jolly was, All decked in a r o b e of watchet h u e ,

t o P l y m o u t h t h e n c e declines;

O n which the waves, glittering like crystal glass, S o cunningly inwoven were, t h a t few

And D a r t ,

nigh c h o k ' d with sands of tinny mines;

Could weenen whether they were false or t r u e ;

B u t Avon m a r c h e d in m o r e stately p a t h ,

And on his h e a d like to a c o r o n e t

P r o u d of his a d a m a n t s with which he shines

H e wore, t h a t seemed strange to c o m m o n view,

And glisters wide, as als' of w o n d r o u s B a t h ,

I n which were m a n y towers and castles set,

And Bristovv fair; which o n his waves lie build-

T h a t it encompass'd r o u n d as with a golden fret.

Next there c a m e T y n e , a l o n g whose stony b a n k

Like as the m o t h e r of the gods they say,

T h a t R o m a n m o n a r c h built a brazen wall,

I n her great iron chariot wonts to ride, W h e n t o love's palace she doth take her

ed h a t h .

raj,

W h i c h m o t e the feebled B r i t o n s strongly flank

Old Cybele, arrny'd with p o m p o u s piide,

Against the Picts, t h a t swarmed over all,

W e a r i n g a diadem embattled wide

W h i c h yet thereof Gualsever t h e y do call;

W i t h h u n d r e d turrets, like a t u r r i b a n t ;

And T w e e d , t h e limit betwixt L o g r i s ' land

W i t h such an one was T h a m i s beautified,

And A l b a n y ; and E d e n , t h o u g h b u t small,

T h a t was to weet the f a m o u s T r o y n o v a n t ,

Yet o f t e n s t a i n ' d with b l o o d of many a b a n d

I n which her k i n g d o m ' s t h r o n e is chiefly resiant.

Of Scots and E n g l i s h b o t h , t h a t tyned on his strand.

And r o u n d a b o u t him many a pretty page Attended duly, ready to o b e y ;

T h e s e after came t h e stony shallow L o n e ,

All little rivers which owe vassalage

T h a t to old L o n c a s t e r his n a m e doth lend,

T o him, as to their lord, and tribute p a y ;

And following Dee, which B r i t o n s long ygone,

T h e chalky K e n n e t , and the Tlietis g r a y ;

D i d call divine, t h a t d o t h by Chester t e n d ;

T h e moorish Cole, and the soft-sliding B r e a n e ;

And Conway, which o u t of his stream d o t h send

T h e w a n t o n Lee, t h a t o f t doth lose his way,

Plenty of pearls to deck his d a m e s w i t h a l ;

EDMOND SPENSER.

«9

And Lindas, that bis pikes doth most commend, Of which the ancient Lincoln men do call: All these together marched toward Proteus' ball.

The while the joyous birds make their pastime Amongst the shady leaves, their sweet abode, And their true loves without suspicion tell abroad.

Then came the bride, the lovely Medua came, Clad in a vesture of unknowen gear, And uncouth fashion, yet her well became, That seem'd like silver sprinkled here and there, With glattering «pangs that did like stars appear, And wav'd upon like water chamelot, To bide the metal, which yet everywhere Bewray'd itself, to let men plainly wot, It was no mortal work, that seem'd and yet

Right in the middest of that paradise There stood a stately mount, on whose round top A gloomy grove of myrtle trees did rise, Whose shady boughs sharp steel did never lop, Nor wicked beasts their tender buds did crop, But, like a girlond, compassed the height, And from their fruitful sides sweet gum did drop, That all the ground, with precious dewbedight,*) Threw forth most dainty odours and most sweet

was not. Her goodly locks adown her back did flow Unto her waist, with flowers bescattered, The which ambrosial odours forth did throw To all about, and all her shoulders spread, As a new spring; and likewise on her bead A chapelet of sundry flowers she wore. From under which the dewy humour shed Did trickle down her bair, like to the hoar Congealed little drops, which do the morn adore. On ber two pretty handmaids did attend, One call'd the Theise, the other call'd the Crane, Which on her waited, things amiss to mend, And both behind npheld her spreading train, Under the which her feet appeared plain, Her silver feet, fair wash'd against this day: And her before there paced pages twain, Both clad in colours like, and like array The Doun and eke the Frith, both which prepared ber way.

5) THE GARDEN OF ADONIS. There is continual spring, and harvest there Continual, both meeting at one time: For both the boughs do laughing blossoms bear, And with fresh colours deck the wanton prime, And eke at once the heavy trees they climb, Which seem to labour under their fruit's load:

delight. And in the thickest covert of that shade There was a pleasant arbour, not by art, But of the trees' own inclination made, Which knitting their rank branches part to part, With wanton ivy-twine entrailed athwart, And eglantine and caprifole among, Fashioned above within their inmost part, That neither Phoebus' beams could through them throng, Nor Aeolus' sharp blast could work them any wrong.

6) SONNET. Sweet is the rose, but grows upon a brere; Sweet is the juniper, but sharp his bough; Sweet is the eglantine, but pricketh near; Sweet is the firbloom, but his branches rough; Sweet is the Cyprus, but his rind is tough; Sweet is the nut, but bitter is his pill; Sweet is the broom flower, biut yet sour enough; And sweet is moly, but his root is ill: So, every sweet, with sour Ls tempered still, That maketh it be coveted the more: For easy things that may b e got at will, Most sorts of men do set b u t little store. Why then should I account of little pain, That endless pleasure shall unto me gain? *) Adorned.

70

FULKE GREVILLE, LORD BROOKE.

VL FULKE GREVILLE, LORD BROOKE, geb. 1554 xu Aleatter in Warwickshire, itammte ans der alten Familie der Greviles. Unter der Regierung der Etisabetk. Jakob's und KarVs I. war er bei Hofe geliebt und geehrt, bi* er im hohen Alter, 1 6 2 8 , von seinem Diener ermordet wurde. Seine vorzQglidisten Werke sind ' A Treatise on Humane Learning', ' A n Inquisition upon Fame and Honour', 'A Treatise of War»', 'A Treatise of Monarchy', 'A Treatise of Religion' nebst iwei Trauerspielen und kleineren Gedichten. B. zeichnet sich aus durch Tiefe der Oedanken und Kraft des Ausdrucks. Sou&ey sagt von ihm: ' h e ia the most difficult of all our poets. No writer of this, or any other country, appears to have reflected more deeply, on momentous subjects.' In Bezug auf seine beiden Trauerspiele, 'Alaham' und ' Mustapba', sagt Charles Lamb in seinen 'Specimens of English Dramatic Poets', Vol.1.: ' H e is nine parts of Machiavel and Tacitus for one of Sophocles or Seneca,' und 'Whether we look into his plays, or bis most passionate lore-poems, we shall find all frozen and made rigid with intellect.' Wir geben zunächst einige Stanzen als Probe des 'abstruse thinking that pervades his poetry.'

1) IMAGINATION. (From the ' TreeUite on Humane Learning.') Knowledge's next organ is imagination; A glass, wherein the object of our sense Ought to respect true height, or declination, For understanding's clear intelligence: But this power also hath her variation, Fixed in some, in some with difference; In all, so shadowed with self-application, As makes her pictures still too foul, or fair, Not like the life in lineament or air. This power, besides, always cannot receive What sense reports, but what th' affection please To admit: and, as those princes that do leave Their state in trust to men corrupt with ease, False in their faith, or but to faction friend, The truth of things can scarcely comprehend; So must th' imagination from the sense Be misinformed, while our affections cast False shapes and forms on their intelligence; And to keep out true intromission thence, Abstracts the imagination or distastes, With images pre-occupately plac'd. Hence onr desires, fears, hopes, love, hate, and sorrow,

In fancy make us hear, feel, see impressions, Such as out of our sense they do not borrow; And are the efficient cause, the true progression Of sleeping visions, idle phantasms waking, Life, dreams, and knowledge, apparitions making.

2) REALITY OF A TRUE RELIGION. (From the 'Trealite on Religion.') For sure in all kinds of hypocrisy No bodies yet are found of constant being; No uniform, no stable mystery, No inward nature, but an outward seeming; No solid truth, no virtue, holiness, But types of these, which time makei more or less. And from these springs, strange inundations flow, To drown the sea-marks of humanity, With massacres, conspiracy, treason, woe. By sects and schisms profaning Deity; Besides, with furies, fiends, earth, air and hell, They fit, and teach confusion to rebel. But, as there lives a true God in the heiven, So is there true religion here on earth: By nature? No, by grace; not got, but given: Inspir'd, not taught; from God a second birth;

FÜLKE GHETELLE, LORD BROOKE. — SAMUEL DANIEL. God dwelleth near about ui, even within. Working the goodneas, censuring the sin. Such as we are to him, to us is he, Without God there was no man ever good;

71

Divine the author and the matter be, Where goodness must be wrought in flesh and blood: Religion stands not in corrupted things, But virtues that descend have heavenly wings.

VE SAMUEL DÄMEL, geb. 1562, in der NShe von Taunton in Somersetshire, war der Sohn eines Musiklehrers und scheint seine Erziehung dem Schutze der Familie Pembroke, namentlich der Gräfin von Pembroke, Schwester Sydney's, verdankt zu haben. 1579 ging er nach Oxford, wo er sich hauptsächlich mit dem Studium der Geschichte und Poesie beschäftigte. Nach drei Jahren verlies* er die Uuiversit&t und wurde Erzieher drr Tochter des Grafen von Comberland, Arme Clifford. Unter Jakob, 1603, wurde er zum: 'Master of the Queen's Revels, and Inspector of the Plays to be represented by the Juvenile Performers' ernannt. Gegen das Ende seines Lebens zog er sich auf ein Landhaus in der Nühe von Beckington in Somersetshire zurUck, wo er im Oktober 1619 starb. — Seine hauptsächlichsten Werke sind: 'The History of the Civil War' (zwischen den Häusern York und Lancaster) — 'Complaint of Rosamund', zwei Trauerspiele: 'Cleopatra' und 'Philotas,' und zwei Sch'äferspiele: 'Hymen's Triumph' und 'The Queen's Arcadia 1 ; dazu kommen eine Anzahl kleinerer Gedichte und Sonette und diesen hauptsächlich verdankt er seine Stelle unter den englischen Dichtern. Chamber* sagt von ihm: ' In all productions the historical taste of the author seems to have altogether superseded the poetical'; Souihey dagegen: 'For his diction alone he would deserve to be studied, even though his works did not abound in passages of singular beauty.' Seine s&mmtlichen Werke sind abgedruckt in Anderson's ' British Poets,' Vol. IV.

1) THE NOBILITY EXHORTED TO THE PATRONAGE OF LEARNING. (Prom' Muiopkilut.') You mighty lords, that with respected grace Do at the stern of fair example stand, And all the body of this populace Guide with the turning of your hand, Keep a right course: bear up from all disgrace, Observe the point of glory to our land: Hold up disgraced Knowledge from the ground, Keep Virtue in request, give Worth her due; Let not Neglect with barbarous means confound So fair a good, to bring in night a-new; Be not, O be not accessory found Unto her death, that must give life to you.

Where will you have your virtuous name safe laid? In gorgeous tombs, in sacred cells secure? Do you not see those prostrate heaps betray'd Your fathers' bones, and could not keep them sure ? And will you trust deceitful stones fair laid, And think they will be to your honour truer? No, no: uniparing Time will proudly send A warrant unto Wrath, that with one frown Will all those mockeries of vain-glory rend, And make them (as before) ungraced, unknown: Poor idle honours, that can ill defend Your memories, that cannot keep their own!

72

SAMUEL DANIEL. — J08HUA SYLVESTER.

1) RICHARD IL, THE MORNING BEFORE HIS MURDER IN POMFRET CASTLE.

Thine, thine is that true life: that is to livce, To rest secure, and not rise up to grieve.

Whether the toul receive« intelligence. By her nemr genius, of the body'a end. And to impart* • sadness to the sense, Foregoing ruin whereto it doth tend; Or whether nature else hath conference With profound sleep, and so doth warning send, By prophetising dreams, what hurt is near, And gives the heavy careful heart to fear:

Thou sitt'st at home safe by thy quiet fire,, And hear'st of other's harms, but fearest name: And there thou tell'st of kings, and who ajpiire, Who fall, who rise, who triumph, who do mcoan. Perhaps thou talk'st of me, and dost enquiire Of my restraint, why here I live alone, And pitiest this my miserable fall; For pity must have part — envy not all.

However, so it is, the now sad king, Toss'd here and there his quiet to confound, Feels a strange weight of sorrows gathering Upon his trembling heart, and sees no ground; Feels sudden terror bring cold shivering; Lists not to eat, still muses, sleeps unsound; His senses droop, bis steady eyes unquick, And much he ails, and yet he is not sick.

Thrice happy you that look as from the shiore, And have no venture in the wreck you see ^ No interest, no occasion to deplore Other men's travels, while yourselves sit frrth Than gold in mines, where none doth draw it forth,

To him for whom the passing bell next tolls I give my physic books; my written rolls

And all your graces no more use shall have Than a sun-dial in a grave.

Of moral counsels I do Bedlam give;

Thou, Love, taught'st me, by making me

My brazen medals, unto them which live

Love her who doth neglect both me

In want of bread; to them which pass among All foreigners, my English tongue;

and

thee. To invent and practise this one way to annihi-

Thou, Lore, by making me love one

late all three.

XII. GEORGE WITHER, der Sohn eines Countrygentleman, wurde 1 5 8 8 zu Bentwortb in Hampshire geboren. Er atudirte zu Oxford, wurde aber bald von seinem Vater zurückgerufen, da er die L a n d w i r t schaft erlernen sollte. Statt dessen ging W. nach London, veröffentlichte hier eine Anzahl Satiren, die ihn auf längere Zeit in's Gefängniss führten, wo er sein bestes poetisches Werk schrieb, ' T h e Shepherd's Hunting.' Scrymgeour giebt in Folgendem ein treffendes Bild von dem ziemlich bewegten Leben, welches fV. nach seiner Freilassung führte: 'Favoured by James I., a royalist in the beginning of the troubles of Charles I . ; a military captain in the war against the Scotch Covenanters; a major-general of Cromwell; saved, by a jest of Denham't, from execution by the royalists during his roundhead career; a monitor of Cromwell; a large profiter from confiscated royalist estates; a congratulator of Richard Cromwell's accession; an angry remonstrator against the disgorging of his spoils after the Restoration; a prisoner for just remonstrances against the illegal manner in which he was deprived of his fortune; a penman not to be silenced by age or prison-fetters — these features constitute the physiognomy of Wither's varied life.' Er starb arm und elend im Jahre 1 6 6 7 . Seine frtlheren Dichtungen zeugen von Phantasie und wahrhaft poetischem Gefühle; später verfiel er häufig in Künstelei.

1) 'THE MUSE'S CONSOLATION.' (From: ' The ShepheriTs Hunting.') ( T h i s Eclogue is inscribed to his friend, Mr. William Browne of the Inner Temple. The ' Shepherd's H u n t i n g ' was published, while W. was confined for the publication of 'Abuses Whipt and Stript.')

— Alas! my Muse is slow; For thy page she flags too low: Yea, the more's her hapless fate, Her short wings were dipt of late: And poor I, her fortune rueing, And myself put up a mewing: But if I my cage can rid, I'll fly where I never did: And though for her sake I'm crost,

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GEORGE WITHER. Though my beat hopes I have lost, And knew the would make my trouble Ten timet more than ten timet doable : I tbould love and keep ber too, Spite of all the world coold do. For, though banish'd from my flocks, And confin'd within these rocks, Here I waste away the light, And consume the sullen night, She doth for my comfort stay, And keeps many cares away. Though I miss the flowery fields, With those sweets the springtide yields, Though I may not see those groves, Where the shepherds chant their loves, And the lasses more excel Than the sweet-voiced Philomel. Though of all those pleasures past, Nothing now remains at last, But Remembrance, poor relief, That more makes than mends my grief : She's my mind's companion still, Maugre Envy's evil will. (Whence she would be driven, too, Were't in mortal's power to do.) Sbe doth tell me where to borrow Comfort in the midst of sorrow: Makes the desolatest place To her presence be a grace ; And the blackest discontents Be ber fairest ornaments. In my former days of blist, Her divine skill taught me this, That from everything I saw, I could some invention draw: And raise pleasure to ber height. Through the meanest object's sight, By the murmur of a spring, Or the least bough's rustleing. By a daisy, whose leaves spread, Shut when Titan goes to bed ; Or a shady bush or tree, Sbe could more infuse in me, Than all Nature's beauties can In some other wiser man. By her help I also now

Make this churlish place allow Some things that may sweeten gladness, In the very gall of sadness. The doll loneness, the black shade, That these hanging vaults have made; The strange music of the waves, Beating on these hollow caves; This black den which rocks emboss, Overgrown with eldest moss: The rude portals that give light More to terror than delight: This my chamber of neglect, Wall'd about with disrespect From all these, and this dull air, A fit object for despair, She bath taught me by her might To draw comfort and delight. Therefore, tbou best earthly bliss, I will cherish thee for this. Poesy, thou sweet'st content That e'er beaven to mortals lent: Though they as a trifle leave thee, Whose dull thoughts cannot conceive tbee, Though tbou be to them a scorn, That to nought but earth are born, Let my life no longer be Than I am in love with thee, Though our wise ones call thee madness, Let me never taste of gladness, If I love not thy madd'st fits Above all their greatest wits. And though some, too seeming holy, Do account tby raptures folly, Thou dost teach me to contemn What make knaves and fools t>f them.

2) CHRISTMAS. So now is come our joyful'st feast; Let every man be jolly; Each room with ivy leaves is drest, And every post with holly. Though some churls at our mirth repine, Round your forehead* garlands twine, Drown sorrow in a cup of wine, And let us all be merry.

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GEORGE WITHER.

Now all our neighbour«' chimney* smoke, And Christmas' blocks are burning; Their ovens they with baked meat choke, And all their spits are turning. Without the door let sorrow lie; And if for cold it hap to die, We'll bury't in a Christmas pie, And evermore be merry.

Now every lad is wond'rous trim. And no man miads his labour; Our lasses have provided them

Good farmers in the country nurse The poor, that else were undone; Some landlords spend their money worse, On lust and pride at London. There the roysters they do play. Drab and dice their lands away, Which may be ours another day, And therefore let's be merry.

A bagpipe and a tabor; Young men and maids, and girls and boys, Give life to one another's joys; And you anon shall by their noise Perceive that they are merry.

The client now bis suit forbears, The prisoner's heart is eased; The debtor drinks away his cares, And for the time is pleased. Though others' purses be more fat, Why should we pine, or grieve at that? Hang sorrow! care will kill a cat, And therefore let's be merry.

Rank misers now do sparing shun; Their hall of music soundeth; And dogs thence with whole shoulders run, So all things there aboundeth. The country folks themselves advance, With crowdy-muttons out of France; And Jack shall pipe and Gill shall dance, And all the town be merry.

Hark! now the wags abroad do call, Each other forth to rambling; Anon you'll see them in the hall, For nuts and apples scrambling. Hark! how the roofs with laughter sound. Anon they'll think the house goes round, For they the cellar's depth have found, And there they will be merry.

Ned Squash hath fetcht his bands from pawn, And all his best apparel; Brisk Nell bath bought a ruff of lawn With dropping of the barrel. And those that hardly all the year Had bread to eat, or rags to wear. Will have both clothes and dainty fare, And all the day be merry.

The wenches with their wassail bowls About the streets are singing; The boys are come to catch the owls, The wild mare in is bringing. Our kitchen boy hath broke bis box, And to the dealing of the ox Our honest neighbours come by flocks, And here they will be merry.

Now poor men to the justices

Now kings and queens poor sheepcotes have, And mate with every body; The honest now may play the knave, And wise men play the noddy. Some youths will now a mumming go, Some others play at Rowland-bo, And twenty other game boys mo, Because they will be merry.

With capons make their errants; And if they hap to fail of these, They plague them with their warrants; But now they feed them with good cheer, And what they want they take in beer, For Christmas comes but once a year, And then they shall be merry.

GEORGE WITHER. — Dr. HENRY KING. Then, wherefore, in these merry days, Should we, I prmy, be duller? No, let us sing some roundelays, To make our mirth the fuller:

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And, while we thus inspired sing, Let all-the streets with echoes ring; Woods and bills, and everything. . Bear witness we are merry.

XDL D? HENRY KING, geb. 1591., gest. 1669., war Kaplan Jakob's I. und eine Zierde des geistlichen Standes. Seine Gedichte sind meist religiösen Inhalts und zeichnen sich durch edles Gefühl und würdige Sprache vorteilhaft aus.

1) SIC VITA. Like to the falling of a star, Or as the flights of eagles are; Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue. Or silver drops of morning dew; Or like a wind that chafes the flood, Or bubbles which on water stood: Ev'n such is man, whose borrow'd light Is straight call'd in, and paid to-night. The wind blows out, the bubble dies; The spring entomb'd in autumn lies; The dew dries up, the star is shot; The flight is past—and man forgot.

2) THE DIRGE. What is the existence of man's life, But open war, or slumber'd strife; Where sickness to his sense presents The combat of the elements; And never feels a perfect peace Till Death's cold hand signs his release ? It is a storm — where the hot blood Outvies in rage the boiling flood; And each loose passion of the mind Is like s furious gust of wind,

Which beats bis bark with many a wave, Till he casts anchor in the grave. It is a flower — which buds, and grows, And withers as the leaves disclose; Whose spring and fall faint seasons keep. Like fits of wakiDg before sleep; Then shrinks into that fatal mould Where its first being was enroll'd. It is a dream — whose seeming truth Is moralis'd in age and youth; Where all the comforts he can share, As wandering as his fancies are; Till in a mist of dark decay, The dreamer vanish quite away. It is a dial—which points out The sun-set, as it moves a bout; And shadows out in lines of night The subtle stages of Time's flight; Till all-obscuring earth hath laid His body in perpetual shade. It is a weary interlude — Which doth short joys, long woes, include; The world the stage, the prologue tears, The acts vain hopes and varied fears; The scene shuts up with loss of breath, And leaves no epilogue but death.

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PHINEA8 FLETCHER.

XIV. PHINEAS FLETCHER, geb. 1 5 8 4 , gehörte, wie sein Bruder Oäet FL, einer berühmten Dichterfiunilie a n ; ««ein Vater war ein ausgezeicbwter Poet und sein Cousin ( John Fl., einer der vorztlgtichiBten Dramatiker in der Zeit Jdtob't I. Gr erhielt seine Bildung zu Eton und Cambridge, itrat dann in den geistlichen Stand, und starb — wahrscheinlich — 1 6 5 0 . Die beiden FUietker. sagt Samthey, sind die b a t e n Dichter aus der Schule Spenser't. Phm. schrieb vermisechte Gedichte und 'Piscatory Eclogues': sein Hauptwerk ist aber ' T h e Purple Island,' eine aallegorische Erklärung des Körpers so wie der Seele des Menschen. So unglücklich das Thcema gew&blt i s t , und so ermOiend die ersten Gesäuge durch ihre Details sind, ao finden s i c h doch namentlich in dem lttztern Theile des Gedichts viele schöne und wahrhaft poetissche Stellen, die den Leser nur um so mehr den Missgriff des so begabten Dichters bedauern lassen.

1) DECAY OP HUMAN GREATNESS. (From the • Purple Itland.') Fond man, that looks on earth for happiness, And here long seeks what here is never found! For all our good we hold from heav'n by lease, With many forfeits and conditions bound; Nor can we pay the fine, and rentage d u e : Though now but writ, and seal'd, and giv'n anew, Yet daily we it break, then daily must renew. Why shouldst thou here look for perpetual good, At ev'ry loss 'gainst heuvn's face repining? Do but behold where glorious cities stood, With gilded tops and silver turrets shining; There now the hart fearless of greyhouud feeds, And loving pelican in fancy breeds:

Hardly the place of such antiquity, Or note of these great monarchies we find:: Only a fading verbal memory, And empty name in writ is left behind: But when this second life and glory fades, And sinks at length in time's obscurer shades, A second fall succeeds, and double death invades. That monstrous beast, which, nurs'd in Tibier's fen, Did all the world with hideous shape affray; That fill'd with costly spoil bis gaping den, And trode down all the rest to dust and clay: His batt'ring horns, pull'd out by civil h a n d s And iron teeth, lie scatter'd on the sands; Back'd, bridled by a m o n k , with seven heads yoked stands.

There screeching satyrs fill the people's empty stedes

(places).

And that black vulture, which with deathful wing

Where is the Assyrian lion's golden hide,

O'ershadows half the earth, whose dismal sight

That all the east once grasp'd in lordly paw?

Frighten'd the Muses from their native spring,

Where that great Persian bear, whose swelling

Already stoops, and flags with weary

pride The lion's self tore out with rav'nous jaw? Or he which 'twixt a lion and a pard, Through all the world with nimble pinions far'd, And to his greedy whelps his conquer'd kingdoms shared.

flight:

Who then shall look for happiness beneath? Where each new day proclaims chance, change, and death, And life i t s e l f ' s as flit as is the air we breathe.

HUNEAS FLETCHER. — GILES FLETCHER.

2) AGAINST A RICH MAN DESPISING POVERTY. (From the •MuetUamet'.J If well thou view'st us with no squinted eye, No partial judgment, thou wilt quickly rate Thy wealth no richer than my poverty, My want no poorer than thy rich estate: Our ends and births alike; in this, as I, Poor thou wert born, and poor again shalt die.

My little fills my little wishing mind, Thou having more than much yet seekest more: Who seeks, still wishes what he seeks to find; Who wishes, wants: and whoso wants is poor;

Then this must Mow of necessity, Poor are thy riches, rich my poverty. • • *

Whatever man possesses, God has lent, And to his audit liable is ever To reckon how, and where, and when be spent; Then thus thou bragg'it tbou art a great receiver. Little my debt, when little is my store, The more thou hast, thy debt still grows the more. But, seeing God himself descended down, To enrich the poor by His rich poverty; His meat, his house, his grave, were not his own; Let me be like my head whom I adore! Be thou great, wealthy — I still base and poor!

XY. GILES FLETCHER, der um einige Jahre jüngere Bruder des Vorigen, widmete sich ebenfalls der Theologie und wurde Prediger zu Alderton in Suffblk, wo er 1623 starb. Ausser zwei Elegien besitzen wir von ihm ein grösseres Gedicht, abgedruckt in Anderson'» Sammlung, Bd. IV., 'Christ's Victory and Triumph'; in welchem er in vier Gesängen die Menschwerdung Christi, die Versuchung, die Kreuzigung und die Auferstehung behandelt. Die vielen Beimischungen aus der alten klassischen Mythologie schwlchen zwar den Eindruck; doch hat es auch manche schöne Stelle und erhebt sich nicht selten zu hohem Schwünge.

THE SORCERESS OF VAIN DELIGHT. (From ' Ckritft Victory and Triumph.') The garden like a lady fair was cut, That lay as if she slumber'd in delight, And to the open skies her eyes did shut; The azure fields of Heaven were 'sembled right In a large round, set with the flowers of light: The flowers-de-luce, and the round sparks of dew That hung upon their azure leaves, did shew Like twinkling stars, that sparkle in the evening blue.

Upon a hilly bank her head she cast, On which the bower of Vain Delight waa built White and red roaes for her face were plac'd, And for her tresses marigolds were spilt: Them broadly she display'd, like flaming gilt, Till in the ocean the glad day was drown'd: Then up again her yellow locks she wound, And with green fillets in their pretty cauls them bound. What should I here depaint her lily hand, Her veins of violet*, her ermine breast, Which there in orient colours living stand:

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GILES FLETCHER.

Or how her gown with silken leaves is drest. Or how her watchman, arm'd with boughy crest, A wall of prim hid in bis bushes bears Shaking at every wind their leafy spears, While she supinely sleeps, nor to be waked fears. Over the hedge depends the graping elm, Whose greener head, empurpuled in wine, Seemed to wonder at his bloody helm, And half suspect the bunches of the vine, Lest they, perhaps, bis wit should undermine; For well he knew such fruit he never bore: But her weak arms embraced him the more, And she with ruby grapes laugb'd at her paramour. » * *

The roof thick clouds did paint, from which three boys Three gaping mermaids with their ew'rs did feed, Whose breasts let fall the stream, with sleepy noise, To lions' mouths, from whence it leap'd with speed, And in the rosy laver seem'd to bleed; The naked boys unto the water's fall Their stony nightingales bad taught to call, When Zephyr breath'd into their watery interall. And all about, embayed in soft sleep, A herd of charmed beasts aground were spread, Which the fair witch in golden chains did keep, And them in willing bondage fettered: Once men they liv'd, but now the men were dead, And turn'd to beasts; so fabled Homer old, That Circe with her potion, charm'd in gold, Used manly souls in beastly bodies to immould. Through this false Eden, to his leman's bower, (Whom thousand souls devoutly idolise) Our first destroyer led our Saviour; There, in the lower room, in solemn wise,

They danc'd a round and pour'd their sacrifice To plump Lyteus, and among the rest, The jolly priest, in ivy garlands drest, Chanted wild orgials, in honour of the feast. High over all, Panglorie's blazing throne, In her bright turret, all of crystal wrought, Like Phoebus' lamp, in midst of heaven, shone: Whose starry top, with pride infernal fraught, Self-arcbing columns to uphold were taught, In which her image still reflected was By the smooth crystal, that, most like her glass In beauty and in frailty did all others pass. A silver wand the sorceress did sway, And, for a crown of gold, her hair she wore; Only a garland of rose-buds did play About her locks, and in her band she bore A hollow globe of glass, tbat long before She full of emptiness had bladdered, And all the world therein depictured: Whose colours, like the rainbow, ever vanished. Such watery orbicles young boys do blow Out from their soapy shells, and much admire The swimmiDg world, which tenderly they row With easy breath till it be raised higher; But if they chance but roughly once aspire, The painted bubble instantly doth fall. Here when she came she 'gan for music call, And sung this wooing song to welcome him withal: 'Love is the blossom where there blows Everything that lives or grows: Love doth make the heavens to move, And the sun doth burn in love; Like the strong and weak doth yoke, And makes the ivy climb the oak; Under whose shadows lions wild Soften'd by love grow tame and mild: Love no medicine can appease, He burns the fishes in the seas; Not all the skill his wounds can stench, Not all the sea his fire can quench: Love did make the bloody spear

GILES FLETCHER. — ROBERT HERSICK. Once a leafy coat to wear. While in his leave« there shrouded lay Sweet birds, for lore, that sing and play: And of all lore's joyful flame I the bud and blossom am. Only bend thy knee to me, Thy wooing shall thy winning be. See, see, the flowers that below Now as fresh as morning blow, And of all the virgin rose, That as bright Aurora shows: How they all unleaved lie Losing their virginity; Like unto a summer shade, But now born and now they fade. Everything doth pass away, There is danger in delay; Come, come, gather then the rose, Gather it, or it you lose. All the sands of Tagus' shore Into my bosom casts his ore: All the valleys' swimming corn To my house is yearly borne; Every grape of every vine Is gladly bruis'd to make me wine; While ten thousand kings as proud To carry up my train have bow*d, And a world of ladies send me In my chambers to attend m e ; All the stars in heaved that shine. And ten thousand more are mine:

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Only bend tby knee to me, Thy wooing shall thy winning be.' Thus sought the dire enchantrew in his mind Her guileful bait to have embosomed: But he her charms dispersed into wind, And her of insolence admonished, And all her optic glasses shattered. So with her sire to hell she took her flight (The starting air flew from the damned sprite), Where deeply both aggriev'd plunged themselves in night. But to their Lord, now musing in his thought, A heavenly volley of light angel« flew, And from his father him a banquet brought Through the fine element, for Well they knew, After his Lenten fast, he hungry grew: And as he fed, the holy choirs combine To sing a hymn of the celestial Trine; All thought to pass, and each was past all thought divine. The birds' sweet notes, to sonnet out their joys, Attemper'd to the lays angelical; And to the birds the winds attune their noise; And to the winds the waters hoarsely call, And echo back again revoiced all; That the whole valley rung with victory. But now our Lotd to rest doth homewards fly: See how the night comes stealing from the mountains high.

XVI. ROBERT HERRICK, der Sohn eines Goldschmiede^, wurde 1591 zu London geboren, studirte tu Cambridge Theologie und erhielt von Karl I. die Pfründe von Dean Prior in Devonshire. Wahrend des Bürgerkrieges daraus vertrieben, bekam er sie erst unter der Restauration wieder. Er war der Genosse Ben Jonion's und Manches unter seinen Dichtungen stimmt wenig mit der geistlichen Würde überein. Seine Werke erschienen in zwei Sammlungen; die erste unter dem Titel: 'Hesperides,' enthalt weltliche, die zweite: 'Noble Numbers,' nur geistliche Gedichte, die jedoch jenen weit nachstehen. ' H i s vein of poetry,' sagt Campbell von ihm, 'is very irregular; but where the ore is pure, it is of high value.' — Er erreichte ein hohes Alter, doch ist sein Todesjahr unbekannt.

ROBERT HERRICK.

92 1) T O BLOSSOMS. Fair pledge« of a fruitful tree, Why do ye fall *o fast? Tour date is not so p u t , But you may stay yet here awhile To blush and gently smile, And go at last.

W h a t ! were ye born to be An hour or half's delight, And so to bid good night? 'T was pity nature brought you forth Merely to show your worth, And lose you quite. But ye are lovely leaves, where we May read how soon things have Their end, though ne'er so brave; And after they have shown their pride, Like you awhile, they glide Into the grave.

2) TO DAFFODILS. Fair daffodils, we weep to see You haste away so soon; As yet the early-rising sun Has not attain'd his noon: Stay, stay, Until the hast'ning day Has run But to the even-song; And having pray'd together, we Will go with you along! We have short time to stay as you; We have as short a spring; As quick a growth to meet decay, As you or any thing: We die, As your hours d o , and dry Away Like to tbe summer's rain,

Or as the pearls of morning dew, Ne'er to be found again.

3) TO PRIMROSES FILLED WITH MORNING DEW. Why do ye weep, sweet babes? Can tears Speak grief in you, Who were but born Just as the modest morn Teem'd her refreshing dew? Alas! you have not known that shower That mars a flower, Nor felt the unkind Breath of a blasting wind; Nor are ye worn with years, Or warp'd as we, Who think it strange to see Such pretty flowers, like to orphans young, Speaking by tears before ye have a tongue. Speak, whimp'ring younglings, and make known Tbe reason why Ye droop and weep; Is it for want of sleep, Or childish lullaby? Or that ye have not seen as yet The violet? Or brought a kiss From that sweet heart to this ? No, no; this sorrow shown By your tears shed, Would have this lecture read — 'That things of greatest, so of meanest worth, Conceived with grief are, and with tears brought forth.'

4) TO THE VIRGINS, TO MAKE MUCH OF THEIR TIME. Gather tbe rose-buds, while ye may, Old Time is still a-flying, And this same flower that smiles to-day, To-morrow will be dying.

ROBERT HERRICK. The glorious lamp of heaven, the Sun, The higher he's a getting, The sooner will his race be run, And nearer he's to setting.

Then, Julia, let me woo thee, Thus, thus to come unto me; And when I shall meet Tby silvery feet, My soul I '11 pour into thee!

That age is best which is the first, When youth and blood are warmer; But, being spent, the worse, and worst Time shall succeed the former. Then be not coy, but use your time, And while ye may, go marry; For, having lost but once your prime, You may for ever tarry.

5) CHERRY RIPE. Cherry ripe, ripe, ripe, I cry, Full and fair ones— come and buy; If so be you ask me where Tbey do grow? — I answer, There, Where my Julia's lips do smile — There's the land, or cherry-isle; Whose plantations fully show All the year where cherries grow.

6) NIGHT-PIECE TO JULIA. Her eyes tbe glow-worm lend thee, The shooting stars attend thee, And tbe elves also Whose little eyes glow Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee! No Will-o'-the-whisp mislight the, Nor snake or slow-worm bite thee! But on, on tby way, Not making a stay, Since ghost there is none to affright thee. Let not the dark thee cumber; What though the moon does slumber? The stars of the night Will lend thee their light, Like tapers clear without number.

7) TWELFTH NIGHT, OR KINO AND QUEEN. Now, now the mirth comes, With the cake full of plums, Where bean's the king of the sport here; Beside, we must know, The pea also Must revel as queen in the court here. Begin then to choose, This night, as ye use, Who shall for the present delight here; Be a king by the lot, And who shall not Be Twelfth-day queen for the night here. Which known, let us make Joy-sops with the cake; And let not a man then be seen here, Who unurged will not drink, To the base from the brink, A health to the king and the queen here. Next crown the bowl full With gentle lamb's-wool; Add sugar, nutmeg, and ginger, With store of ale, too; And thus ye must do To make the wassail a swinger. Give them to the king And queen wassailing; And though with ale ye be wet here; Yet part ye from hence, As free from offence, As when ye innocent met here.

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FRANCIS QUAKLES.

XVÜ.

FRANCIS QUARLES,

aus einer alten Familie stammend, wurde 1592 zu Stewards in E u e s geboren. Er erhielt •eine Bildung im Christ-College zu Cambridge und trat dann in den Inner Temple, um die Rechtswissenschaft zu studiren. Er war eine Zeitlang Mundschenk der Königin von Böhmen, (der Prinzessin Etisabetk, Tochter Jakobs I.) dann Geheimschreiber des Primas von Irland, Etzbischof Uther und wurde endlich von der Stadt London zu ihrem Chronologen ernannt Er starb am 8. September 1644. Q. ist der phantastischste Dichter der metaphysischen Schule Donne's; seine Gedichte, wie die der Meisten seiner Zeitgenossen, haben eine atark religiöse Färbung. Diess hätte ihn wohl vor der Verfolgung der Puritaner sichern sollen; der royalistische Dichter hatte aber den Schmerz, sein Eigenthum, und namentlich seine vortreffliche Bibliothek vernichtet zu sehen. Er hinterliess eine Menge Dichtungen, z. B. 1 Sion's Elegie»,' 'History of Queen Esther,' ' J o b Militant,' 'The Feast for Worms,' *Argalus and Partbenia,' 'Divine Emblems,' welche sämmtlich bei ihrem Erscheinen mit Beifall aufgenommen wurden, aber während der Restauration in Vergessenheit geriethen, bis Pope in der 'Dunciad' sein Vernichtungsurtheil Uber sie aussprach. Erst in der neuern Zeit aind sie, trotz der häuflgen Geschmacklosigkeiten des Dichters, durch die Kraft, Originalität und reiche Phantasie, die ihm nicht abzusprechen sind, wieder zur Geltung gekommen. Sein prosaisches Werk 'Enchiridion,' ist eine Sammlung von Maximen, oder wie er sie selbst nennt, ' Institutions, Divine and Moral.'

1) DELIGHT IN GOD ONLY. I love (and have some cause to love) the earth; She is my Maker's creature; therefore good : She is my mother, for she gave me birth; She is my tender nurse — she gives me food; But what's a creature, Lord, compared with thee? Or what's my mother, or my nurse to me? I love the air: her dainty sweets refresh My drooping soul, and to new sweets invite me; Her shrill-mouth'd quire sustains me with their flesh. And with their polyphonian notes delight m e : But what's the air or all the sweets that she Can bless my soul witbal, compared to tbee ?

But, Lord of oceans, when compared with thee, What is the ocean, or her wealth to mc? To heaven's high city I direct my journey, Whose spangled suburbs entertain mine eye; Mine eye, by contemplation's great attorney. Transcends the crystal pavement of the sky: But what is heaven, great God, compared to thee? Without thv presence heaven's no heaven to me. Without thy presence earth gives no refection; Without thy presence sea affords no treasure; Without thy presence a i r ' s a rank infection; Without thy presence heaven itself no pleasure: If not possess'd, if not enjoy'd in thee, What's earth, or sea, or air, or heaven to me ?

I love the sea: she is my fellow-creature, My careful purveyor; she provides me store; She walls me round; ahe makes my diet greater; The highest honours that the world can boast, She wafts my treasure from a foreign shore: ' Are subjects far too low for my desire;

FRANCIS QUARLES. The brightest beams of glory are (at most) But dying sparkles of thy living fire: The loudest flames that earth can kindle, be But nightly glow-worms, if compared to thee. Without thy presence wealth is bags of cares; Wisdom but folly; joy disquiet — sadness: Friendship is treason, and delights are snares; Pleasures but pain, and mirth but pleasing madness; Without thee, Lord, things be not what they be, Nor have they being, when compared with thee. In having all things, and not tbee, what have I ? Not having thee, what have my labours got? Let me enjoy but thee, what further crave I? And having thee alone, what have I not? I wish nor sea nor land; nor would I be Possess'd of heaven, heaven unpossess'd of thee.

- GEORGE HERBERT.

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2) THE SHORTNESS OF LIFE. And what's a life?—a weary pilgrimage, Whose glory in one day doth fill the stage With childhood, manhood, and decrepit age. And what's a life ? — the flourishing array Of the proud summer meadow, which to-day Wears her green plush, and is to-morrow hay. Read on this dial, how the shades devour My short-lived winter's day! hour eats up hour; Alas! the total's but from eight to four. Behold these lilies, which thy hands have made, Fair copies of my life, and open laid To view, how soon they droop, how soon they fade! Shade not that dial, night will blind too soon; My non-aged day already points to noon; How simple is my suit!—how small my boon! Nor do I beg this slender inch to wile The time away, or falsely to beguile My thoughts with joy: here's nothing worth a smile.

XVW. GEORGE HERBERT, geb. 1593, gest. 1632, Bruder des berühmten Lord Herbert of Cherbury. Durch den Tod Jakob's I. in seinen Hoffnungen auf Beförderung bei Hofe getäuscht, trat er in den geistlichen Stand und wurde von seinen Zeitgenossen wegen der wahrhaft musterhaften Erfüllung seiner Amtspflichten durch den Beinamen 'the Holy' geehrt. Seinen Stil bildete er nach dem seines Freundes Lonne; wir besitzen von ihm einen Band Gedichte unter dem Titel: ' T h e Temple.'

1) VIRTUE.

Sweet day ! so cool, so calm, so bright, The bridal of the earth and sky; The dews shall weep thy fall to-night; For thou must die. Sweet rose! whose hue, angry and brave, Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye; Thy root is ever in its grave; And thou must die.

Sweet spring! full of sweet days and roses; A bos where sweets compacted lie; Thy music shows ye have your closes; And all must die. Only a sweet and virtuous soul, Like season'd timber never gives; But, though the whole world turn to coal, Then chiefly lives.

GEORGE HERBERT.

96 2) SUNDAY.

0 day most calm, moat bright, The fruit of thia the next world's bad, The indorsement of supreme delight, Writ by • Friend, and with his blood; The conch of time, care's balm and bay: The week were dark, but for thy light; Thy torch doth show the way. The other days and thou Hake up one man; whose face thou art, Knocking at heaven with thy brow: The workydays are the back-part; The burden of the week lies there, Making the whole to stoop and bow, Till thy release appear. Man had straight forward gone To endless death: but thou dost pull And turn us round, to look on one, Whom, if we were not very dull, We could not choose but look on still; Since there is no place so alone, The which he doth not fill. Sundays the pillars are, On which heaven's palace arched lies: The other days fill up the spare And hollow room with vanities. They are the fruitful beds and borders In God's rich garden: that is bare, Which parts their ranks and orders. The Sundays of man's life, Threaded together on Time's string, Make bracelets to adorn the wife Of the eternal glorious King. On Sunday heaven's gate stands ope; Blessings are plentiful and rife — More plentiful than hope. This day my Saviour rose, And did enclose this light for his; That, as each beast bis manger knows, Man might not of his fodder mis*.

Christ hath took in this piece of ground, And made a garden there for those Who want herbs for their wound. The rest of our creation Our great Redeemer did remove With the same shake, which at his passion Did the earth and all things with it move. As Sampson bore the doors away, Christ's hands, though nail'd, wrought our salvation, And did unhinge that day. The brightness of that day We sullied by our foul offence: Wherefore that robe we cast away, Having a new at his expense, Whose drops of blood paid the full price, That was required to make us gay, And fit for paradise. Thou art a day of mirth: And where the week-days trail on ground, Thy flight is higher, a9 thy birth: O let me take thee at the bound, Leaping with thee from seven to seven, Till that we both, being toss'd from eartb, Fly hand in hand to heaven!

3) MORTIFICATION. How soon doth man decay! When clothes are taken from a chest of sweets To swaddle infants, whose young breath Scarce knows the way: They are like little winding-sheets, Which do consign and send them unto death. When boys go first to bed, They step into their voluntary graves; Sleep binds them fast; only their breath Makes them not dead: Successive nights, like rolling waves, Convey them quickly, who are bound for death.

GEORGE HERBERT. — SIR JOHN SUCKLING.

97

When youth ia frank and free, And call* for music, while hi» vein* do »well. All day exchanging mirth and breath In company; That music lummona to the knell, Which »hall befriend him at the house of death.

When age grows low and weak. Marking bis grave, and thawing ev'iy year, Till all do melt, and drown his breath When he would speak; A chair or litter shows the bier, Which shall convey him to the house of death.

When man grows staid and wise, Getting a house and home, where he may move Within the circle of bis breath, Schooling his eyes; That dumb enclosure maketb love Unto the coffin, that attends his death.

Man, ere he is aware, Hath put together a solemnity, And dress*d his hearse, while he hath breath As yet to spare. Tet, Lord, instruct us so to die, That all these dyings may be life in death.

Xß. SIR JOHN SCCKLING, geb. 1613, nach Andern 1608, zu Witham in Middlesex, zeichnete sich firtlh durch seine grossen Fähigkeiten aus. Noch sehr jung machte er eine Beige durch einen beträchtlichen Theil Europa'» und focht unter Gustav Adolph. Nach England zurückgekehrt, führte er ein ziemlich ungebundenes Leben und zog später Karl I. mit einer Schaar von hundert Reitern, die er auf eigene Kosten unterhielt, zu Hülfe, musste aber nach Frankreich fliehen, wo er am 7. Mai 1641 an einer Wunde starb, die er sich bei der Verfolgung eines Dieners zuzog, welcher ihn bestohlen hatte. Sucklmg bekundet in seinen, meist lyrischen Dichtungen eine leichte, heitere Darstellung, graziöse Nachlässigkeit, aber auch schon den Muthwillen, der unter der Regierung Karts IT. Mode wurde: er hat auch einige Dramen geschrieben, die zu ihrer Zeit nicht unbeliebt waren.

A BALLAD UPON A WEDDING. I tell thee, Dick, where I have been, Where I the rarest things have seen; Oh, things without compare! Such sights again cannot be found In any place on English ground, Be it at wake or fair. At Charing Cross, bard by the way Where we (thou know'st) do sell our hay, There is a house with stairs; And there did I see coming down Such folk as are not in our town, Forty at least, in pairs, n.

Amongst the rest, one pest'lent fine, (His beard no bigger, though, than thine) Walk'd on before the rest: Our landlord looks like nothing to him: The king, God bless him, 'twould undo him, Should he go still so drest. * * *

But wot you what? the youth was going To make an end of all his wooing; The parson for him staid: Yet by his leave, for all his haste, He did not so much wish all past, Perchance, as did the maid. 7

98

SIR JOHN SUCKLING.

The maid, and thereby hang* a tale, For auch a maid no Whitsun-ale *) Coold ever yet produce: No grape that'« kindly ripe could be So round, so plump, to toft ai she. Nor half so full of juice.

Passion, oh me! how I ran o n ! There's that that would be thought upon, I trow, besides the bride: The bus'ness of the kitchen's great, For it is fit that men should eat; Nor was it there denied.

Her finger was so small, the ring Would not stay on which they did bring; It was too wide a peck: And, to say truth (for out it must), It look'd like the great collar (just) About our young colt's neck.

Just in the nick, the cook knock'd thrice, And all the waiters in a trice His summons did obey; Each serving-man, with dish in hand, March'd boldly up, like our train'd-band, Presented, and away.

Her feet beneath her petticoat, Like little mice, stole in and out, As if they fear'd the light: But oh! she dances such a way! No sun upon an Easter-day Is half so fine a sight.

When all the meat was on the table, What man of knife, or teeth, was able To itay to be in treated? And this the very reason was, Before the parson could say grace. The company were seated.

Her cheeks so rare a white was on, No daisy makes comparison; Who sees them is undone; For streaks of red were mingled there, Such as are on a Cath'rine pear, The side that's next the sun. Her lips were red; and one was thin, Compar'd to that was next her chin, Some bee had stung it newly; But, Dick, her eyes so guard her face, I durst no more upon them gaze, Than on the sun in July. Her mouth so small, when she does speak, Thou'dst swear her teeth her words did break That they might passage get: But she so handled still the matter, They came as good as ours, or better, And are not spent a whit. *

Now hats fiy off, and youths carouse; Healths first go round, and then the house, The bride's came thick and thick; And when 'twas nam'd another's health, Perhaps be made it her's by stealth. And who could help it, Dick? O' tli' sudden up they rise and dance; Then sit again, and sigh, and glance: Then dance agaiii, and kiss. Thus sev'ral ways the time did pass, Till ev'ry woman wish'd her place. And ev'ry man wish'd his. By this time all were stol'n aside To counscl and undress the bride: But that he must not know: But yet 'twas thought he guess'd her mind, And did not mean to stay behind Above an hour or so.

•

*) Whitsun-ales were festive assemblies of the people of whole parishes on Whitsunday.

99

RICHARD CRASHAW.

XX. RICHARD CRASHAW, der Sobn eine« Predigen an der Temple Cburch in London. Sein Geburtsjahr Ut ungewiss. Er studirte zu Cambridge^ wo er auch ein geiatliches Amt erhielt, au« dem er jedoch 1644 durch die Armee de* Parlamente vertrieben wurde 'for noncompliance with the covenant.' Er ging nach Frankreich, trat zur katholischen Kirche Ober und wurde auf Empfehlung der vertriebenen KSoigin, Henriette Marie, Geheimschreiber des Kardinals Paletia zu Rom und spllter Kanonikus an der Lorettokirche; er starb 1650. Seine Gedichte, grOsstentheils religiösen Inhalts, wurden 1646 zu London gedruckt und sind splter wieder aufgelegt worden. Sie zeichnen sich durch warme Begeisterung aus, sind aber keineswegs frei von der Geziertheit der Dornte'sehen Schule.

MUSIC'S DUEL. Now westward Sol had spent the richest beams Of noon's high glory, when, h^rd by the streams Of Tiber, on the scene of a green plat. Under protection of au oak, there sat A sweet lute's-master; in whose gentle airs He lost the day's heat, and his own hot cares. Close in the covert of the leaves there stood A nightingale, come from the neighbouring wood, (The sweet inhabitant of each glad tree, Their muse, their syren, harmless syren she): There stood she list'ning and did entertain The music's soft report: and mould the same In her own murmurs; that whatever mood His curious fingers lent, her voice made good: The man perceiv'd his rival, and her art, Dispos'd to give the light-food lady sport, Awakes his lute, and 'gainst the fight to come Informs it in a sweet pneludium Of closer strains, and ere the war begin, He lightly skirmishes on every string Charged with a flying touch; and straightway she Carves out her dainty voice as readily. Into a thousand sweet distinguish'd tones, And reckons up in soft divisions Quick volumes of wild notes, to let him know, By that shrill taste, she could do something too. His nimble hand's instinct then taught each string

A cap'ring cheerfulness, and made them sing To their own dance; now negligently rash He throws his arm, and with a long-drawn dash Blends all together; then distinctly trips From this to that, then quick returning, skips And snatches this again, and pauses there. She measures every measure, everywhere Meets art with art; sometimes, as if in doubt Not perfect yet, and fearing to be out, Trails her plain ditty in one long-spun note, Through the sleek passage of her open throat, A clear unwrinkled song; then doth she point it With tender accents, and severely joint it By short diminutives, that, being rear'd In controverting warbles, evenly shar'd, With her sweet self she wrangles; he amaz'd That from so small a channel should be rais'd The torrent of a voice, whose melody Could melt into such sweet variety, Strains higher yet, that, tickled with rare art, The tattling strings, each breathing in his psrt, Most kindly do fall out; the grumbling base In surly groans disdains the treble's grace; The high-perch't treble chirps at this, and chides, Until bis finger (moderator) hides And closes the sweet quarrel, rousing all Hoarse, shrill at once; as when the trumpets call Hot Mars to th' harvest of death's field, and woo Men's hearts into their bands: this lesson too She givea them back: her supple breast thrills out

7•

100

RICHARD CRASHAW.

Sharp airs, and stagger« in a warbling doubt

Thus high, thus low, as if her silver throat

Of dallying sweetness, hovers o'er her (kill,

Would reach the brazen voice of war's hoarse

And fold* in wav'd notes, with a trembling bill,

bird;

The pliant series of her slippery song;

Her little soul is ravish'd, and so pour'd

Then starts she suddenly into a throng

Into loose ecslacies, that she is plac'd

Of short thick sobs, whose thund'ring volleys

Above herself, music's enthusiast.

float

Shame noW and anger mix'd a double stain

And roll themselves over her lubric throat

In the musician's face: 'yet, once again,

In panting murmurs, still'd ont of her breast;

Mistress, I come: now reach a strain, my lute,

That ever-bubbling spring, the sugar'd nest

Above her mock, or be for ever mute.

Of her delicious soul, that there does lie

Or tune a song of victory to me,

Bathing in streams of liquid melody;

Or to thyself sing thine own obsequy.'

Music's best seed-plot; when in ripen'd airs

So said, his hands sprightly as fire he flings,

A golden- headed harvest fairly rears

And with a quavering coyness tastes the strings:

His honey-dropping tops, plough'd by her

The sweet-lipp'd sisters musically frighted,

breath Which there reciprocally laboureth.

Singing their fears, are fearfully delighted: Trembling as when Apollo's golden hairs

In that sweet soil it seems a holy quire,

Are fann'd and frizzled in the wanton airs

Sounded to th' name of great Apollo's lyre;

Of his own breath, which, married to his lyre,

Whose silver roof rings with the sprightly notes

Doth tune the spheres, and make heaven's self

Of sweet-lipp'd angel-imps, that swill their throats

look higher; From this to that, from that to this he flies,

In cream of morning Helicon, and then

Feels music's pulse in all her arteries;

Prefer soft anthems to the ears of men,

Caught in a net which there Apollo spreads,

To woo them from their beds, still murmuring

His fingers struggle with the vocal threads,

That men can sleep while they their matins sing

Following those little rills, he sinks into

(Most divine service): whose so early lay

A sea of Helicon; his hand does go

Prevents the eyelids of the blushing day.

Those parts of sweetness which with nectar

There might you hear her kindle her soft voice,

drop,

In the close murmur of a sparkling noise;

Softer than that which pants in Hebe's cup:

And lay the ground work of her hopeful song,

The humorous strings expound his learned touch

Still keeping in the forward stream so long,

By various glosses; now they seem to grutch,

Till a sweet whirlwind (striving to get out)

And murmur in a buzzing din, then gingle

Heaves her soft bosom, wanders round about.

In 8hriIl-tongued accents, striving to be single;

And makes a pretty earthquake in her breast,

Every smooth turn, every delicious stroke

Till the fledg'd notes at length forsake their

Gives life to some new grace; thus doth he

nest.

invoke

Fluttering in wanton shoals, and to the sky,

Sweetness by all her names: thus, bravely thus

Wing'd with their own wild echoes, prattling fly.

(Fraught with a fury so harmonious)

She opes the flood-gate and lets loose a tide

The lute's light genius now does proudly rise,

Of streaming sweetness, which in state doth ride

Heav'd on the surges of swoll'n rhapsodies;

On the wav'd back of every swelling strain,

Whose flourish (meteor-like) dotb curl the air

Rising and falling in a pompous train,

With flash of high-born fancies, here and there

And while she thus discharges a shrill peal

Dancing in lofty measures, and anon

Of flashing airs, she qualifies their zeal

Creeps on the soft touch of a tender tone,

With the cool epode of a graver note;

Whose trembling murmurs, melting in wild airs,

RICHARD CRASHAW. — ALEXANDER HUME. Run to and fro, complaining hit iweet care«; Because those precious mysteries that dwell In music's ravish'd soul he dare not tell, But whisper to the world: thus do they vary, Each string his note, as if they meant to carry Their master's blest soul (snatch'd out at his ears By a strong ecstacy) through all the spheres Of music's heaven; and seat it there on high, In th' empyreum of pure harmony. At length (after so long, so loud a strife Of all the strings, still breathing the best life Of blest variety, attending on His fingers' fairest revolution,

101

In many a sweet rise, many as sweet a fall) A full-moutb'd diapason swallows all. This done, he lists what she would say to this J And she, although her breath's late exercise Had dealt too roughly with her tender throat, Tet summons all her sweet powers for a note. Alas! in vain! for while (sweet soul) she tries To measure all those wild diversities Of chatt'ring strings, by the small size of one Poor simple voice, raised in a natural tone, She fails, and failing grieves, and grieving dies: She dies, and leaves her life the victor's prize, Falling upon his lute: Ob, fit to have (That lived so sweetly) dead, so sweet a grave!

SCHOTTISCHE DICHTER. I. ALEXANDER HÜME, dessen Geburtsjahr ungewiss ist, war der zweite Sohn von Patrick, 'Labrd of Pohcarth.' Er scheint anfangs die Rechte studirt zu haben; nachdem er, obschon vergeblich, eine Stellung bei Hofe zu gewinnen gesucht hatte, wendete er sich endlich der Kirche zu und erhielt eine Pfründe zu Logie. Er starb 1609.

1) SCOTLAND DEAR. My mountain hame, my mountain bame, My kind, my independent mother! While thought an' feeling rule my frame. Can I forget the mountain heather? Scotland dear! Though I to other lands may go, Should fortune's smile attend me thither, A8 robin comes in winter's snaw, I'll hameward seek the mountain heather, Scotland dear! I love to hear your daughters dear The simple tale in sang revealing;

Whene'er your music greets my ear, My bosom melts wi' joyous feeling, Scotland dear! When I shall die, O I wad lie Where life an' me first met thegither. That my cauld clay, through its decay, Might bloom again in the mountain heather, Scotland dear!

2) HILLS O' CALEDONIA. 0 years ha'e come, an' years ha'e gane, Sin' first I trod the warld alane,

102

ALEXANDER HUME. — JAMÉS VI.

Sin' first I muied wi' heart Me fam

3) SANDY ALLAN.

On the hill* o' Caledonia.

Wha is he I hear sae crouse,

But now, alas! a' round is gloom,

There ahint the hallan?

My ancient friends are in the tomb,

Whase skirling rings through a' the house,

And o'er them waves the heather bloom,

Ilk corner o' the dwallin'.

On the hills o' Caledonia.

O ! it is ane, a weel kent chiel, As mirth e'er set a bawlin',

My father's name, my father's lot,

Or filled a neuk in drouthy biel, —

Is like a tale that's heeded not,

It's canty Sandy Allan.

Or sang unsung, if no forgot, On the hills o' Caledonia.

He has a gaucy kind gude wife, This blythesome Sandy Allan,

O' a' our house there's left nae stane,

Wha lo'es him mickle raair than life,

A' swept away like snaw lang gane; Weeds flourish owre the auld domain,

An' glories in her callan.

On the hills o' Caledonia.

As sense an' sound are ane in song, Sae's Jean an' Sandy Allan,

The Tiot*s banks are bare and high.

Twa hearts, yet but ae pulse an' tongue,

The stream rins sma' an' mournfu' by,

Ha'e Luckie an' her callan.

Like some sad heard maist grutten dry On the hills o' Caledonia.

To gi'e to a', it's aye his rule, Their proper name an' callin';

The birds sit silent on the tree,

A knave's a knave, a fule's a fule,

The wild flow*!« droop upon the lea,

Wi' honest Sandy Allan.

As if the kind things felt wi' me

For ilka vice he has a dart,

On the hills o' Caledonia.

An' heavy is it's fallin'; But aye for worth a kindred heart

But friends can lire, though cauld they lie,

Has ever Sandy Allan.

If mirTor'd in the memory; When we forget them — then they die On the hills o' Caledonia.

To kings bis knee he wunna bring, Sae proud is Sandy Allan j The man wha ricbtly feels is king, Owre rank, wi' Sandy Allan.

But though, however changed the scene, My mem'ry an' my feelings green, Yet green to my auld heart an' een

Auld Nature j u s t to show the warl', Ae truly honest callan;

Are the hills o' Caledonia.

E'en strippit till't, and made a carle, I

An' ca'd him Sandy Allan.

IL JAMES VI. Ckarlet Jörne* Stewart, geb. 19. Juni 1566, gest. 27. Mira 1625, welcher tplter als James I. den englischen Thron bestieg, ist einer der letzten in der Reihe der Dichter, deren

JAMBS VI.

103

Namen sich ans den Zeiten des Unterganges der schottischen Poesie erhalten haben, obschon keineswegs der letzte dem Range nach. Irving, 'Lives of the Scottish Poets,' IT., sagt von ihm: ' T h e censure which has lately been past on his poetical works, may be regarded as too severe. They do not indeed evince any unusual vigour of imagination or elegance of taste: but they are not entirely destitute of fancy, and the versification frequently rises above mediocrity.' Seine hauptsächlichsten Gedichte sind: ' T h e Lepanto,' worin er den Sieg der Christen Ober die TQrken besingt, und 'Ane Metaphoricall Invention of a Tragedie called Phoenix,' geschrieben, als er kaum 18 Jahr alt war. Die Ueberschrift scheint eine Anspielung auf den Tod der unglücklichen Maria, der Mutter des Königs, zu sein; das Ganze ist aber so dunkel, dasa selbst bvmg sagt: ' T h i s metaphorical invention I confess myself unable to explain.' — Ausserdem schrieb er noch: ' The Twelf Sonnets of Invocations to the Goddis;' mehre poetische Uebersetzungen und kleinere Gedichte.

ANE SCHORT POEMK OF TYME. (Original Spelling.) As I was pansing in a morning aire, And could not sleip nor nawyis take me rest, Furth for to walk, the morning was so faire, Athort the fields, it seemed to me the best. The East wax cleare, whereby belyve I gest That fyrie Titan cumming was in sight, Obscuring chaste Diana by his light. Who by his rising in the azure skyes, Did dewlie helse all thame on earth do dwell, The balmie dew through birning drouth he dryis, Which made the soile to savour sweit and smell, By dew that on the night before downe fell, Which then was soukit up by the Delphienus heit Up in the aire: it was so light and weit Whose hie ascending in bis purpour chere Provokit all from Morpheus to flee; As beasts to feid, and birds to sing with beir, Men to their labour, bissie as the bee: Yet idle men devysing did 1 see, How for to drive the tyme that did them irk, By sindrie pastymes, quhile that it grew mirk.

Then woundred I to see them seik a wyle, So willingly the precious tyme to tine: And how they did themselfis so farr begyle, To fushe of tyme, which of itself is fyne. Fra tyme be past to call it backwart syne Is bot in vaine: therefore men sould be warr, To sleuth the tyme that flees fra them so farr For what hath man bot tyme into this lyfe, Which gives him dayis his God aright to know? Wherefore then sould we be at sic a stryfe, So spedelie our selfis for to withdraw Evin from the tyme, which is on nowayes slaw To flie from us, suppose we fled it noght? More wyse we were, if we the tyme had soght.

But sen that tyme is sic a precious thing, I wald we sould bestow it into that Which were most pleasour to our heavenly King. Flee ydilteth, which is the greatest lat; Bot, sen that death to all is destinat, Let us employ that tyme that God hath send us, In doing weill, that good men may commend us.

WILLIAM DRÜMMOND.

IM

m. WILLIAM DRÜMMOND, geb. 1585 zu Hawtbornden bei Edinburgh, der er*te schottische Dichter, welcher ein reine* Engliich schrieb. Er studirte die Rechte, gab die« Studium jedoch wieder auf und zog •ich nach seinem Geburtsorte auf sein reizend gelegenes Landgut zurOck, wo er ein ruhiges, behagliches Leben führte. Sein GIQck wurde plötzlich durch den Tod einer Dame, mit welcher er verlobt war, gestört: auf Ungern Reisen suchte er Linderung für seinen Schmerz. Er war ein warmer Anhinger Karls I.; Kummer Ober den Tod des Königs soll den seinigen beschleunigt haben; er starb am 4. Decbr. 1640. — D's. Werke bestehen in Sonetten, Madrigalen, religiösen und Gelegenheits-Gedichten. Hazlitt zahlt seine Sonette zu den besten in der Sprache: er besitzt eine reiche Phantasie, ist aber nicht frei von Geziertheit, seine Verse sind fliessend und harmonisch. Seine 'Geschichte Schottland'8' ist jetzt vergessen. In Andersons Sammlung finden sich seine sttmmtlichen Gedichte.

1) TO HIS LUTE. My lute, be as thou wert when thou didst grow With thy green mother in some shady grove, When immelodious winds but made thee move, And birds their ramage did on thee bestow. Since that dear voice which did thy sounds approve, Which wont in such harmonious strains to flow, Is reft from earth to tune the spheres above, What art thou but a harbinger of woe? Thy pleasing notes be pleasing notes no more, But orphan waitings to the fainting ear, Each stroke a sigh, each sound draws forth a tear; For which be silent as in woods before: Or if that any hand to touch thee deign, Like widow'd turtle still her loss complain.

2) THE PRAISE OF A SOLITARY LIFE. Thrice happy he who by some shady grove, Far from the clamorous world, doth live his own. Thou solitary, who is not alone, But doth converse with that eternal love. O how more sweet is bird's harmonious moan, Or the hoarse sobbings of the widow'd dove, Than those smooth whisperings near a prince's throne, Which good make doubtful, do the evil approve!

O how more sweet is Zephyr's wholesome breath, And sighs embalm'd which new-born flowers unfold, Than that applause vain honour doth bequeath! How sweet are streams to poison drank in gold! The world is full of horror, troubles, slights: Woods' harmless shades have only true delights.

3) SONNETS. In Mind's pure glass when I myself behold, And lively see how my best days are spent, What clouds of care above my head are roll'd, What coming ill, which I cannot prevent: My course begun, I wearied, do repent, And would embrace what reason oft hath told; But scarce thus think I, when love hath controll'd All the best reasons reason could invent. Though sure I know my labour's end is grief, The more I strive that I the more shall pine, That only death shall be my last relief: Yet when I think upon that face divine, Like one with arrow shot, in laughter's place, Maugre my heart, I joy in my disgrace. * * *

I know that all beneath the moon decays, And what by mortals in this world is brought In Time's great periods, shall return to nought; The fairest states have fatal nights and days. I know that all the Muse's heavenly lays

KS

WILLIAM DRCMMOND. With toil of sprite which are so dearly bought, At idle sounds, of few or none are sought, That there is nothing lighter than vain praise. I know frail beauty like the purple flower, To which one morn oft birth and death affords, That love a jarring is of mind's accords, Where sense and will bring under Reason's power; Know what I list, all this cannot me move, But that, alas! I both must write and love! * • *

Sweet spring, thou com'st with all thy goodly train, Thy head with flames, thy mantle bright with flow'rs, The zephyrs curl the green locks of the plain, The clouds for joy in pearls weep down their show'rs. Sweet Spring, thou com'st— but ah! my pleasant hours, And happy days with thee come not again; The sad memorials only of my pain Do with thee come, which turn my sweets to sours.

Thou art the same which still thou wert before, Delicious, lusty, amiable, fair; But she whose breath embalm'd thy wholesome air Is gone; nor gold, nor gems can her restore. Neglected virtue, seasons go and come, When thine forgot lie closed in a tomb! * • *

Sweet bird! that sing'st away the early hours Of winters past, or coming, void of care, Well pleased with delights which present are. Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet-smelling flowers: To rocks, to springs, to rills, from leafy bowers, Thou thy Creator's goodness dost declare. And what dear gifts on thee he did not spare, A stain to human sense in sin that low'rs. What soul can be so sick which by thy songs (Attir'd in sweetness) sweetly is not driven Quite to forget earth's turmoils, spites, and wrongs, And lift a reverend eye and thought to heaven? Sweet artless songster! thou my mind dost raise To airs of spheres — yes, and to angels' lays.

ZWEITER ABSCHNITT. VON 1649 — 1689.

ENGLISCHE DICHTER. I. EDMUND WALLER, geb. 1605., zu Coleshill in Hertfordshire, erhielt seine Bildung zu Eton und Cambridge und trat bereits in seinem 18. Jahre in das Parlament. Sein ganzes langes Leben hindurch zeigte er sich als feinen Weltmann, der sich mit Gewandtheit in alle Verhältnisse zu fllgen Weiss. Bis zum Ausbruche des Bürgerkrieges war er ein eifriger Anhänger des Hofes. Ali sich das Glück auf die Seite der Gegenpartei wandte, nSherte er sich ihr vorsichtig und wurde bald darauf vom Parlamente beauftragt, mit dem Könige zu unterhandeln; dureh sein zweideutiges Benehmen in eine Verschwörung verwickelt, die ihm beinahe das Leben gekostet h&tte, rettete er sich nur auf Kosten seiner Mitverschworenen. Er floh mit seiner Familie nach Frankreich, wo er anfangs grossen Aufwand machte; nachdem er aber seine letzten Juwelen verkauft hatte, musste er nach England zurückkehren, wo er die Gunst Cromtcelts zu gewinnen wusste, den er in einem langen Lobgedichte pries. Nach der Restauration war er wieder eifriger Royalist und schrieb ein gleiches Gedicht auf die Rück-

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EDMUND WALLER.

kehr Karti ff. Er starb 1687. — Wenn auch Minen Poesien Graiie, Eleganz und Korrektheit keineswegs abzusprechen ist, so mangelt es Waller doch an Phantasie nnd an dem wahren, dichterischen Gefühle. Die Dame, welche er unter dem Namen 'Sacharissa' feiert, war Lady Dorothea Sidney, Tochter des Grafen von Leicester. Voa ihr zurückgewiesen, wusste er sich bald durch eine andere Verbindung zu entsch&digen. Unter seinen 'Poems on Several Occasions' befinden sich sein 'Panegyric to Mylord Protector' und ' T o the King, upon His Majesty's Happy Return.' Ausserdem schrieb er noch ein Lehrgedicht: ' O n Divine Love,' ein anderes ' On Divine Poesy' und eine Anzahl von ' Songs.' Seine Gedichte erschienen zuerst 1645, London; seine s&mmtlichen Werke 1774, London.

1) THE BUD. Lately on yonder swelling bush, Big with many a coming rose, This early bud began to blush, And did but half itself disclose; I plucked it though no better grown, And now you see how full 'tis blown. Still, as I did the leaves inspire, With such a purple light they shone, As if they had been made of fire, And spreading so would flame anon. All that was meant by air or sun, To the young fiow'r my breath has done. If our loose breath so much can do, What may the same in forms of love, Of purest love and music too, When Flavia it aspires to move? When that which lifeless buds persuades To wax more soft, her youth invades?

But, ah! this image is too kind To be other than a dream; Cruel Sacharissa's mind Ne'er put on that sweet extreme. Fair dream! if thou intend'st me grace, Change that heavenly face of thine; Paint despis'd love in thy face, And make it to appear like mine. Pale, wan, and meagre let it look. With a pity-moving shape, Such as wander by the brook Of Lethe, or from graves escape. Then to that matchless nymph appear, In whose shape thou shinest so; Softly in her sleeping ear With humble words express my wo. Perhaps from greatness, state, and pride, Thus surprised, she may fall; Sleep does disproportion hide, And, death resembling, equals all.

2) SAY, LOVELY DREAM — A SONG. Say, lovely dream! where couldst thou find Shades to counterfeit that face ? Colours of this glorious kind Come not from any mortal placeIn heav'n itself thou sure wert dress'd With that angel-like disguise; Thus deluded, am I blest, Aad see my joy with sloaed eyes.

3) GO, LOVELY ROSE —A SONG. Go, lovely rose! Tell her that wastes her time and me, That now she knows, When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be. Tell her, that* s young, And shuns to have her grsees spied,

EDMUND WALLER. That, bad'st thou sprang In deserts, where no men abide, Thou must have unrommended died. Small is the worth Of beauty from the light retir'd; Bid ber come forth, Suffer herself to be desir'd, And not blush so to be admir'd. Then die! that she The common fate of all things rare May read in thee, Bow small a part of time they share That are so wondrous sweet and fair!

4) OLD AGE AND DEATH. The seas are quiet when the winds give o'er; So calm are we when passions are no more. For then we know how vain it was to boast Of fleeting things, too certain to be lost. Clouds of affection from our younger eyes Conceal that emptiness which age descries. The soul's dark cottage, batter'd and decay'd, Lets in new light through chinks that time has made: Stronger by weakness, wiser men become, As they draw near to their eternal home. Leaving the old, both worlds at once tbey view, That stand upon the threshold of the new.

5) THE BRITISH NAVY. When Britain, looking with a just disdain Upon this gilded majesty of Spain, And knowing well that empire must decline Whose chief support and sinews are of coin, Our nation's solid virtue did oppose To the rich trouble» of the world's repose: And now some months, encamping on the main, Our naval army had besieged Spain: They that the wholt world's monarchy deaign'd,

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Are to their port* by onr bold fleet confin'd. From whence our Red Cross they triumphant see, Others may use the ocean as their road, Only the English make it their abode, Whose ready sails with every wind can fly And make a covenant with the inconstant sky; Our oaks seenre, as if tbey there took root, We tread on billows with a steady foot.

6) LOVE OF GOD TO MAN. That early love of creatures yet unmade, To frame the world th' Almighty did persuade: For love it was that first created light, Moved on the waters, chas'd away the night From the rude chaos, and bestow'd new grace On things dispos'd of to their proper place, Some to rest here, and some to shine above: Earth, sea, and heav'n, were all th' effects of love. And love would be return'd, but there was none That to themselves or others yet were known. The world a palace was without a guest, Till one appears that must excel the rest; One like the Author, whose capacious mind Might by the glorious work the Maker find; Might measure heav'n, and give each star t name. With art and courage the rough ocean tune; Over the globe with swelling sails might go, And that 'tis round by his experience know; Make strongest beaut« obedient to his will, And serve his use the fertile earth to till. When by his word Ood bad accomplished all, Man to create he did a council call; Employ'd his hand to give the dust he took A graceful figure and majestic look; With his own breath convey'd into his breast Life and a soul, fit to command the rest, Worthy alone to celebrate his name, For such a gift, and tell from whence it came: Birds sing hia praises in a wilder note, But not with lasting numbers and with thought, Man's great prerogative. But above all, His grace abounds in his new fav'rite's foil. If he create, it is a world he makes; If he be angry, the creation shakes.

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ABRAHAM COWLEY.

n . ABRAHAM COWLEY, geb. 1618, zu London, war der Sohn einea GewürzhSndlers; er verlor seinen Vater schon vor der Gehurt, seine Matter machte es aber doch mSglich, ihm eine literarische Erziehung geben zu lauen und er bezog die Universität Cambridge. Das Studium von Spenser's ' Fairy Queen' weckte, wie er leibst sagt, seinen poetischen Geist. Im 15. Jahre veröffentlichte er einen Band Gedichte, worin sich sein ' Pyramus and Thisbe' und 'Constantia and Philetus' befinden, beides Produkte einer merkwürdigen Frühreife. Beim Ausbruche des Bürgerkrieges wurde er aus Cambridge vertrieben und suchte Schutz in Oxford. Als auch diese Stadt sich ergab, ging er zu der vertriebenen Königin nach Frankreich, war mehre Jahre Geheimschreiber, und hatte als solcher die wichtige und mühsame Pflicht, die geheime Corresponded der Königin und ihres Gemahls mit ihrer Partei in England zu dechiffriren. Im Jahre 1656 kehrte er nach England zurück, wie man sagt, in der Absiebt filr den vertriebenen König zu wirken; er wurde ergriffen, jedoch wieder frei gegeben. Nach der Restauration blieb Cowley, wie manche Andere, die sich der Sache des Königs geopfert hatten, anbelohnt: durch die Verwendung einflussreicher Freunde erhielt er endlich unter günstigen Bedingungen eine Pachtung auf den Besitzungen der Königin. Er starb jedoch bald darauf, 1667, auf seinem Landhause in Chertsey und wurde mit grosser Pracht in der Westminster-Abtei zwischen Chaucer und Spenser begraben. Karl II. erklärte: ' T h a t Mr. Cowley had not left behind him a better man in England. — Seine poetischen Werke besteben in 'Epistles,' 'Elegies,' 'The Mistress' (a collection of cold metaphysical love poems), 'Translations of Pindaric Odes,' 'Odes in the style of Pindar,' 'Anacreontics,' und 'Davideis,' ein heroisches Gedicht, welches zwölf Gesänge enthalten sollte, von denen der Dichter aber nur vier vollendete. Es zeugt von ungemeiner Gelehrsamkeit, gilt aber filr schwerfällig, uninteressant und Uberladen mit dem Schmucke eines falschen Geschmacks. C. ist der letzte Dichter des XVII. Jahrhunderts aus der metaphysischen Schule Donne's. Sein Stil ist sehr ungleich, 'rising frequently to nervous grandeur, sinking often to the simplicity of puuiness.' Seine ungemeine Gelehrsamkeit macht indessen seine Werke zu einer unerschöpflichen Quelle der Belehrung. Seine prosaischen Schriften (Prefaces and Essays) zeichnen sich durch Reinheit des Stils und ungekünstelte Eleganz aus.

1) ANACREONTICS. Drinking. The thirsty earth soaks up the rain, And drinks, and gapes for drink again: The plants suck in the earth, and are With constant drinking fresh and fair. The sea itself, which one would think Should have but little need of drink, Drinks ten thousand rivers up, So fiU'd that they o'erflow the cup. The busy sun (and one would guess By '• drunken fiery face no less) Drinks up the sea, and when he has done,

The moon and stars drink up the sun. They drink and dance by their own light; They drink and revel all the night. Nothing in nature 's sober found, But an eternal health goes round. Fill up the bowl then, fill it high, Fill all the glasses there, for why Should every creature drink but I, Why, men of morals, tell me why? The Epicure. Fill the bowl with rosy wine, Around oar temples roses twine,

ABRAHAM C0WLÈY. And let us cheerfully a while, Like the wine and rotes smile. Crown'd with roses, we contemn Gyges' wealthy diadem. To-day is ours; what do we fear ? To-day is ours; we have it here. Let's treat it kindly, that it may Wish at least with us to stay. Let's banish business, banish sorrow; To the gods belongs to-morrow. Tie Gratthopper. Happy insect, what can be In happiness compared to thee? Fed with nourishment divine, The dewy morning's gentle wine! Nature waits upon thee still, And thy verdant cup does fill; 'Tis fill'd wherever thou dost tread, Nature self's thy Ganymede. Thou dost drink, and dance, and sing, Happier than the happiest king! All the fields which thou dost see, All the plants belong to thee; All that summer hours produce, Fertile made with early juice. Man for thee does sow and plough; Fanner be, and landlord thou! Thou dost innocently enjoy; Nor does thy luxury destroy. The shepherd gladly heareth thee, More harmonious than he. Thee country hinds with gladness hear, Prophet of the ripen'd year! Thee Phoebus loves, and does inspire; Phoebus is himself thy sire. To thee, of all thing9 upon earth, Life is no longer than thy mirth. Happy insect! happy thou, Dost neither age nor winter know. But when thou'st drunk, and dane'd, and sung Thy fill, the flowery leaves among, (Voluptuous and wise withal, Epicurean animal!) Satiated with thy summer feast, Thou retir'st to endless rest.

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2) THE SHORTNESS OP LOT AND UNCERTAINTY OF RICHES. Why dost thou heap up wealth, which thou mast quit, Or, what is worse, be left by it? Why dost thou load thyself when thou'rt to fly, Ob, man! ordain'd to die? Why dost tbou build up stately rooms on high, Thou wbo art under ground to lie? Thou sow'st and plantest, but no fruit must see, For Death, alas! is reaping thee. Suppose thou Fortune couldst to tameness bring, And clip or pinion her wing; Suppose thou couldst on Fate so far prevail, As not to cut off thy entail; Yet Death at all that subtlety will laugh; Death will that foolish gard'ner mock, Who does a slight and annual plant ingraff Upon a lasting stock. Thou dost thyself wise and industrious deem; A mighty husband thou wouldst seem; Fond man! like a bought slave, thou all the while Dost but for others sweat and toil. Officious f o o l t h a t needs must meddling be In bus'ness that concerns not thee; For when to future years thou eztend'st thy cares, Thou deal'st in other men's affairs. Ev'n aged men, as if they truly were Children again, for age prepare; Provisions for long travel they design, In the last point of their short line. Wisely the ant against poor winter hoards The stock which summer's wealth affords; In grasshoppers, that must at autumn die, How vain were such an industry! Of power and honour the deceitful light Might half excuse our cheated sight,

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ABRAHAM COWLKT. — JOHN MILTON.

If it of life the whole imall time would stay, And be our sunshine all tbe day.

Like lightning that, begot but in a cloud, (Though shining bright, and speaking loud). Whilst it begins, concludes its violent race, And where it gilds, it wounds the place.

Oh, scene of fortune! which dost fair appear Only to men that stand not near:

Proud Poverty, that tinsel brav'ry wears, And, like a rainbow, painted tears! Be prudent, and the shore in prospect keep! In a weak boat trust not the deep; Plac'd beneath envy—above envying rise; Pity great men - great things despise. The wise example of the heav'nly lark, Tby fellow-poet, Cowley! mark; Above the clouds let thy proud music sound; Thy humble nest build on the ground.

ffl. JOHN MILTON, geb. 9. Decembr. 1608 zu London, gest. ebendaselbst 8. Novbr. 1674. (S. Theil I. des Handb. p. 52.) — Seine poetischen Werke bestehen in lateinischen Gedichten, italienischen und englischen Sonetten, 'College Exercises,' 'II Penseroso,' 'L'AUegro,' 'Lycidas,' 'Arcades,' •Comus,' und andern ähnlichen Gedichten: 'Paradise Lost,' 'Paradise Regained' und ' S a m son Agonistes, a Tragedy.' — Sie sind wiederholt herausgegeben worden, am Besten von I. H. Todd, London 1801, 6 Bde. — Ein Kritiker sagt Uber ihn: 'Das Wesen seiner Werke ist mit einem Worte zu schildern, sie sind e p i s c h . Er besitzt Anmuth, natürliche Anschauung, unvergleichliche Schönheit der Beschreibung, Gedankenreichthum und Phantasie. An Kraft des Ausdrucks ist ihm wohl Niemand gleichgekommen.' — Wir mUssen auf die Schriften von Johnson. Todd, Hayley, Symmons, Sir Egerton Bridges und Channing Uber M. verweisen, können es uns aber nicht versagen, die folgende vortreffliche Stelle aus Macaulay's ' E s s a y s ' mitzutheilen: 'Venal and licentious scribblers, with just sufficient talent to clothe the thoughts of a pandar in tbe style of a bellman, were now the favourite writers of the sovereign and the public. It was a loathsome herd which could be compared to nothing so fitly as to the rabble of Comus; grotesque monsters, half-bestial, half-human, dropping with wine, and reeling in obscene dances. Amidst these his muse was placed, like tbe Chaste Lady in the Masque, lofty spotless and serene — to be chattered at, and pointed at, and grinned at by the whole rabble of aatyrs and goblins. If ever despondency and asperity could be excused in any man, it might have been excused in Milton. But the strength of his mind overcame every calamity. Neither blindness, nor gout, nor age, nor penury, nor domestic afflictions, nor political dissappointments, nor abuse, nor proscription, nor neglect, had power to disturb his sedate and majestic patience. His spirits did not seem to have been high, but they were singularly equable. His temper was serious, perhaps stern; but it was a temper which no sufferings could render sullen or fretful. Such as it was when, on the eve of great events, he returned from his travels in the prime of health and manly beauty, loaded with literary distinctions, and glowing with patriotic hopes — such it contrived to b e , when, after having experienced every calamity which is incident to our nature, old, poor, sightless, and disgraced, he retired to his hovel to die.'

JOHN MILTON. 1) HYMN ON THE NATIVITY. It was the winter wild, While the heaven-bora child All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies; Nature in awe to him, Had doff"d her gaudy trim, With her great Blaster so to sympathise: It waa no season then for her To wanton with the sun, her lusty paramour. Only with speeches fair She woes the gentle air, To hide her guilty front with innocent snow; And on her naked shame, Pollute with sinful blame, The saintly veil of maiden white to throw; Confounded, that her Maker's eyes Should look so near upon her foul deformities. But he, her fears to cease, Sent down the meek-ey'd Peace; She, crown'd with olive green, came softly sliding Down through the turning sphere, His ready harbinger, With turtle wing the amorous clouds dividing; And, waving wide her myrtle wand, She strikes a universal peace through sea and land. No war or battle's sound Was heard the world around: The idle spear and shield were high up hung; The hooked chariot stood Unstain'd with hostile blood; The trumpet spake not to the armed throng; And kings sat still with awful eye, As if they surely knew their sov'reign lord was by. But peaceful was the night, Wherein the Prince of Light His reign of peace upon the earth began: The winds, with wonder whist, Smoothly the waters kiss'd,

Ill

Whispering new joys to the mild Ocean, Who now hath quite forgot to rave. While birds of calm ait brooding on the charmed wave. The stars, with deep amaze, Stand fix'd in steadfast gaze, Bending one way their precious influence; And will not take their flight, For all the morning light, Or Lucifer that often warn'd them thence; But in their glimmering orbs did glow, Until their Lord himself bespake, and bid them go. And, though the shady gloom Had given day her room, The sun himself withheld his wonted speed, And bid his head for shame, AB bis inferior flame The new-enlighten'd world no more should need; He saw a greater sun appear Than bis bright throne, or burning axletree, could bear. The shepherds on the lawn, Or ere the point of dawn, Sat simply chatting in a rustic row; Full little thought they then That the mighty Pan Was kindly come to live with them below; Perhaps their loves, or else their sheep, Was all that did their silly thoughts so busy keep. When such music sweet Their hearts and ears did greet, As never was by mortal finger strook, Divinely-warbled voice Answering the stringed noise, As all their souls in blissful rapture took: The air, such pleasure loath to lose. With thousand echoes still prolongs each heavenly close.

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JOHN MILTON.

Nature, that heard such sound,' Will sicken soon and die, Beneath the hollow round And leprous Sin will melt from earthly mould; Of Cynthia'« seat, the airy region thrilling, J And Hell itself will pass away, Now was almost won, And leave her dolorous mansions to the peerTo think her part was done, ing day. And that her reign had here its last fulfilling; She knew such harmony alone Yea, Truth and Justice then Could hold all Heaven and Earth in happier Will down return to men, union. Orb'd in a rainbow; and, like glories wearing, Mercy will sit between, At last surrounds their sight Thron'd in celestial sheen, A globe of circular light, With radiant feet the tissued clouds down That with long beams the shamefac'd night steering; array'd; And Heaven, as at some festival, The helmed cherubim, Will open wide the gates of her high palace hall. And sworded seraphim, Are seen in glittering ranks with wings disBut wisest Fate says no, play'd, This must not yet be so, Harping in loud and solemn quire, The babe yet lies in smiling infancy, With unexpressive notes, to Heaven's newThat on the bitter cross born heir. Must redeem our loss So both himself and us to glorify: Such music, as 'tis said, Yet first, to those ychain'd in sleep, Before was never made, The wakeful trump of doom must thunder But when of old the sons of morning sung, through the deep. While the Creator great His constellations set, And the well-balanc'd world on hinges hung, With such a horrid clang As on mount Sinai rang, And cast the dark foundations deep, While the red fire and smould'ring clouds And bid the weltering waves their oozy channel out brake; keep. The aged earth aghast, With terror of that blast, Ring out, ye crystal spheres, Shall from the surface to the centre shake; Once bless our human ears, When, at the world's last session, If ye have power to touch our senses so; The dreadful Judge in middle air shall spread And let your silver chime his throne. Move in melodious time; And let the base of Heaven's deep organ blow; And, with your ninefold harmony, I Make up full concert to the angelic symphony. i For, if such holy song Enwrap our fancy long, Time will run back, and fetch the age of gold; And speckled Vanity

And then at last our bliss, Full and perfect is, But now begins; for, from this happy day, The old dragon, under ground, In straiter limits bound, Not half so far casts his usurped sway; And, wroth to see his kingdom fail, Swinges the scaly horror of his folded tail.

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JOHN MILTON. The oracle« are dumb; No voice or hideous bum Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving. Apollo from bit «hrine Can no more divine, With hollow abriek the steep of Delpbos leaving. No nightly trance, or breathed spell, Inspires the pale-ey'd priests from the prophetic cell. The lonely mountains o'er, And the resounding shore, A voice of weeping beard and loud lament; From haunted spring and dale, Edged with poplar pale, The parting Genius is with sighing sent; With flower-inwoven tresses torn, The nymphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn. In consecrated earth, And on the holy hearth, The Lars and Lemures mourn with midnight plaint; In urns and altars round, A drear and dying sound Affrights the Flamens at their service quaint; And the chill marble seems to sweat. While each peculiar power foregoes his wonted seat. Peor and Baalim Forsake their temples dim. With that twice-batter'd god of Palestine; And mooned Asbtaroth, Heaven's queen and mother both, Now sits not girt with tapers' holy shine; The Libyc Hammon shrinks his horn; In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded Thammuz mourn. And sullen Moloch, fled, Hath left in shadows dread His burning idol all of blackest b u e ; n.

In vain with cymbals' ring They call the grisly king, In dismal dance about the furnace blue, The brutish gods of Nile as fast, Isis, and Orus, and the dog Anubis, haste. Nor is Osiris seen In Memphian grove or green, Trampling the unshower'd grass witb lowings lond: Nor can he be at rest Within his sacred chest; Noagbt but profoundest bell can be his shroud; In vain with timbrell'd antbems dark Tbe sable-stoled sAcerers bear his worshipp'd ark. He feels from Judah's land Tbe dreaded infant's hand, The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyne; Nor all the gods beside Longer dare abide, Not Typhon huge ending in snaky twine: Our babe, to show his Godhead true, Can in his swaddling bands control tbe damned crew. So, when the sun in bed, Curtain'd with cloudy red. Pillows bis chin upon an orient wave, The flocking shadows pale, Troop to the infernal jail, Each fetter'd ghost slips to his several grave, And the yellow-skirted fays Fly after the night-steeds, leaving their moonlov'd maze. But see, the Virgin blest Hath laid her Babe to reBt; Time is, our tedious song should here have ending: Heaven's youngest-teemed star Hath fix'd her polish'd car, Her sleeping Lord with handmaid lamp attending;

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JOHN MILTON.

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And all about the courtly stable Bright-barness'd angels sit in order serviceable.

2) L'ALLEGRO. Hence loathed Melancholy, Of Cerberus and blackest midnight born, In Stygian cave forlorn, 'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights unholy! Find out some uncouth cell, Where brooding Darkness spreads his jealous wings, And the night-raven sings; There under ebon shades, an8 low-brow'd rocks, As ragged as thy locks, In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell. But come, thou goddess fair and free, In heaven yclep'd Euphrosyne, And by men heart-easing Mirth, Whom lovely Venus, at a birth, With two sister Graces more, To ivy-crowned Bacchus bore; Or whether (as some sages sing) The frolic wind that breathes the spring, Zephir with Aurora playing, As he met her oncc a-maying, There on beds of violets blue, And fresh blown-roses wash'd in dew, Fill'd her with thee a daughter fair, So buxom, blithe, and debonair. Haste thee, nvmph, and bring with tliee Jest, and youthful Jollity, Quips, and Cranks, anil wanton Wiles, Nods, and Becks, and wreathed Smiles, Such as hang on Hebe's cheek, And love to live in dimplr sleek: Sport that wrinkled Care derides, And Laughter holding both his sides. Come and trip it as you go On the light fantastic toe; And in thy right hand lead with thee The mountain-nymph, sweet Liberty: And, if I give the honour due, Mirth, admit me of thy crew,

To live with her, and live with thee, In unreproved pleasures free: To hear the lark begin his flight, And singing startle the dull Night, From his watch-tower in the skies. Till the dappled Dawn doth rise; Then to come, in spite of sorrow, And at my window bid good-morrow, Through the sweet-brier, or the vine. Or the twisted eglantine; While the cock with lively din, Scatters the rear of darkness thin, And to the stack, or the barn door, Stoutly struts his dames before: Oft list'ning how the hounds and horn Cheerly rouse the slumbering morn, From the side of some hoar hill, Through the high wood echoing shrill: Sometimes walking not unseen Bv hedge-row elms, on hillocks green, Right against the eastern gate, Where the great sun begins his state, Robed in flames, and amber light, The clouds in thousand liveries dight; While the ploughman near at hand Whistles o'er the furrow'd land, And the milk-maid singeth blithe, And the uiotver whits his scythe, And every shepherd tells his tale, Under the hawthorn in the dale. Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures, Whilst the landscape round it measures: Russet lawns, and fallows gray, Where the nibbling flocks do stray; Mountains on whose barren breast The labouring clouds do often rest; Meadows trim with daisies pied, Shallow brooks, and rivers wide: Towers and battlements it sees Bosom'd high in tufted trees, Where perhaps some beauty lies, The Cynosure of neighbouring eyes. Hard by a cottage-chimney smokes, From betwixt two aged oaks, Where Corydon and Tbyrsis, met, Arc at their savoury dinner set

JOHN MILTON. Of herbs, and other country-messes, Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses; And then in baste her bower she leaves, With Thestilis to bind the sheaves; Or, if the earlier season lead. To the tann'd haycock in the mead. Sometimes, with secure delight, The upland hamlets will invite, When the merry bells ring round, And the jocund rebecks sound To many a youth and many a maid, Dancing in the chequered shade; And young and old come forth to play On a sunshine holiday, Till the livelong daylight fail; Then to the spicy nut-brown ale, With stories told of many a feat, How Fairy Mab the junkets eat; She was pinch'd, and pull'd, she said, And he by friar's lantern led; Tells how the drudging goblin sweat To earn his cream-bowl duly set, When in one night, ere glimpse of morn, His shadowy flail bad tbrasb'd the corn, That ten day-lab'rers could not end, Then lays him down the lubber fiend, And, stretch'd out all the chimney's length, Basks at the fire his hairy strength; And cropful out of doors be flings Ere the first cock his matin rings. Thus done the tales, to bed they creep, By whispering winds soon lull'd asleep. Towered cities please us then, And the busy hum of men, Where throngs of knights and barons bold, In weeds of peace high triumphs hold, With store of ladies, whose bright eyes Rain influence and judge the prize Of wit or arms, while both contend To win her grace whom all commend. There let Hymen oft appear In saffron robe, with taper clear, And pomp, and feast, and revelry, With mask and antique pageantry; Such sights as youthful poets dream On summer eves by haunted stream.

115

Then to the well-trod stage anon, If Jonson's learned sock be on, Or sweetest Shakspeare, Fancy's child, Warble his native wood-notes wild. And ever, against eating cares, Lap me in soft Lydian airs, Married to immortal verse, Such as the meeting soul may pierce, In notes, with many a winding boat Of linked sweetness long drawn out, With wanton heed, and giddy cunning, The melting voice through mazes running, Untwisting all the chains that tie The hidden soul of harmony; That Orpheus' self may heave his head From golden slumbers on a bed Of heap'd Elysian flowers, and hear Such strains as would have won the ear Of Pluto, to have quite set free His half-regain'd Eurydice. These delights, if thou canst give, Mirth, with thee I mean to live.

3) IL PENSBROSO. Hence, vain deluding Joys, The brood of Folly without Father bred! How little you bestead, Or fill the fixed mind with all your toys! Dwell in some idle brain, And fancies fond with gaudy shapes possess, As thick and numberless At the gay motes that people the sunbeams; Or likeliest hovering dreams, The fickle pensioners of Morpheus' train. But hail, thou goddess, sage and holy, Hail, divinest Melancholy! Whose saintly visage is too bright To hit the sense of human sight, And therefore, to our weaker view, O'erlaid with black, staid Wisdom's bue. * * Come, pensive nun, devout and pure, Sober, steadfast, and demure, All in a robe of darkest grain, Flowing with majestic train, 8*

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JOHN MILTON.

A n d sable stole o f C y p r u s lawn

T h e spirit o f P l a t o , t o u n f o l d

O v e r thy decent shoulder* drawn.

W h a t worlds, or w h a t vast r e g i o n s , b o l d

C o m e , b u t k e e p thy wonted state,

T h e immortal m i n d , t h a t hath f o r s o o k

W i t h even step and m u s i n g gait,

H e r mansion in this fleshly n o o k :

A n d l o o k s c o m m e r c i n g with the skies,

A n d o f those d e m o n s that are f o n n d

T b y rapt soul sitting in thine e y e s ;

In fire, air, flood, o r under g r o u n d ,

T h e r e held in h o l y p a s s i o n still.

W h o s e p o w e r h a t h a true c o n s e n t

F o r g e t tbyself to m a r b l e , till,

W i t h planet o r with e l e m e n t .

W i t h a sad leaden d o w n w a r d cast,

S o m e t i m e let g o r g e o u s T r a g e d y

T h o u fix them on the earth as f a s t :

In sceptred pall c o m e s w e e p i n g b y ,

A n d j o i n with thee c a l m P e a c e and Q u i e t ,

P r e s e n t i n g T b e b e s or P e l o p s ' line,

S p a r e F a s t , that o f t with g o d s doth diet,

O r the tale o f T r o y d i v i n e ;

A n d bears the M u s e s in a ring

O r what ( t h o u g h r a r e ) o f later a g e

A y e round a b o u t J o v e ' s altar s i n g :

E n n o b l e d bath the b u s k i n ' d stage.

A n d add t o these retired Leisure, T h a t in trim gardens t a k e s his pleasure: B u t first, and chiefest, with thee bring fiery-wheeled

T i l l civil-suited M o r n a p p e a r ; W i t h the Attic b o y to hunt,

throne,

B u t kercheft in a c o m e l y cloud,

The Cherub Contemplation;

W h i l e r o c k i n g winds are p i p i n g l o u d ,

A n d the mute Silence hist a l o n g ,

O r usher'd with a s h o w e r still

' L e s s P h i l o m e l will deign a s o n g ,

W h e n the g u s t hath blown his fill,

In her sweetest saddest plight,

E n d i n g on the r u s t l i n g leaves

S m o o t h i n g the r u g g e d brow of N i g h t ,

W i t h minute-drops f r o m off the eaves.

W h i l e C y n t h i a c h e e k s her dragon y o k e

A n d when the sun b e g i n s to fling

Gently o ' e r the accustom'«! oak. Sweet bird, that shunn'st the noise o f folly, Most musical, most m e l a n c h o l y !

H i s flaring beams, m e , G o d d e s s b r i n g T o arched walks o f twilight g r o v e s , A n d shadows b r o w n , that S y l v a n loves,

T h e e , chauntress, o f t the woods a m o n g

O f pine, or m o n u m e n t a l o a k ,

I woo, t o hear thy e v e n - s o n g ;

W h e r e the rude axe, with heaved s t r o k e ,

A n d missing thee, I walk unseen

W a s never heard the n y m p h s to daunt,

O n the dry smooth-shaven green,

O r fright them from their hallow'd h a u n t .

T o behold the w a n d e r i n g m o o n ,

T h e r e in close covert by some b r o o k ,

R i d i n g near her highest noon,

W h e r e no profaner eye may l o o k ,

L i k e one that hath been led astray T h r o u g h the heaven's wide pathless w a y ; A n d o f t , as if her head she bow'd,

Hide me from d a y ' s garish eye, W h i l e the bee with honied t h i g h , T h a t at her flowery w o r k doth sing,

S t o o p i n g through a fleecy cloud.

A n d the waters murmuring,

O f t , on a plat o f rising g r o u n d ,

W i t h such consort as they k e e p ,

I hear the far-off curfew sound,

Entice the dewy-feather'd S l e e p ;

O v e r s o m e wide-water'd shore, S w i n g i n g slow with sullen roar.

*

N o t trick'd and froune'd as she w a s w o n t

H i m that y o n soars on golden wing, G u i d i n g the

*

T h u s , N i g h t , o f t see m e in thy pale career,

*

O r let my l a m p at m i d n i g h t h o u r ,

*

A n d let some strange mysterious dream W a v e at his wings in airy stream

B e seen in some h i g h lonely tower,

O f lively portraiture display'd,

W h e r e I may oft out-watch the B e a r

S o f t l y on m y eyelids l a i d ;

W i t h thrice-great H e r m e s , or unsphere

A n d , as I wake, sweet music breathe A b o v e , about, or underneath,

JOHN MILTON. Sent by some apirit to mortal good, Or the unseen Genius of the wood. But let my due feet never fail To walk the studious cloisters pale, And lore the high-embowed roof, With antic pillars, massy proof, And storied windows richly dight. Casting a dim religious light: There let the pealing organ blow To the full-voic'd quire below; In service high and anthems clear, As may with sweetness, through mine ear, Dissolve me into ecstacies, And bring all heaven before mine eyes.

How due.' — yet all bis good prov*d ill in me, And wrought but malice; lifted up so high, I 'sdained subjection, and thonght one step higher Would set me highest, and in a moment quit The debt immense of endless gratitude, So burdensome still paying, still to owe: Forgetful what from him I still received, And understood not that a grateful mind By owing owes not, but still pays, at once Indebted and discharged: what burden then? O, had his powerful destiny ordain'd Me some inferior angel, I had stood Then happy; no unbounded hope had raised Ambition! Yet why not ? — some other power As great might have aspir'd, and me, though mean,

And may at last my weary age Find out the peaceful hermitage. The hairy gown and mossy cell, Where I may sit and rightly spell Of every star that heaven doth shew, And every herb that sips the dew; Till old experience do attain To something like prophetic strain.

Drawn to his part? but other powers as great Fell not, but stand unshaken, from within Or from without, to all temptations arm'd. Hadst thou the same free will and power to stand?

These pleasures, Melancholy, give, And I with thee will choose to live.

4) PROM 'PARADISE LOST."

'

1) Satan't Address to the Sun.

j

O thou, that, with surpassing glory crown'd, Look'st from tby sole dominion like the God Of this new world; at whose sight all the stars Hide their diminish'd heads: to thee I call, But with no friendly voice, and add thy name, 0 Sun, to tell thee how I hate thy beams, That bring to my remembrance from what state 1 fell, how glorious once — above thy sphere; Till pride and worse ambition threw me down, Warring in heaven against heaven's matchless king. Ah, wherefore? He deserv'd no such return

117

j (

j j j j j j | j j

From me, whom he created what I was j In that bright eminence, and with his good j Upbraided none, nor was his service hard. What could be less than to afford him praise, 1 The easiest recompense, and pay him thanks? !

Thou hadst: whom hast thou, then, or what to accuse, But heaven's free love dealt equally to all? Be then his love accurst; since love or hate, To me alike, it deals eternal woe: Nay, curs'd be thou; since against his tby will Chose freely what it now so justly rues. Mc miserable! — which way shall I fly Infinite wrath and infinite despair? Which way I fly is Hell; myself am Hell; And in the lowest deep a lower deep Still threatening to devour me, opens wide; To which the Hell I suffer seems a Heaven. O, then at last relent; is there no place Left for repentance, none for pardon left? None left but by submission; and that word Disdain forbids me, and my dread of shame Among the spirits beneath, whom I seduced With other promises and other vaunts Than to submit, boasting I could subdue The Omnipotent. Ay me! they little know How dearly I abide that boast so vain; Under what torments inwardly I groan, While they adore me on the throne of Hell.

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JOHN MILTON

With diadem and sceptre high advanced, W h o forthwith from the glitt'ring staff unfurl'd The lower still I fall; only supreme T h ' imperial ensign, which, full high advanc'd. In misery: such joy ambition find«. Shone like a meteor streaming to the wind, Bat My I could repent, and could obtain | With gems and golden lustre rich emblaz'd By act of grace my former state; bow soon | Seraphic arms and trophies, all the while Would height recall high thoughts, how soon Sonorous metal blowing martial sounds: At which the universal host up sent unsay A shout, that tore Hell's concave, and beyond W h a t feign'd submission swore! Ease would Frighted the reign of Chaos and old Night. recant All in a moment through the gloom were seen Vows made in pain, as violent and void. Ten thousand banners rise into the air For never can true reconcilement grow With orient colours waving: with them rose Where wounds of deadly bate have pierc'd so A forest huge of spears; and thronging helms deep; Appear'd, and serried shields in thick array, Which would but lead me to a worse relapse Of depth immeasurable: anon they move And heavier fall; so should I purchase dear In perfect phalanx to the Dorian mood Short intermission bought with double smart. Of flutes and soft recorders; such as rais'd This knows my Punisher; therefore as far To height of noblest temper heroes old From granting he, as I from begging peace: Arming to battle; and, instead of rage, All hope excluded thus, behold, in stead Deliberate valour breath'd, firm and unmov'd, Of us outcast, exil'd, his new delight, With dread of death, to flight or foul retreat; Mankind, created, and for him this world. So farewell hope; and with hope, farewell fear; Nor wanting power to mitigate and 'suage, With solemn touches, troubled thoughts, and Farewell remorse: all good to me is lost; chase Evil, be thou my g o o d ; by thee at least Divided empire with heaven's kings I hold, By thee, and more than half perhaps will reign; As man ere long and this new world shall know. 2) Auembling of the Fallen Angelt. (From the same.) All these and more came flocking; but with looks Down cast and damp, yet such wherein appear'd Obscure some glimpse of joy, t' have found their chief Not in despair, t' have found themselves not lost In loss itself; which on his countenance cast Like doubtful hue: but he, his wonted pride Soon recollecting, with high words that bore Semblance of wortb, not substance, gently raised Their fainting courage, and dispell'd their fears. Then straight commands t h a t , at the warlike sound Of trumpets loud and clarions, be uprear'd His mighty standard; that proud honour claim'd Azazel as his right, a cherub tall;

Anguish, and d o u b t , and fear, and sorrow, and pain, From mortal or immortal minds. Thus they, Breathing united force, with fixed thought Mov'd on in silence to soft pipes, that cliarm'd Their painful steps o'er the burnt soil; and now Advanc'd in view, they stand, a horrid front Of dreadful length, and dazzling arms, in guise Of warriors old with order'd spear and shield. Awaiting what command their mighty chief Had to impose: he through the armed files Darts his experiene'd eye, and soon traverse The whole battalion, views their order due, Their visages and statures as of Gods; Their number last he sums. And now his heart Distends with pride, and hard'ning in his strength Glories; for never since created man Met such embodied force as, nam'd with these. Could merit more than that small infantry Warr'd on by cranes; though all the giant brood Of Phlegra with th' heroic race were join'd,

119

JOHN MILTON. That fought at Thebes and Ilium, on each aide Mix'd with ausiliar gods; and what resound* In fable or romance of Uther's son. Begirt with British and Armoric knights; And all who since, baptis'd or infidel, Jousted in Aspramont or Montalban, Damasco or Morocco, or Trebisond; Or whom Biserta sent from Afric shore, When Charlemain with all bis peerage fell By Fontarabia. Tbns far these beyond Compare of mortal prowess, yet observ'd Their dread commander; he, above the rest In shape and gesture proudly eminent, Stood like a tow'r; bis form had not yet lost AH her original brightness, nor appear'd Less than Archangel ruin'd, and th' excess Of glory obscnr'd: as when the sun new risen Looks through the horizontal misty air, Shorn of his beaml; or from behind the moon In dim eclipse, disastrous twilight sheds On half the nations, and with fear of change Perplexes monarchs. Darken'd so, yet shone Above them all th' Archangel: but his face Deep scars of thunder had intrench'd, and care Sat on his faded cheek, but under brows Of dauntless courage and considerate pride, Waiting revenge: cruel bis eye, but cast Signs of remorse and passion to behold The fellows of his crime, the followers rather, (Far other once beheld in bliss) condemn'd For ever now to have their lot in pain; Millions of spirits for his fault amerc'd Of Heav'n, and from eternal splendours flung For his revolt, yet faithful how they stood, Their glory wither'd: as when Heav'n's fire Hath scath'd the forest oaks, or mountain pines, With singed top their stately growth, though bare, Stands on the blasted heath. He now prepar'd To speak: whereat their doubled ranks they bend From wing to wing, and half enclose him round With all his peers: attention held them mute. Thrice he assay'd; and thrice, in spite of scorn, Tears, such as angels weep, burst forth; at last Words, interwove with sighs, found out their way.

3) Bvt't Account of ktr Creation. (From the same.) I first awak'd, and found myself repos'd Under a shade of flow'rs, much wond'ring where And what I was, whence thither brought^ and how. Not distant far from thence a murm'ring sound Of waters issned from a cave, and spread Into a liquid plain, then stood unmov'd, Pure as the expanse of Heav'n; I thither went With inexperienc'd thought, and laid me down On the green bank, to look into the clear Smooth lake, that to me seem'd another sky. As I bent down to look, just .opposite, A shape within the wat'ry gleam appear'd, Bending to look on me; I started back, It started back: but pleas'd I soon return'd, Pleas'd it return'd as soon with answ'ring looks Of sympathy and love: there I had fix'd Mine eyes till now, and pin'd with vain desire. Had nut a voice thus warn'd m e , ' W h a t thou seest, What there thou seest, fair creature, is thyself: With thee it came and goes, but follow me, And I will bring thee where no shadow stays Thy coming and thy soft embraces; he Whose image thou art, him thou shalt enjoy, Inseparably thine; to him shalt bear Multitudes like thyself, and thence be call'd Mother of human race.' What could I do, But follow straight, invisibly thus led? Till I espied thee, fair indeed and tall, Under a plantain; yet methought less fair, Less winning soft, less amiably mild, Than that smooth wat'ry image: back I turn'd; Thou following cry'st aloud, 'Return, fair Eve, Whom fly'st thou ? whom thou fly'st of him thou art, His flesh, his bone: to give thee being I lent, Out of my side to thee, nearest my heart, Substantial life, to have thee by my side Henceforth an individual solace dear; Part of my soul I seek thee, and thee claim My other half.' With that thy gentle hand Seiz'd mine; I yielded, and from that time see

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JOHN

MILTON.

H o w b e a u t y is excell'd b y manly grace

O f day-spring, and the sun, who scarce up-risen,

And wisdom, which alone is truly fair.

W i t h wheels yet hovering o ' e r the ocean brim,

S o spake our general m o t h e r , and with eyes O f c o n j u g a l attraction, unreprov'd,

S h o t parallel to th' earth his dewy ray, Discovering in wide landscape all the east

And meek surrender, half e m b r a c i n g , leau'd

O f Paradise and E d e n ' s happy plains,

O n our first f a t h e r ; half her swelling b r e a s t

Lowly they bow'd adoring, and began

N a k e d m e t his under the flowing gold

T h e i r orisons, each morning duly paid

O f her loose tresses h i d ; he in delight

In various style; for neither various style

B o t h o f her b e a u t y and submissive charms,

Nor holy rapture wanted they to praise

Smil'd with superior love, as J u p i t e r

T h e i r M a k e r , in fit strains pronounced or sung

O n J u n o smiles, when he impregns the clouds

Unmeditated, such prompt eloquence

T h a t shed May flow'rs; and press'd her matron lip

Flow'd from their l i p s , in prose or numerous verse,

W i t h kisses pure.

4) Morning in Paradise. (From the same.)

More tunable than needed lute or harp T o , a d d m o r e sweetness; and they thus b e g a n : ' T h e s e are thy glorious works, P a r e n t o f good,

Now morn her r o s y steps in th* eastern clime

Almighty, thine this universal frame,

Advancing, sovv'd the tavth with orient pearl,

T h u s wond'rousfair; thyself how wondrous t h e n !

W h e n Adam waked, so c u s t o m ' d , for his sleep

Unspeakable, who sitt'st above these heav'ns

W a s airy light from pure digestion bred,

T o us invisible, or dimly seen

And temperate vapours b l a n d , which the only

In these thy lowest w o r k s ; yet these declare

sound

T h y goodness beyond thought, and power divine.

O f leaves and fuming rills, Aurora's fan,

S p e a k , ye who best can tell, ye sons of light,

L i g h t l y dispers'd, and the shrill matin song

Angels! for ye behold I l i m , and with songs,

O f birds on ev'ry b o u g h ; so much the m o r e

And choral symphonies, day without night,

His wonder was to find unavvaken'd E v e ,

Circle His throne r e j o i c i n g ; ye in heav'n,

W i t h tresses discompos'd and glowing cheek,

On earth j o i n all ye creatures, to extol

As through unquiet r e s t : he on his side

I l i m first, Him last, I l i m midst, and without e n d !

L e a n i n g h a l f rais'd, with looks o f cordial love,

Fairest o f stars, last in the train of night,

H u n g over her enamour'd, and beheld

I f better thou belong not to the dawn,

B e a u t y , which, whether waking or asleep,

Sure pledge o f day, that erown'st the smiling

S h o t forth peculiar g r a c e s ; then with voice

morn

Mild as when Zephyrus or F l o r a breathes,

W i t h thy bright circlet, praise I l i m in thy sphere

H e r hand soft touching, whisper'd t h u s : 'Awake,

W h i l e day arises, that sweet hour of prime.

M y fairest, m y espous'd, my latest found,

T h o u s u n ! o f this world both eye and soul,

I l e a v ' n ' s last best gift, my ever new delight,

Acknowledge Him thy g r e a t e r ; sound His praise

A w a k e : the morning shines, and the fresh field

In thy eternal course, both when thou climb'st,

Calls u s ; we lose the prime, to mark how spring

And when high noon has gain'd, and when thou

Our tended plants, how blows the citron grove,

fall'st.

W h a t drops the myrrh, and what the balmy reed,

M o o n ! that now mect'st the orient sun, now fly'st

I I o w nature paints her colours, how the bee

W i t h the fix'd stars, fix'd in their orb that flies;

S i t s on the b l o o m extracting liquid sweet.' * * *

T o the field they haste.

And ye five other waud'ring fires! that move In mystic dance not without song, resound His praise, who out of darkness call'd up light.

B u t first, from under shady arb'rous r o o f

Air, and ye e l e m e n t s ! the eldest birth

S o o n as they forth were come to open sight

O f nature's womb, that in quaternian run

JOHN MILTON. Perpetual circle, multiform; and mix, And nourish all things; let your ceatelet* change Vary to our great Maker still new praise. Ye mists, and exhalations! that now rise From hill, or steaming lake, dusky, or gray, Till the sun paint your fleecy skirts with gold, In honour to the world's great Author rise; Whether to deck with clouds the uncolour'd sky, Or wet the thirsty earth with falling show'rs, Rising or falling, still advance his praise. His praise, ye winds! that from four quarters blow, Breathe soft or loud; and wave your tops, ye pines! With every plant, in sign of worship wave, Fountains, and ye that warbling tune his praise. Join voices all, ye living souls; ye birds T h a t singing up to Heaven-gate ascend, Bear on your wings and in your notes His praise. Ye that in waters glide, and ye that walk The earth, and stately tread, or lowly creep, Witness if I be silent, morn or even, To hill, or valley, fountain, or fresh shade, Made vocal by my song, and taught his praise. Hail, universal Lord! be bounteous still To give us only good; and, if the night Have gather'd aught of evil or conceal'd, Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark! So pray'd they innocent, and to their thoughts Firm peace recover'd soon and wonted calm. On to their morning's rural work they haste Among sweet dews and flow'rs; where any row Of fruit-trees over-woody reach'd too far Their pamper'd boughs, and needed hands to check Fruitless embraces: or they led the vine To wed her elm; she, 'spous'd, about him twines Her marriageable arms, and with her brings Her dow'r, th' adopted clusters, to adorn His barren leaves. 5) Evening in Paradise. (From the same.) Now came still evening on, and twilight gray Had in her sober livery all things clad; Silence accompanied: for beast and bird,

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They to their grassy coach, these to their nests, Were slank, all but the wakeful nightingale; She all night long her amorous descant sung; Silence was pleas'd: now glow*d the firmament With living sapphires; Hesperus that led The starry host, rode brightest, till the moon, Rising in clouded mqesty, at length Apparent queen, unveil'd her peerless light, And o'er the dark her silver mantle threw. When Adam thus to E v e : ' F a i r Consort, th' hour Of night, and all things now retir'd to rest, Mind us of like repose, since Ood hath set Labour and rest, as day and nights, to men Successive; and the timely dew of sleep Now falling with soft slumb'rous weight, incline* Our eye-lids: other creatures all day long Rove idle unemploy'd, and less need rest; Man hath bis daily work of body or mind Appointed, which declares his dignity, And the regard of Heav'n on all bis ways; While other animals unactive range, And of their doings God takes no account. To-morrow, ere fresh morning streak the east With first approach of light, we must be risen, And at our pleasant labour, to reform Yon fiow'ry arbours, yonder alleys green, Our walk at noon, with branches overgrown, That mock our scant manuring, and require More hands than ours to lop their wanton growth: Those blossoms also, and those dropping gums That lie bestrown, unsightly and unsmootb, Ask riddance, if we mean to tread with ease: Meanwhile, as Nature wills, night bids us rest.' To whom thus Eve, with perfect beauty adorn'd ' M y Author and Disposer; what thou bidst Unargued I o b e y ; so God ordains; God is thy law, thou mine: to whom no more Is woman's happiest knowledge and her praise. With thee conversing I forget all time: All seasons and their change, all please alike. Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet. With charm of earliest birds: pleasant the sun, When first on this delightful land he spreads His orient beams, on herb, tree, fruit, and flower,

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G l u t t i n g with dew; fragrant the fertile earth After »oft ahow'ra; and sweet the coming on Of grateful evening mild ; then silent night, With this her solemn bird, and this fair moon, And these the gems of Heav'n, her starry train; But neither breath of morn, when she ascends With charm of earliest birds, nor rising sun On this delightful land, nor herb, fruit, flower, Glist*ring with dew, nor fragrance after showers, Nor grateful evening mild, nor silent night, With this her solemn bird, nor walk by moon, Or glitt'ring starlight, without thee is sweet. But wherefore all night long shine these? for whom This glorious sight, when sleep hath shut all eyes?' To whom our general ancestor reply'd: 'Daughter of God and Man, accomplish'«! Ere, These have their course to finish round the earth By morrow evening, and from land to land In order, though to nations yet unborn, Minist'ring light prepared, they set and rise; Lest total darkness should by night regain Her old possession, and extinguish life In nature and all things, which these soft fires Not only enlighten, but with kindly heat Of various influence, foment and warm, Temper or nourish, or in part shed down Their stellar virtue on all kinds that grow On earth, made hereby apter to receive Perfection from the sun's more potent ray. These, then, though unbeheld in deep of night, Shine not in vain; nor think, tho' men were none, That Heav'n would want spectators, God want praise. Millions of spiritual creatures walk the earth Unseen, both when we wake and when we sleep: AH these with ceaseless praise his works behold Both day and night. How often from the steep Of echoing hill or thicket have 'we heard Celestial voices to the midnight air, Sole or responsive each to other's note, Singing their great Creator ? oft in bands, While they keep watch, or nightly rounding walk, With Heav'nly touch of instrumental sounds In full harmonic numbers join'd, their songs

Divide the night, and lift our souls to Heaven.' Thus talking hand in band alone they paas'd On to their blissful bow*r; it was a place Chos'n by the sov'reign Planter, when he fram'd All things to man's delightful use; the roof Of thickest covert was inwoven shade Laurel and myrtle, and what higher grew Of firm and fragrant leaf; on either side Acanthus, and each odorous bushy shrub, Fenc'd up the verdant wall; each beauteous flower, Iris all hues, roses, and jessamine, Rear'd high their flourish'd beads between, and wrought Mosaic; underfoot the violet, Crocus, and hyacinth, with rich inlay Broider'd the ground, more colour'd than with stone Of costliest emblem: other creatures here, Beast, bird, insect, or worm, durst enter none; Such was their awe of Man. In shadier bow'r, More sacred and sequester'd, though but feign'd, Pan or Sylvanus never slept, nor nympb, Nor Faunus haunted. Here in close recess, With flowers, garlands, and 9weet-smelling herbs, Espoused Eve deck'd first her nuptial bed, And heav'nly choirs the hymensean sung, What day the genial Angel to our sire Brought her, in naked beauty more adorn'd, More lovely than Pandora, whom the gods Endow'd with all their gifts, and, O too like In 9ad event, when to the unwiser son Of Japhet, brought by Hermes, she ensnpr'd Mankind with her fair looks, to be aveng'd On him who had stole Jove's authentic fire. Thus, at their shady lodge arriv'd, both stood, Both turn'd, and under open sky ador'd The God that made both sky, air, earth, and heaveD,

Which they beheld, the moon's replendent globe, And starry pole: 'Tbou also mad'st the night, Maker omnipotent, and thou the day, Which we in our appointed work employ'd Have tinish'd happy in our mutual help And mutual love, the crown of all bliss Ordain'd by thee, and this delicious place

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JOHN MILTON. For us too large, where thy abundance wants Partaken, and nncropt falls to the ground. But thou hast promis'd from us two a race To fill the earth, who shall with us extol Thy goodness infinite, both when we wake, And when we seek, as now, thy gift of sleep. 6) Satan't Survey of Greece. (From 'Paradise Regained.') Westward, much nearer by southwest, behold, Where on the dSgean shore a city stands, Built nobly, pure the air, and light the soil; Athens, the eye of Greece, mother of arts And eloquence, native to famous wits Or hospitable, in her sweet recess, City or suburban, studious walks and shades. See there the olive grove of Academe, Plato's retirement, where the Attic bird Trills her thick-warbled notes the summer long; There flowery hill Hymettus, with the sound Of bees' industrious murmur, oft invites To studious musing; there Ilissus rolls His whispering stream: within the walls then view The schools of ancient sages; his, who bred Great Alexander to subdue the world, Lyceum there, and painted Stoa next: There shalt thou hear and learn the secret power Of harmony, in tones and numbers hit By voice or hand; and various-measur'd verse, jEolian charms and Dorian lyric odes, And his, who gave them breath, but higher sung, Blind Melesigenes, thence Homer call'd, Whose poem Phoebus challeng'd for his own: Thence what the lofty grave tragedians taught In chorus or Iambic, teachers best Of moral prudence, with delight receiv'd In brief sententious precepts, while they treat Of fate, and chance, and change in human life, High actions and high passions best describing:

Thence to the famous orators repair, Those ancient, whose resistless eloquence Wielded at will that fierce démocratie, Shook the arsenal, and fulmin'd over Greece, To Macedon and Artaxerxes' throne: . To sage Philosophy n o t lend thine ear, From heaven descended to the low-roofd house Of Socrates; see there his tenement, Whom well inspir'd the oracle pronounc'd Wisest of men; from whose mouth issued forth Mellifluous streams, that water'd all the schools Of Academics old and new, with those Surnam'd Peripatetics, and the sect Epicurean, and the Stoic severe; These here revolve, or, as thou lik'st, at home, Till time mature thee to a kingdom's weight; These rules will render thee a king complete Within thyself, much more with empire join'd.

5) FROM THE SONNETS. ('On hit being arrived to the age of twenty-three.') How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth. Stolen on his wing my three and twentieth year! My basting days fly on with full career, But my late spring no bud or blossom show'th. Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth. That I to manhood am arrived so near, And inward ripeness doth much less appear, That some more timely-happy spirits endu'th. Yet, be it less or more, or soon or slow, It shall be still in strictest measure even To that same lot, however mean or high, Toward which Time leads m e , and the will of Heaven; All is, if I have grace to use it so, As ever in my great Taskmaster's eye.

IV. SAMUEL BUTLER, der Sohn eines Farmer's, wurde 1612 zu Stresham in Worcestershire geboren. Wir besitzen nur wenige Nachrichten Uber ihn; es ist zweifelhaft, ob er eine Universität besuchte:

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dran wenn er neb aueb einige Jahre in Cambridge aufhielt, so ist doch nicht ermittelt, ob er immatrikulirt war. Wir finden ihn später in der Familie der Gräfin von Kent und dann, vahracheinlich als Erzieher, in der des Sir Samuel Luke, eines hohen Beamten unter CrortnotU, der ihm zum Vorbilde seines 'Hudibras' gedient haben soll. Nach der Restauration wurde er Geheimicbreiber des Graft» von Corbery. Durch den Verlust des Vermögens seiner Frau wurde er genothigt . zu Schriftstellern und veröffentlichte 1663 den ersten, 1664 den zweiten und 1 6 7 8 den dritten Theil seines komischen Heldengedichtes 'Hudibras.' Es wurde zwar mit ungemeinem Beifalle aufgenommen, brachte aber dem Dichter weiter nichts ein, als ein gelegentliches Geschenk des Königs von l. 300, was um so auffallender ist, als er durch diese Satire der königlichen Sache einen nicht unwesentlichen Dienst leistete. Er starb in grosser Armuth, 1680: ein Freund musste ihn auf seine Kosten begraben lassen. — Scrymgeour sagt Qber den 'Hudibras': 'The idea of the piece is of course borrowed from Cervantes; but there is no resemblance between the two works. Hudibras is thoroughly EnglishThe whole poem is a continual sparkle of brillancy, adorned by the resources of immense learning; language, character and imagery are moulded at the author's will. No rhyme is so complicated that he wants words to form its counterpart; no image so remote that his band cannot compel it into his service. The work in unfinished and, from (he range of years over which it waa published, the plan is desultory and incompact. The perusal of Hudibras is diet so solid, that it should be taken by little at a time. It is one of those works whose epigrammatic practical wisdom has woven itself into the phraseology of the language. The popularity of Hudibras caused forgeries of the author's style after his death. 'Genuine remains' in prose and verse, were published in 1759, by Mr. Thyer, from manuscripts left in possession of Buttler's friend Mr. Longueville.' Eine vortreffliche Uebersetzuug des H. haben wir von Soltau, Königsb., 1798.

1) CHARACTER OF SIR HUDIBRAS. He was in logic a great critic, Profoundly skill'd in analytic: He could distinguish and divide A hair 'twixt south and south-west side; On either which he would dispute, Confute, cbauge hands, and still confute; H'd run in debt by disputation, And pay with ratiocination: All this by syllogism true, In mood and figure he would do. For rhetoric, he could not ope His mouth, but out there flew a trope: And when he happen'd to break off I' th' middle of bis speech, or cough, H' had hard words ready to show why, And tell what rules he did it by: Else when with greatest art he spoke, Y o u ' d think he talk'd like other folk; For all a rhetorician's rules

Teach nothing but to name his tools. But when he pleas'd to sbow't, his speech In loftiness of sound was rich; A Babylonish dialect, Which learned pedauts much affect : It was a party-coloured dress Of patched and pic-bald languages: 'T was English cut on Greek and Latin, As fustian heretofore on satin. It had an odd promiscuous tone, As if he had talk'd three parts in one: Which made some think when he did gabble, They had heard three labourers of Babel, Or Cerberus himself pronounce A leash of languages at once. This he as volubly would vent, As if his stock would ne'er be spent: And truly to support that charge, He had supplies as vast and large; For he could coin or counterfeit New words, with little or no wit;

SAMUEL BUTLER. Words ao debased and hard, no stone Was hard enough to touch them on: And where with hasty noise he spoke 'em, The ignorant for current took 'em: That had the orator, who once Did fill his mouth with pebble stones, When he haraogu'd, but known bis phrase, He would have used no other ways. In mathematics be was greater, Than Tycbo Brahe or Erra Pater; For be, by geometric scale, Could take the size of pots of ale; Resolve by sines and tangents straight, If bread or butter wanted weight; And wisely tell what hour o' th' day The clock does strike by algebra. Beside he was a shrewd philosopher, And had read ev'ry text and gloss over; Whate'er the crabbed'st author hath, He understood b' implicit faith: Whatever sceptic could inquire for, For ev'ry why he had a wherefore; Knew more than forty of them do, As far as words and terms could go; All which he understood by rote, And, as occasion serv'd, could quote: No matter, whether right or wrong; They might be either said or sung. *

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For his religion, it was fit To match his learning aud his wit: 'T was Presbyterian true blue; For he was of that stubborn crew Of errant saints, whom all men grant To be the true Church Militant; Such as do build their faith upon The holy text of pike and gun: Decide all controversies by Infallible artillery; And prove their doctrine orthodox By apostolic blows and knocks; Call fire, and sword, and desolation, A godly, thorough Reformation, Which always must be carried on, And still be doing, never done; As if Religion were intended

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For nothing else but to be mended: A sect whose chief devotion lie* In odd perverse antipathies; In falling ont with that or this, And finding somewhat still amiss; More peevish, cross, and splenetic, Than dog distract, or monkey sick; That with more care keep holy-da; The wrong, than others the right way; Compound for sins they are inclined to, By damning those they have no mind to: Still so perverse and opposite, As if they worshipp'd God for spite: The self-same thing they will abhor One way, and long another for: Free-will tbey one way disavow, Another, nothing else allow: All piety consists therein In them, in other men all sin: Rather than fail, they will defy That which they love most tenderly; Quarrel with minced pies, and disparage Their best and dearest friend, plum-porridge; Fat pig and goose itself oppose, And blaspheme custard through the nose. Thus was he gifted and accoutred, We mean on th' inside, not the outward: That next of all we shall discuss; Then listen, Sirs, it follows thus. His tawny beard waa th' equal grace Both of his wisdom and his face; In cut and dye so like a tile, A sudden view it would beguile; The upper part whereof was whey, The nether orange, mix'd with grey. • • • • His back, or rather burthen, show'd As if it stoop'd with its own load: For as iEneas bore his sire Upon his shoulders through the fire, Our Knight did bear no less a pack Of his own buttocks on his back; Which now had almost got the upper* Hand of his head for want of crupper i To poise this equally, be bore A paunch of the same bulk before,

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Which «till he had a tpccial care To keep well cramm'd with thrifty fare; At white-pot, butter-milk, and curds, Such u a country house afford«; With other victual, which anon We farther shall dilate upon, When of hit how we come to treat, The cupboard where he kept hi« meat. Hi» doublet waa of sturdy buff. And though not sword, yet cudgel-proof, Whereby 'twas fitter for bis use. Who fear'd no blows but such as bruise. His breeches were of rugged woollen, And had been at the siege of Bullen; To old King Harry so well known, Some writers held they were his own: Through they were lined with many a piece Of ammunition bread and cheese, And fat black puddings, proper food For warriors that delight in blood: For as we said, he always chose T o carry vittle in his hose, That often tempted rats and mice The ammunition to surprise; And when he put a hand but in The one or t' other magazine, They stoutly in defence o n ' t stood, And from the wounded foe drew blood, And till th' were storm'd and beaten out, Ne'er left the fortified redoubt: And though knights-errant, as some think, Of old did neither eat nor drink, Because when thorough deserts vaat, And regions desolate, they past, Where belly-timber above ground, Or under, was not to be found. Unless they grazed, there's not one word Of their provision on record; Which made some confidently write, They had no stomachs but to fight: 'Tis false ; for Arthur wore in hall Sound table like a farthingal, On which, with shirt pull'd out behind, And eke before, his good knights dined; Though 'twas no lable some suppose. But a huge pair of round trunk hose,

In which he carried as much meat As he and all the knights could eat, When laying by their swords and truncheons, They took their breakfasts or their luncheons. But let that pass at present, lest We should forget where we digrest, As learned authors use, to whom We leave it, and to th' purpose come.

2) HIS SWORD AND DAGGER. His puissant sword unto his side, Near his undaunted heart, was tied, With basket-hilt that would hold broth, And serve for fight and dinner both! In it he melted lead for bullets To shoot at foes, and sometimes pullets, To whom he bore so fell a grutcb, He ne'er gave quarter to any such. The trenchant blade, Toledo trusty, For want of fighting was grown rusty, And ate into itself, for lack Of somebody to hew and hack: The peaceful scabbard, where it dwelt, The rancour of its edge had felt; For of the lower end two handful It had devoured, 'twas so manful, And so much scorn'd to lurk in case, As if it durst not show its face. » * » * This sword a dagger had, his page, That was but little for liis age, And therefore waited on him so, As dwarfs upon knights-erraut do: It was a serviceable dudgeon, Either for fighting or for drudging: When it had stabb'd, or broke a head, It would scrape trenchers, or chip bread, Toast cheese or bacon; though it were To bait a mouse-trap, 'twould not care: 'Twould make clean shoes, and in the earth Set leeks and onions, and so forth: It had been 'prentice to a brewer, Where this and more it did endure,

SAMUEL BUTLER. B a t left the trade, a* many more

I And, if tbou hast the heart t o try it,

Have lately done on the l a m e score.

I I'll lend thee back thyself a while,

In th' holsters, at hi* saddle-bow,

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And once more, for that carcase vile,

Two aged pistols he did stow,

Fight upon tick. — Q u o t h Hudibras,

Among the surplus of such meat

Tbou offer'st nobly, valiant las«,

As in his hose he could n o t g e t ;

And I shall take thee at thy word.

These would inveigle rats with th' scent,

First let me rise and take my sword;

T o forage when the cocks were bent.

T h a t sword which has so oft this day

And sometimes catch them with a snap,

T h r o u g h squadrons of my foes made way,

As cleverly as th' ablest t r a p :

And some to other worlds dispatcht,

They were u p o n hard duty still,

Now with a feeble spinster matcbt,

And every night stood sentinel.

Will blush, with blood ignoble stain'd,

T o guard the magazine i' th' hose

By which no h o n o u r ' s to be gain'd:

From two-legg'd and from four legg'd foes.

But if thou'It take m ' advise in this, Consider, whilst thou may'st, what 'tis T o interrupt a victor's course, B ' opposing such a trivial force :

3) COMBAT BETWEEN TRULLA AND HUDIBRAS.

F o r if with conquest I come off

This said, be jogg'd his good steed nigher,

Quarter thou canst not have, nor grace,

And steer'd bim gently towards the Squire,

(And that I shall do sure enough), By law of arms, in such a case;

Then bowing down bis body, stretched

Both which I now do offer freely.

His hand out, and at Ralpho reach'd;

I scorn (quoth she), thou coxcomb silly,

When Trulla, whom he did not mind,

Quarter or counsel from a f o e ;

Charged him like lightening behind.

If thou canst force me to it, do,

She h a d been long in search about

But lest it should again be said,

Magnano's wound, to find it out,

When I have once more won thy bead,

But could find none, n o r where the shot

I took thee napping, unprepared,

T h a t bad so startled him was g o t :

Arm, and betake thee to thy guard.

But, having found the worst was past, She fell to ber own work at last,

This said, she to her tackle fell, And on the Knight let fall a peal

Tbe pillage of the prisoners,

Of blows so fierce, and press'd so bome,

W h i c h in all feats of arms was h e r ' s ;

T h a t he retired, and follow'd's b u m .

And now to plunder Ralph she flew,

Stand t o ' t (quoth she), or yield t o mercy;

W h e n Hudibra's hard fate drew

It is not fighting arsie-versie

T o succour h i m ; for as he bow'd

Shall serve tby turn. — This slirr'd bis spleen

T o help bim up, she laid a load

More than tbe danger he was in,

Of blows so heavy, and placed so well,

T h e blows be felt, or was to feel,

On th' other side, that down he fell.

Although th' already made him r e e l ;

Yield, scoundrel base (quoth she), or d i e ;

H o n o u r , despite, revenge, and shame,

T h y life is mine, and liberty;

At once into his stomach c a m e ;

But if thou tbink'st I took thee tardy,

Which fired it so, he raised his arm

And dar'st presume to be so hardy

Above his bead, and rain'd a storm

T o try tby fortune o'er afresh,

Of blows to terrible and thick,

I'll wave my title to tby flesh,

As if he meant to hash her quick:

Thy arms and baggage, now my right,

B u t she upon her truncheon took them,

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SAMUEL BUTLER. — ANDREW MARVELL.

And by oblique diversion broke them, Waiting an opportunity T o pay all back with usury, Which long ahe fail'd not o f ; for now The Knight with one dead-doing blow Resolving to decide the fight, And she with quick and running sleight Avoiding it, the force and weight He charged npon it was so great, As alfiiost sway'd him to the ground: No sooner she th' advantage found. But in she flew; and seconding, With home-made thrust, the heavy swing, She laid him flat upon his side, And, mounting on bis trunk astride, Quoth she, I told thee what would come Of all thy vapouring, base scum: Say, will the law of arms allow I may have grace and quarter now ? Or wilt thou rather break thy word, And stain thine honour, than thy sword? A man of war to damn his soul, In basely breaking his parole; And when before the fight, th' had'st vow'd To give no quarter in cold blood; Now thou hast got me for a Tartar, To make me against my will take quarter, Why dost not put me to the sword, But cowardly fly from thy word? Quoth Hudibras, The day's thine own; Thou and thy stars have cast me down: My laurels are transplanted now, And flourish on thy conquering brow:

My loss of honour's great enough, Thou need'st not brand it with a scoff: Sarcasms may eclipse thine own, But cannot blur my lost renown: I am not now in Fortune's power, He that is down can fall no lower. The ancient heroes were illustrious For being benign, and not blustroua Against a vanquish'd foe: their swords Were sharp and trenchant, not their words; And did in fight bnt cut work out T' employ their courtesies about. Quoth she, Although thou hast deserved, Base Slubberdegullion, to be served As thou didst vow to deal with me, If thou hadst got the victory; Yet I shall rather act a part That suits my fame, than thy desert. Thy arms, thy liberty, beside All t h a t ' s on th' outside of thy hide, Are mine by military law, Of which I will not bate one straw; The rest, thy life and limbs, once more, Though doubly forfeit, I restore. •

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This said, the Knight did straight submit And laid his weapons at her feet. Next he disrobed his gabardine, And with it did himself resign. She took it, and forthwith divesting The mantle that she wore, said, jesting, Take that, and wear it for my sake: Then threw it o'er his sturdy back.

V. ANDREW MARVELL, geb. 1 6 2 0 , zu Hull, wo sein Vater Prediger war. Er studirte zu Cambridge und ging dann einige Zeit auf Reisen: in Rom machte er Milton's Bekanntschaft uud wurde später dessen GehQlfe in seinem Amte als lateinischer Geheimschreiber. Kurz vor der Restauration wühlte ihn seine Vaterstadt zu ihren Vertreter im Parlamente, wo er durch seine Rechtlichkeit allgemein geachtet war: er soll Übrigens das letzte Parlamentsmitglied gewesen sein, welches von seinen Wählern DiHten — 2 Schilling tfiglich — erhielt. Karl II., der seine Oesellschaft liebte, Hess ihm eine Stelle bei Hofe und ein Geschenk von /. 1000 anbieten. Beides schlug M. aus. Kaum hatte sich aber der von Karl an ihn abgesandte Lord Danby entfernt, als M. gezwungen war, zu einem Freunde zu schicken, um eine

ANDREW MARVELL.

1Ä

Guinee 10 borgen! Er «tarb am 16. Auguit 1 6 7 8 , ganz plötzlich, ohne irgend welche Zeichen einer Krankheit, was zu dem Gerüchte Veranlassung gab, er »ei vergiftet worden. Seine Vaterstadt wollte ihm ein Denkmal errichten, aber der Hof verbot es. Seine prosaischen Schriften, in welchen er hauptstchlich die Gegner des Parlaments angriff, waren ihrer Zeit sehr beliebt. Eine von ihm anonym herausgegebene Abhandlung wurde für so gefahrlich gehalten, dass die Regierung eine Belohnung auf die Entdeckung des Verfassers setzte. Seine Dichtungen zeichnen sich durch eine gewisse Eleganz, Wftrme und edles Gefühl aus. Sie erschienen nebst Mittheilungen Uber sein Leben, in 2 Bdn., Lond. 1726.

1) BERMUDAS. When the remote Bermudas ride, In the ocean's bosom unespied, From a small boat, that row'd along, The list'ning winds receiv'd this song: ' What should we do but sing his praise, That led us through the watfry maze, Unto an isle so long unknown, And yet far kinder than our own ? Where be the huge sea-monsters wracks, That lift the deep upon their backs, He lands us on a grassy stage, Safe from the storms, and prelate's rage. He gave us this eternal spring, Which here enamels every thing; And sends the fowls to us in care, On daily visits thro' the air. He hang» in shades the orange bright, Like golden lamps in a green night; And in the pomegranates close Jewels more rich than Ormus shows, He makes the figs our mouths to meet; And throws the melons at our feet; But apples plants of such a price, No tree could ever bear them twice. With cedars, chosen by his hand, From LebanoD, he stores the land; And makes the hollow seas, that roar, Proclaim the ambergrease on shore. He cast (of which we rather boast) The gospel's pearl upon our coast; And in these rocks for us did frame A temple, where to sound his name. Oh! let our voice his praise exalt, n.

Till it arrive at Heaven's vault: Which, thence (perhaps) rebounding, may, Echo beyond the Mesique Bay. Thus sung they in the English boat, An holy and a cheerful note; And all the way, to guide their chime, With falling oars they kept the time.'

2) THE NYMPH COMPLAINING FOR THE DEATH OP HER FAWN. The wanton troopers riding by, Have shot my fawn, and it will die. Ungentle men! they cannot thrive Who kill'd thee. Thou ne'er didst alive Them any barm: alas! nor could Tby death yet do them any good. I'm sure I never wish'd them ill; Nor do I for all this, nor will: But, if my simple pray'rs may yet Prevail with Heaven to forget Thy murder, I will join my tears, Rather than fail. But, O my fears! It cannot die so. Heaven's King Keeps register of every tbir.g: And nothing may we use in vain, Ev'n beasts must be with justice slain; Else men are made their deodands. Though they should wash their guilty hands In this warm life-blood, wbicb doth part From thine, and wound me to the heart, Yet could they not be clean: their stain Is dy'd in such a purple grain, There is not such another in The world to offer for their sin. 9

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Inconstant Sylvio, when yet I had not found him counterfeit, One morning (I remember well) Ty'd in this silver chain and bell. Gave it to m e : nay, and I know What he said t h e n , I'm sure I do. Said he, ' L o o k how your huntsman here Hath taught a Fawn to hunt his Deer.' But Sylvio soon had me beguil'd: This waxed tame, while h e grew wild, And quite regardless of my smart. Left me his fawn, but took his H e a r t Thenceforth I set myself to play My solitary time away, With this: and, very well content, Could so mine idle life have spent. For it was full of sport, and light Of foot and heart, and did invite Me to its game: it seem'd to bless Itself in me. How could I less Than love it ? Oh I cannot be Unkind t' a beast that loveth me.

I have a garden of my own, But so with roses overgrown, And lilies, that you would it gues* T o be a little wilderness: And all the spring time of the year I t only loved to be there. Among the beds of lilies I Have sought it oft, where it should lie; Yet could not, till itself would rise. Find it, although before mine eyes; For, in the flaxen lilies' shade, It like a bank of lilies laid. ' Upon the roses it would feed, Until its lips ev'n seemed to bleed; And then to m e ' t would boldly trip, And print those roses on my lip. But all its chief delight was still On roses thus itself to fill; And its pure virgin limbs to fold In whitest sheets of lilies cold. Had it lived long, it would have been Lilies without, roses within.

Had it liv'd long, I do not know Whether it too might have done so As Sylvio did: his gifts might be Perhaps as false, or more, than he. For I am sure, for aught that I Could in so short a time espy, Thy love was far more better than The love of false and cruel man.

0 help! O help! I see it faint, And die as calmly as a saint. See how it weeps! the tears do come, Sad, slowly, dropping like a gum. So weeps the wounded balsam; so Tbe holy frankincense doth flow. T h e brotherless Heliades Melt in such amber tears as these.

With sweetest milk, and sugar first, I it at mine own fingers n u r s ' d ; And as it grew, so every day It wnx'd more white and sweet than they. It had so sweet a breath! And oft I blush d to see its foot more soft, And white, shall J say than my band? Nay, any lady's of the land. It is a wondrous thing bow fleet 'Twas on those little silver feet. With what a pretty skipping grace It oft would challenge me the race; And w h e n ' t bad left me far away, 'Twould stay, and run again, and stay. For it was nimbler much than hinds, And trod, as if on tbe four winds.

1 in a golden vial will Keep these two crystal tears; and fill It, till it do o'erflow, with mine; Then place it in Diana's shrine. Now my sweet Fawn is vanish'd to Whither tbe swans and turtles g o ; In fair Elisium to endure, With milk-white lambs, and ermines pure. Oh do not run too fast: for I Will but bespeak tby grave, and die. First my unhappy statue shall Be cut in marble; and withal, Let it be weeping too; but there Th' engraver sure his art may spare, For I so truly thee bemoan, That I shall weep though I be stone;

13!

ANDREW MARVRLL. — JOHN DRYDEN. Until my tear«, still dropping, wear My breast, themselves engraving there. There a t my feet (halt thou be laid,

Of purest alabaster made; For I would have thine image be White as I can, though not a* thee.

VI. JOHN DRYDEN. Geboren 1631, gestorben 1701.

1) ODE T O THE MEMORY OF Mrs. ANNE KILLIGREW. Thou youngest virgin-daughter of the skies, Made in the last promotion of the blest; Whose palms, new pluck'd from paradise, In spreading branches more sublimely rise, Rich with immortal green above the rest: Whether, adopted to some neighbouring star, Thou roll'st above us, in thy wand'ring race, Or, in procession fix'd and regular, Mov'st with the heaven-majestic pace; Or, call'd to more superior bliss, Thou tread'st, with seraphims, the vast abyss: Whatever happy region is thy place, Cease thy celestial song a little space; Thou wilt have time enough for hymns divine, Since heaven's eternal year is thine. Hear, then, a mortal Muse thy praise rehearse, In no ignoble verse ; But such as thine own voice did practice here, When thy first fruits of poesy were given; To make thyself a welcome inmate there: While yet a young probationer, And candidate of heaven. If by traduction came thy mind, Our wonder is the less to find A soul so charming from a stock so good; Thy father was transfus'd into thy blood: So wert thou born iDto a tuneful strain, An early, rich, and »exhausted vein. But if thy pre-existing soul W a s form'd at first with myriads more, It did through all the mighty poets roll,

S. I. Theil des Handbuches p. 83.

W h o Greek or Latin laurels wore, And was that Sappho last, which once it was before. If so, then cease thy flight, O heaven-born • mind! Thou hast no dross to purge from thy rich ore: Nor can thy soul a fairer mansion find Than was the beauteous frame she left behind. Return to fill or mend the choir of thy celestial *

*

kind. *

O gracious God I how far have we Profan'd thy heav'nly gift of poesy ? Made prostitute and profligate the Muse, Debas'd to each obscene and impious use, Whose harmony was first ordain'd above For tongues-of angels, and for hymns of love? O wretched we! why were we hurried down This lubrique and adulterate age, (Nay, added fat pollutions of our own) T' increase the steaming ordures of the stage? What can we say t' excuse our second fall? Let this thy vestal, heaven, atone for all; Her Arethusian stream remains unsoil'd, Unmix'd with foreign filth, and undefil'd; Her wit was more than m a n ; her innocence a *

*

child. *

When in mid-air the golden trump shall sound, To raise the nations under ground; When in the valley of Jehoshaphat, The judging God shall close the book of fate; And there the last assizes keep For those who wake, and those who sleep;

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JOHN DRYDEN.

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The sacred poet« first shall hear the lonnd, And foremost from the tomb shall bound, For they are cover'd with the lightest ground; And straight, with in-born vigour, on the wing. Like mountain larks, to the new morning sing. There thou, sweet saint, before the quire shall go, As harbiDger of heaven, the way to show, The way which thou so well hast learnt below.

2) CHARACTER OF SHAFTESBURY. (From 'Aitalom and Achitophel.') Of these the false Achitophel was first; A name to all succeeding ages curst: For close designs aad crooked counsels fit; Sagacious, bold, and turbulent of wit; Restless, unfix'd in principles and place; In power unpleas'd, impatient of disgrace: A fiery soul, which, working out its way, Fretted the pigmy body to decay, And o'er-inform'd the tenement of clay. A daring pilot in extremity; Pleas'd with the danger when the waves went high, He sought the storms; but, for a calm unfit, Would steer too nigb the sands to boast his wit. Great wits are sure to madness near allied, Aud thin partitions do their bounds divide; Else why should he, with wealth and honour blest, Refuse his age the needful hours of rest? Punish a body which he could not please; Bankrupt of life, yet prodigal of ease? And all to leave what with bis toil he won, To that unfeather'd two-legg'd thing, a son; Got, while his soul did huddled notions try, And born a shapeless lump, like anarchy. In friendship false, implacable in hate; Resolv'd to ruin or to rule the state: To compass this, the triple bond he broke, The pillars of the public safety shook, And fitted Israel for a foreign yoke: Then, seized with fear, yet still affecting fame, Usurp'd a patriot's all-atoning name. So easy still it proves, in factious times, With public zeal to cancel private crimes;

How safe is treason, and how «acred ill Where none can «in against the people's will! Where crowd« can wink, and no offence be known, Since in another'« guilt they find their own! Yet fame deserv'd no enemy can grudge; The stateiman we abhor, but praise the judge. In Israel'a courts ne'er sat an Abethdin With more discerning eyes, or hands more dean, Unbrib'd, unsought, the wretched to redres«, Swift of despatch, and easy of access. Oh! had he been content to serve the crown With virtues only proper for the gown; Or had the rankness of the «oil been freed From cockle, that oppress'd the noble seed; David for him his tuneful harp had strung, And heaven had wanted one immortal song. But wild ambition loves to slide, not stand; And fortune'« ice prefer« to virtue'« land. Achitophel, grown weary to possess A lawful fame, and lazy happiness, Disdain'd the golden fruit to gather free, And lent the crowd his arm to «hake the tree.

3) ENJOYMENT OF THE PRESENT HOUR RECOMMENDED. (From the twenty-ninth ode of the firtt book of Horace.) Enjoy the present smiling hour, And put it out of Fortune's pow'r: The tide of business, like tbe running stream, Is sometimes high, and sometimes low, And always in extreme. Now with a noiseless gentle course It keeps within the middle bed; Anon it lifts aloft the head, And bears down all before it with impetuous force; And trunks of trees come rolling down; Sheep and their folds together drown: Both house and homestead into seas are borne; And rock« are from their old foundations torn; And word«, made thin with winds, their «eatter'd honours mourn.

JOHN DRYDEN. — GEOEGE CHAPMAN. Happy the man, and happy he alone, He who can call to-day hi* own: He who, secure within, can aay, To-morrow do thy worit, for I have liv'd to-day. Be fair or foul, or rain or shine, The joys I have possesa'd, in spite of fate, are mine. - Not heaven itself upon the past has power; But what has been, has been, and I have had my hour. Fortune, that with malicious joy Does man, her slave, oppress, Proud of her office to destroy, Is seldom pleas'd to bless: Still various, and inconstant still, But with an inclination to be ill, Promotes, degrades, delights in strife, And makes a lottery of life. I can enjoy her while she's kind; But when she dances in the wind, And shakes her wings, and will not stay, I puff the prostitute away:

DIE

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The little or the much she gave is quietly resign'd: Content with poverty, my soul I arm; And virtue, though in rags, will keep me warm. What is't to me, Who never sail in her unfaithful sea, If storms arise, and clouds grow black; If the mast split, and threaten wreck? Then let the greedy merchant fear For his ill-gotten gain; And pray to gods that will not hear, While the debating winds and billows bear His wealth into the main. For me, secure from Fortune's blows, Secure of what I cannot lose, In my small pinnace I can sail, Contemning all the blustering roar; And running with a merry gale, With friendly stars my safety seek, Within some little winding creek, And see the storm ashore.

DRAMATIKER.

I. GEORGE CHAPMAN, geb. 1557., gest. 1634., studirte zu Oxford und Cambridge und genoss der Gunst Jakob's und des Prinzen Heinrich, so wie der Freundschaft Spenser's, Jonsoris und Shakspeare's. Von seinen sechszehn Theaterstücken, in denen sich manches Gelungene befindet, obschon es ihnen an dramatischem Leben fehlt, sind die bekanntesten: 'Bussy d'Ambois,' 'Byron's Conspiracy,' 'AU Fools,' ' T h e Gentleman Usher' und 'Widow's Tears.' Grösseres Verdienst hat CA. durch seine Uebersetzungen des Homer und Hesiod; seine Uebersetzung des Homer wird vielleicht häufiger gelesen, als die von Pope.

1) FROM: BUSSY D'AMBOIS, A TRAGEDY. (A nuntius or Messenger in the presence of King Henry the Third of France and his court tells the manner of a combat, to which he was witness, of three to three; in which D'Ambois

remained sole survivor: begun upon an affront passed upon D'Ambois by some courtiers.) Henry, Guise, Beanpre, Nnntiui etc. Nun/ius. I saw fierce D'Ambois and bis two brave friends Enter the field, and at their heels their foes,

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GEORGE CHAPMAN.

Which were the famous soldier«, Barruor, L'Anou, and Pyrrhot, great in deeds of arms: All which arriv'd at the evenest piece of earth The field afforded, the three challengers Turn'd head, drew all their rapiers, and stood

Pyrrhot with Melynell; with Brisac L'Anou: And then like flame and powder they commixt, So sprightly, that 1 wish'd they had been Spirits; That the ne'er-sbutting wounds, they needs must open,

rank'd; When face to face the three defendants met them, Alike prepar'd, and resolute alike. Like bonfires of contributory wood Every man's look shew'd, fed with other's spirit; As one bad been a mirror to another, Like forms of life and death each took from other:

Might as they open'd shut, and never kill. But D'Ambois' sword (that light'ned as it flew) Shot like a pointed comet at the face Of manly Barrisor; and there it stuck: Thrice pluck'd he at i t , and thrice drew on

And so were life and death mix'd at their heights, That you could see no fear of death (for life) Nor love of life (for death): but in their brows Pyrrho's opinion in great letters shone; That 'life and death in all re*pects are one.' Henry. Past there no sorts of words at their encounter? Nim/iw. As Hector twixt the hosts of Greece and Troy, When Paris and the Spartan king should end The nine years' war, beld up his brazen lance For signal that both hosts should cease from arms, And hear him speak: so Barrisor (advis'd) Advanc'd his naked rapier 'twist both sides, Ript up the quarrel, and compar'd six lives Then laid in balance with six idle words; Offer'd remission and contrition too: Or else that he and D'Ambois might conclude The others' danger. D'Ambois lik'd the last: But Barrisor's friends, (being equally engag'd In the main quarrel,) never would expose His life alone to that they all deserv'd. And (for the other offer of remission) D'Ambois (that like a laurel put in fire Sparkled and spit) did much much more than scorn That his wrong should incense him so like chaff To go so soon out, and, like lighted paper, Approve his spirit at once both fire and ashes: So drew they lots, snd in them fate* appointed That Barruor should fight with fiery D'Ambois;

thrusts From him, that of himself was free as fire; Who thrust still, as he pluck'd, yet (past belief) He with his subtil eye, hand, body, 'scap'd; At last the deadly bitten point tugg'd off, On fall his yet undaunted foe so fiercely That (only made more horrid with his wound) Great D'Ambois shrunk, and gave a little ground: But soon retun'd, redoubled in his danger, And at the heart of Barrisor seal'd his anger. Then, as in Arden I have seen an oak Long shook with tempests, and his lofty top Bent to his root, which being at length made loose (Even groaning with his weight) he 'gan to nod This way and that, as loth bis curled brows (Which he had oft wrapt in the sky with storms) Should stoop; and yet, his radical fibres burst, Storm-like he fell, and hid the fear-cold earth; So fell stoutBarrisor, that bad stood tbe shocks Of ten set battles in your highness' war 'Gainst the sole soldier of the world Navarre. Guise. O piteous and horrid murder! Beaitpre. Such a life Methinks had metal in it to survive An age of men. Henry. Such often soonest end. Tby felt report calls on; we long to know On what events the others have arrived. Nuntius.

Sorrow and fury, like two opposite fumes Met in the upper region of a cloud, At the report made by this worthy's fall, Brake from the earth, and with them rose Revenge,

GEORGE CHAPMAN. Ent'riDg with freih pow'rs hi* two aohle friends: And under that odd« fell surcharg'd Brisac, The friend of D'Amboii, before fierce L'Anou; Which D'Amboit teeing: •« I once did see. In my young travel« through Armenia, An angry unicorm in hi« full career Charge with too iwift a foot a Jeweller That watcht him for the treaaure of hi« brow; And, ere he could get «belter of a tree, Nail him with his rich antler to the earth: So D'Ambois ran upon reveng'd L'Anou, Who eyeing th' eager point borne in his face. And giving back, fell back, and in hi« fall Hi« foe'« uncurb'd «word «topt in bit heart: By which time all thelife-stringa of th' two other Were cut, and both fell (aa their spirit flew) Upward«: and still hunt honour at the view. And now, of all the aiz, aole D'Ambois atood Untouch't, save only with the others' blood. Henry. All «lain outright but he ? Nuntius. All slain outright btit he: Who kneeling in the warm life of bis friends (All freckled with the blood bia rapier rain'd) He kist their pale lips, and bade both farewell. Fahe Greatntn. A« cedars beaten with continual storms, So great men flourish; and do imitate Unskilful statuaries, who suppose, In forming a Colossus, if they make him Straddle enough, strut, and look big, and gape, Their work is goodly: so men merely great, In their affected gravity of voice, Sowernesa of countenance, manners' cruelty, Authority, wealth, and all the «pawn of fortune, Think they bear all the kingdom'« worth before them; Yet differ not from those Colossick statues, Which, with heroic forms without o'erspread, Within are nought but mortar, flint, and lead. Virtue. — Policy. — — as great seamen using all their wealth And skills in Neptune's deep invisible paths,

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l a tall ship* richly built and ribb'd with brass, To put a girdle round about the world; When they have done it, coming near the heaven, Are fain to give a warning piece, and call A poor staid fisherman that never past Hia country's sight, to waft and guide them in: So when we wander furthest through the waves Of glassy Glory, and the gulfs of State, Topt with all titles, spreading all our reaches, As if each private arm would sphere the earth, We must to Virtue for her guide resort, Or we shall shipwreck in our safest port.

FROM: BYRON'S TRAGEDY. (Soliloquy of King Henry deliberating on the death of a traitor.) O thou that governst the keen swords of Kings, Direct my arm in this important stroke; Or hold it, being advanc'd: the weight of blood, Even in the basest subject, doth exact Deep consultation in the highest King: For in one subject, death's nnjust affrights, Passions, and pains, though he be ne'er so poor, Ask more remorse than the voluptuous spleens Of all Kings in the world deserve respect. He should be born grey-headed that will bear The weight of Empire. Judgment of the life, Free state and reputation of a Man, (If it be just and worthy) dwells so dark, That it denies access to sun and moon: Tbe soul's eye, sharpen'd with that sacred light Of whom the sun itself is but a beam, Must only give that judgment. O how much Err those Kings then, that play with life and death; Anil nothing put into their serious states But humour and their lusts; for which alone Men long for kingdoms: whose huge counterpoise In cares and dangers could a fool comprise, He would not be a King, but would be wise. -

CHRISTOPHER MARLOW.

13«

E CHRISTOPHER MARLOW, geb. 1562., «oll der Sohn eines Scbuhmachera zu Canterbury gewesen sein. Er erhielt seine Bildung in Cambridge, wurde dann Schauspieler, starb aber schon im Jahre 1592 an einer Wunde, die ihm mit seinem eignen Dolche beigebracht.wurde. Ein altes Lied sagt darüber; His lust was lawless as his life, And brought about his death; For in a deadly mortal strife, Striving to stop the breath Of one who was his rival foe, With bis own dagger slain, He groaned and word spoke never woe, Pierced through the eye and brain. Ausser einer Anzahl vermischter Gedichte schrieb er acht Theaterstücke, welche viele Stellen von hober poetischer Schönheit enthalten. Die vorzüglichsten sind: 'Tamburlaine,' 'Life and Death of Dr. Faustus,' 'The Jew of Malta,' und 'Edward the Second.'

PROM: EDWARD THE SECOND, A TRAGEDY. (The King being deposed, surrenders his crown into the bands of the Bishop of Winchester and the Earl of Leicester at Killingworth Castle.) Lei.

Be patient, good my lord, cease to lament, Imagine Killingworth castle were your court, And that you lay for pleasure here a space, Not of compulsion or necessity. Edxc. Leister, if gentle words might comfort me, The speeches long ago had eas'd my sorrows; For kind and loving bast thou always been. The griefs of private men are soon allay'd, But not of kings. The forest deer being struck, Runs to an herb that closeth up the wounds; But when the imperial lion's flesh is gor'd, He rends and tears it with his wrathful paw, And highly scorning that the lowly earth Should drink his blood, mounts up to th' air. And so it fares with me, whose dauntless mind Tb' ambitious Mortimer would seek to curb, And that unnatural queen, false Isabel, That thus hath pent and mew'd me in a prison:

For such outrageous passions claw my sonl, As with the wings of rancour and disdain Full oft am I soaring up to high beav'n, To 'plain me to the gods against them both. But when I call to mind I am a king, Methinks I should revenge me of the wrongs That Mortimer and Isabel have done. But what are kings, when regiment is gone, But perfect shadows in a sunshine day? My nobles rule, I bear the name of king; I wear the crown, but am controul'd by them, By Mortimer, and my unconstant queen, Who spots my nuptial bed with infamy; Whilst I am lodg'd within this cave of care, Where sorrow at my elbow still attends, To company my heart with sad laments, That bleeds within me for this strange exchange. But tell me, must I now resign my crown, To make usurping Mortimer a king? Bisk. Your grace mistakes, it is for England's good, And princely Edward's right, we crave the crown. Echo. No, 'tis for Mortimer, not Edward's head; For h e ' s a lamb, encompassed by wolves, Which in a moment will abridge his live. But if proud Mortimer do wear this crown,

CHRISTOPHER MARLOW. Heav'n* turn it to a blaze of quenchless fire, Or like the snaky wreath of Tisiphon, Engirt the temple« of his hateful head; So shall not England's vines be perished, But Edward's name survive, though Edward dies. Lei. My lord, why waste you thus the time away? They stay your answer, will you yield your crown? Edw- Ah, Leister, weigh how hsrdly I can brook To lose my crown and kingdom without cause; To give ambitious Mortimer my right, That like a mountain overwhelms my bliss, In which extreme my mind here murther'd is. But what the beav'ns appoint, I must obey. Here, take my crown; the life of Edward too; Two kings in England cannot reign at once — But stay awhile, let me be king till night, That I may gaze upon this glittering crown; So shall my eyes receive their last content, My bead the latest honour due to it, And jointly both yield up their wished right. Continue ever, thou celestial sun; Let never silent night possess this clime; Stand still, you watches of the element; AH times and seasons, rest you at a stay, That Edward may be still fair England's king. But day's bright beam doth vanish fast away, And needs I must resign my wished crown; Inhuman creatures ! nurs'd with tiger's milk! Why gape you for your sovereign's overthrow? My diadem I mean, and guiltless life. See, monsters see, I '11 wear my crown again. What, fear you not the fury of your king? But, hapless Edward, thou art fondly led, They pass not for thy frowns as late they did, But seek to make a new-elected king; Which fills my mind with strange despairing thoughts, Which thoughts are martyred with endless torments, And in this torment comfort find I none, But that I feel the crown upon my head; And therefore let me wear it yet awhile.

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Metsenger. My lord, the parliament mast have present new«, And therefore say, will you resign or no 7 Edw. I 'II not resign! but whilst I live be king. Traitors be gone, and join with Mortimer. Elect, conspire, install, do what yon will; Their blood and yours shall seal these treacheries I Bisk. This answer we '11 return, and so farewell. Lei. Call them again, my lord, and speak them fair; For if they go, the prince shall lose his right. Edwi Call thou them back, I have no power to-speak. Lei. My lord, the king is willing to resign. Biih. If he be not, let him choose. Edw. O Would I might! but heav'n and earth conspire To make me miserable! here, receive my crown; Receive it? no, these innocent hands of mine Shall not be guilty of so foul a crime. He of you all that most desires my blood, And will be called the murtberer of a king, Take it. What, are you mov'd? pity you me? Then send for unrelenting Mortimer, And Isabel, whose eyes, being turn'd to steel, Will sooner sparkle fire than shed a tear. Yet stay, for rather than I will look on them, Here, here; now sweet God of heav'n, Make me despire this transitory pomp, And sit for ever inthroniz'd in heav'n! Come death, and with thy fingers close my eyes, Or, if I live, let me forget myself. Berkley Cattle. The King it lejl alone with Lightbom, a murderer. Edw. Who's there? what light is that ? wherefore com'st thou? Light. To comfort you, and bring you joyful news. Edw. Small comfort finds poor Edward in thy looks. Villain, I know thou com'st to murder me.

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lAght. To murder yon, my moit gracious lord! Far it it from my heart to do you harm. The queen sent me to tee how you were us'd, For the relents at thit your mitery: And what eyet can refrain from thedding tears, To tee a king in thit moit piteout ttate. Edw. Weep'tt thou already ? list a while to me And then thy heart, were it at Gurney't it, Or at Matrevit', hewn from the Caucasus, Tet will it melt, ere I have done my tale. Thit dungeon where they keep me it a sink Wherein the filth of all the cattle fallt. Light. O villains! Edw. And there, in mire and puddle have I stood Thit ten days' space; and lest that I should sleep, One plays continually upon a drum. They give me bread and water, being a king; So that, for want of sleep and sustenance, My mind't distemper'd, and my body's numb'd And whether I have limbs or no, I know not. 0 would my blood drop out from every vein, As doth thit water from my tattered robes. Tell Isabel the queen, I look'd not thus, When for her sake I ran a tilt in France, And there unhors'd the duke of Clermont. Light. O speak no more, my lord! this breaks my heart. Lie on thit bed, and rest yourself awhile. Edw. These looks of tbine can harbour nought but death: 1 see my tragedy written in thy brows. Yet stay awhile, forbear thy bloody hand, And let me tee the ttroke before it comes. That even then when I shall lose my life, My mind may be more stedfast on my God. Light. What means your highness to mistrust me thus ?

Edw.

What mean'st thou to dissemble with me thut? Light. Thete hands were never stain'd with innocent blood, Nor shall they now be tainted with a king's. Edw. Forgive my thought, for having such a thought. One jewel have I left, receive thou this. Still fear I, and I know not what's the cause, But every joint shakes as I give it thee. 0 if thou harbour'st murder in thy heart, Let the gift change thy mind, and save thy 80ul. Know that I am a king: Oh, at that name 1 feel a hell of grief. Where is my crown ? Gone, gone, and do I still remain alive ? Light. Tou 're overwatfch'd my lord, lie down and rest. Edw. But that grief keeps me waking, I should sleep; For not these ten days have these eyelids closed. Now as I speak they fall, and yet with fear Open again. O wherefore sitt'st tbou here? Light. If you mistrust me, I'll be gone, my lord. Edw. No, no, for if thou mean'st to murder me, Tbou wilt return again; and therefore stay. Light. He sleeps. Edw. O let me not die; yet stay, 0 stay awhile. Light. How now, my lord? Edw. Something still buzzeth in mine ears, And tells me if I sleep I never wake; This fear is that which makes me tremble thus. And therefore tell me, wherefore art thou come? Light. To rid thee of tby life; Matrevis, come. Edw. I am too weak and feeble to resist: Assist me, sweet God, and receive my soul.

WILLIAM 8HAKSPEàKE

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HL WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE, geb. 1564, gest. 1616. S. pag. 77. — Die fllnfunddreissig Stücke, welche wir von ihm besitzen, erschienen nach Mahne zwischen 1591 und 1614 in folgender Ordnung: Love's Labour Lost; King Henry IV. (drei Theile); Two Gentlemen of Verona; The Winter's Tale; A MidsummerNight's Dream; Romeo and Juliet; The Comedy of Errors; Hamlet; King John; King Richard II.; King Richard HI.; Henry IV. (erster Theil); Merchant of Venice; All's Well that Ends Well; King Henry IV. (zweiter Theil); King Henry V.; Much Ado about Nothing; As You Like It; The Merry Wives of Windsor; King Henry VHI.; Troilus and Cresaida; Measure for Measure; Cymbeline; King Lear; Macbeth; The Taming of the Shrew; Julius Ctessr; Antony and Cleopatra; Coriolanus; Timon of Athens; Othello; The Tempest; What You Will. — Acht andere, welche man ihm gewöhnlich zuschreibt, werden von den e n g l i s c h e n Kommentatoren verworfen.

1) FROM: THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. (Deteription of a Moonlight Night teiih Jhte Mwtie.) Lorenzo.

The moon shines bright: in such a night as this, When the sweet wind did gently kiss the trees, And they did make no noise; in such a night, Troilus, methinks, mounted the Trojan walls, And sigh'd his soul toward the Grecian tents, Where Cressid lay that night. Jessica. In such a night Did Thisbe fearfully o'ertrip the dew; And saw the lion's shadow ere himself, And ran dismay'd away. In such a night Lor. Stood Dido with a willow in her hand Upon the wild sea-baDks, and waft her love To come again to Carthage. Jes. In such a night Medea gather'd the enchanted herbs That did renew old J2son. Lor. In such a night Did Jessica steal from the wealthy Jew, And with an unthriflt love did run from Venice As far as Belmont. Jes. And in such a night ' Did young Lorenzo swear he Iov'd her well; Stealing her soul with many vows of faith, And ne'er a true one. Lor. And in such a night Did pretty Jessica, like a little ahrew, Slander her love, and he forgave it her. * * *

How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank! Here will we sit, and let the sounds of music Creep in our ears; soft stillness, and the night, Become the touches of sweet harmony. Sit, Jessica; look how the floor of heaven Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold; There's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st, But in his motion like kn angel sings, Still quiring to the yoiiDg-eyed cherubims: Such harmony is in immortal souls; But, whilst this muddy vesture of decay Doth grossly close it in, we cannot bear it. Come, ho! and wake Diana with a bymn: With sweetest touches pierce your mistress* ear, And draw her home with music. Jes. I'm never merry when I hear sweet music. Lor. The reason is, your spirits are attentive; For do but note a wild and wanton herd, Or race of youthful and unhandled colts, Fetching mad bounds, bellowing and neighing loud (Which is the hot condition of their blood); If they perchance but hear a trumpet sound, Or any air of music touch their ears, You shall perceive them make a mutual stand; Their savage eyes turn'd to a modest gaze, By the sweet power of music. Therefore the poet Did feign that Orpheus drew trees, stones, and floods, Since nought to stockisb, hard, and full of rage, But music for the time doth change hi« nature.

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The man that hath 110 music in himself, Nor it not mov'd with concord of sweet sounds, Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils ; The motions of his spirit are dull as night, And his affections dark as Erebus : Let no such man be trusted. HiFCtf. The quality of mercy is not strain'd; It droppeth, as the gentle rain from heaven Upon the place beneath: it is twice bless'd; It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes: 'Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes The throned monarch better than his crown: His sceptre shews the force of temporal power, The attribute to awe and majesty, Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings; But mercy is above this scepter'd sway, It is enthroned in the hearts of kings; It is an attribute to God himself; And earthly power dotb then shew likest God's When mercy seasons justice.

2) FROM: OTHELLO. (Othello'i Detcription to the Senate of hit winning the AJfectioru of Detiemana.) Most potent, grave, and reverend signiors, My very noble and approv'd good masters; That I have ta'en away this old man's daughter, It is most true; true, I have married her; The very head and front of my offending Hath this extent, no more. Rude am I in my speech, And little blest with the soft phrase of peace; For since these arms of mine bad seven years' pith, Till now, some in nine moons wasted, they have us'd Their dearest action in the tented field; And little of this great world can I speak, More than pertaius to feats of broil and battle; And therefore shall I little grace my cause In apeaking for myself. Yet by your gracious patience I will a round unvarnish'd tale deliver

Of my whole course of love: what drugs, what charms, What conjuration, and what mighty magic (For such proceeding I am cbarg'd withal) I won his daughter with. Her father lov'd me, oft invited m e ; Still question'd me the story of my life, From year to y e a r / t h e battles, sieges fortunes, That I have past. I ran it through, ev'n from my boyish days, To the very moment that he bade me tell it: Wherein I spoke of most disastrous chances, Of moving accidents by flood and field; Of hair-breadth 'scapes i' th' imminent deadly breach; Of being taken by the insolent foe, And sold to slavery; of my redemption thence, And portance in my travel's history. Wherein of antres vast aud deserts idle, Rough quarries, rocks, aud hills whose heads touch heaven, It was my lot to speak, such was the process; And of the Cannibals that each other eat, The Anthropophagi, and men whose heads Do grow beneath their shoulders. These things to hear Would Desdemona seriously incline; But still the bouse affairs would draw her thence; Which ever as she could with haste despatch, She'd come again, and with a greedy ear Devour up my discourse: which I observing, Took once a pliant hour, and found good means To draw from her a prayer of earnest heart, That I would all my pilgrimage dilate, Whereof by parcels she had something heard, But not intentively. I did consent, And often did beguile her of her tears, When I did speak of some distressful stroke That my youth suffer'd. My story being done, She gave me for my pains a world of sight; She swore — in faith, 'twas strange, 'twas passing strange, : Twas pitiful, 'twas wondrous pitiful — She wish'd she had not beard it, yet she wish'd That heaven bad made her such a man: — she thank'd me,

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WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE. And bade me, if I had a friend that loved her, I should but teach him how to tell my story; And that would woo her. On thishiDt I spake; She lov'd me for the danger« I had pats'd. And I lov'd her that she did pity them.

3) FROM: HAMLET. a) (The King'» Soliloquy.)

Be soft as sinews of the new-born babe; All may be well! b) COphelia?i Death.) There is a willow grows ascaunt the brook, That shews his hoar leaves in the glassy stream; Therewith fantastic garlands did she make Of crow-flowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples, That liberal shepherds give a grosser name, But our cold maids do dead men's fingers call them:

O, my offence is rank, it smells to heaven; it hath the primal eldest curse upon't, A brother's murder! — Pray can I not, There, on the pendent boughs her coronet weeds Though inclination be as sharp as will; Clambering to hang, an envious sliver broke; My stronger guilt defeats my strong intent; When down her weedy trophies, and herself, And, like a man to double business bound, Fell in the weeping brook. Her clothes spread I stand in pause where I shall first begin, wide, And both neglect. What if this cursed hand And, mermaid-like, awhile they bore her up; Were thicker than itself with brother's blood? Which time, she chanted snatches of old tunes; Is there not rain enough in the sweet heavens As one incapable of her own distress, To wash it white as snow ? Whereto serves mercy, Or like a creature native and indued But to confront the visage of offence? I Unto that element: but long it could not be, And what's in prayer, but this two-fold force,— Till that her garments, heavy with their drink, To be forestalled ere we come to fall, Pull'd the poor wretch from her melodious lay Or pardon'd, being down? Then I'll look up; To muddy death. My fault is past. But, O what form of prayer Can serve my turn ? Forgive me my foul murder! 4) FROM: RICHARD III. That cannot be; since I am still possess'd Clarence'» Dream. Of those effects for which I did the murder, My crown, mine own ambition, and my queen. Brakenbury. Why looks your grace so heavily May one be pardon'd, and retain the offence? to-day? In the corrupted currents of this world, Clar. O, I have pass'd a miserable night, Offence's gilded hand may shore by justice; So full of fearful dreams, of ugly sights, And oft 'tis seen, the wicked prize itself That, as I am a Christian faithful man, Buys out the law. But 'tis uot so above: I would not spend another such a night, There is no shuffling, there the action lies Though 'twere to buy a world of happy days: In bis true nature; aud we ourselves compell'd, So full of dismal terror was the time. Even to the teeth and forehead of our faults, Brak. What was your dream, my lord? I pray To give in evidence. What then? what rests? you, tell me. Try what repentance can: what can it not? Clar. Methought, that I had broken from the Yet what can it, when one can not repent? Tower, 0 wretched state? O bosom, black as death! And was embark'd to cross to Burgundy; O limed soul, that, struggling to be free, Art more engaged! Help, angels, make essay! And, in my company, my brother Oloster: Bow, stubborn knees! and heart, with strings Who from tny cabin tempted me to walk Upon the hatches; thence we look'd toward England, of steel,

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And cited np a thousand heavy time*, Daring the wart of York and Lancaster Thad had befall'n us. As ire pac'd along Upon the giddy footing of the hatches, Methought, that Oloster stumbled; a n d , in falling, Struck me (that thought to stay him) over-board, Into the tumbling billows of the main. 0 Lord! methought, what pain it was to drown! What dreadful noise of water in mine ears ! What sights of ugly death within mine eyes! Methought, I saw a thousand fearful wrecks; A thousand men, that fishes gnaw'd u p o n ; Wedges of gold, great anchors, heaps of pearl, Inestimable stones, unvalued jewels, All scatter'd in the bottom of the sea. Some lay in dead men's skulls; and,in those holes Where eyes did once inhabit, there were crept, (As 'twere in scorn of eyes), reflecting gems, That woo'd the slimy bottom of the deep, And mock'd the dead bones that lay scatter'd by. Brak. Had you such leisure in the time of death, To gaze upon these secrets of the deep? Clar. Methought, I had; and often did I strive To yield the gho9t: still the envious flood Kept in my soul, and would not let it forth To seek the empty, vast, and wand'ring air; But smother'd it within my panting bulk, Which almost burst to belch it in the sea. Brak. Awak'd you not with this sore agony? Clar. O, no, my dream was lengtben'd after life; O ! then began the tempest to my soul! 1 pass'd, methought, the melancholy flood, With that grim ferryman which poets write of, Unto the kingdom of perpetual night. The first that there did greet my stranger soul, Was my great father-in-law, renowned Warwick, Who cry'd aloud,— What scourge for perjury Can this dark monarchy afford false Clarence? And so he vanish'd: Then came wand'ring by A shadow like an angel, with bright hair Dabbled in blood: and he shriek'd out aloud,— Clarencc is come,—false, fleeting, perjur'd Clarence,—

T h a t stabb'd me in the field by Tewksbury;— Seize on him, furies, take him t o your torments! With that, methought, a legion of foul fiends Environ'd me, and howled in mine ears Such hideous cries, that, with the very noise, I trembling wak'd, and, for a season after, Could not believe but that I was in hell; Such terrible impression made my dream. Brak. No marvel, lord, tbongh it affrighted you; I am afraid, methinks, to hear you tell it. Clar. O , Brakenbury, I have done these things, — That now give evidence against my s o u l , — For Edward's s a k e ; a n d , see, how he requites , me! — 0 G o d ! if my deep prayers cannot appease thee, But thou wilt be aveng'd on my misdeeds, Yet execute thy wrath to me alone: O,

spare my guiltless wife, and my poor children! —

1 pray thee, gentle keeper, stay by m e ; My soul is heavy, and I fain would sleep. Brak.

I will, my lord; God give your grace good rest! Sorrow breaks seasons, and reposing hours. Makes the night morning, and the n o o n - t i d e night. Princes have but their titles for their glories, An outward honour for an inward toil; And, for unfelt imaginations, They often feel a world of restless cares: So that, between their titles, and low name, There's nothing differs but the outward fame.

5) FROM: HENRY IV. SECOND PART. Henry'i Soliloquy on Sleep. How many thousands of my poorest subjects Are at this hour asleep! — Sleep, gentle sleep, Nature's soft nurse, how have I frighted thee, That thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids down. And steep my senses in forgetfulness ? Why rather, sleep, liest thou in smoky cribs, Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee,

WILLIAM SHAK8PBARE. — BEN JONSON. And bush'd with buzzing night-flies to thy (lumber; Than in the perfum'd chambers of the great, Under the canopies of costly state, And lull'd with sounds of sweetest melody? O thou dull god, why liest thou with the vile, In loathsome beds: and leav'st the kingly couch, A watch-case, or a common 'larum bell? Wilt thou upon the high and giddy mast Seal up the ship-boy's eyes, and rock bis brains In cradle of the rude imperious surge;

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And in the visitation of the winds, Who take the ruffian billows by the top, Carling their monstrous beads,and hanging them With deafning clamours in the slippery clouds, That, with the burly, death itself awakes-' Canst thou, O partial sleep! give tby repose To the wet sea-boy in an hour so rude; And, in the calmest and most stillest night, With all appliances and means to boot, Deny it to a king? Then, happy low, lie down! Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.

VL BENJAMIN (BEN) JONSON, geb. 1 5 7 4 , nach dem Tode seines Vaters, eines Predigers in Westminster. Ein Freund desselben machte es möglich, dass B. die Westminsterschule besuchen konnte; die Mittel reichten jedoch nicht aus ihn Itudiren zu lassen und er musste bald zu seinem Stiefvater, einem Maurer, zurückkehren, dessen Handwerk er ergriff. Unzufrieden mit seiner Lage ging er zu der Armee nach F l a n d e i f , und machte als gemeiner Soldat einen Feldzug m i t ; er kehrte nach England zurück, bezog die Universität Cambridge, die er aber, wahrscheinlich aus Mangel an Mitteln, bald wieder verlassen haben muss, denn im 20. Jahre war er bereits verheirathet und versuchte in London sein Glück als Schauspieler; in Folge eines Duells, in welchcm er seinen Gegner tödtetc, musste er in's Gefängnis* wandern, wo er sich von einem Geistlichen, der ihn besuchte, Uberreden liess, zum Katholicismus Uberzutreten. Nachdem er seine Freiheit wieder erhalten h a t t e , fing er an für das Theater zu schreiben und verfolgte mit der unermüdlichsten Ausdauer, selbst unter den ungünstigsten Verhältnissen, seine Studien, die ihn endlich zu einen der gelehrtesten Männer seiner Zeit machten. Wenn auch sein erstes, mit grossem Beifall aufgenommenes Lustspiel: ' E v e r y Man in His Humour,' seine Finanzen nicht verbesserte, so erhöhte es doch seinen Ruf bedeutend; ihm folgten rasch eine Anzahl von Theaterstücken, die ihn in die erste Reihe der dramatischen Dichter stellten. Er wurde zwar, wegen eines Ausfalls gegen die schottische Nation, noch einmal in das Gefängniss geworfen; aber bald wieder in Freiheit gesetzt, erhielt er den Auftrag am Hofe Jakob's I. die Leitung der dramatischen Unterhaltungen, der ' M a s q u e s , ' zu übernehmen, die er zu einer hohen Vollkommenheit brachte. Die Universität Oxford ertheilte ihm das Magisterdiplom und er wurde bald darauf zum ' P o e t Laureate' ernannt, womit ein kleines Jahrgehalt verbunden war. Unter Karl I. blieb er unbeachtet und verlebte seine letzten Jahre unter dem Drucke von Armuth und Krankheit, ohne dass jedoch seine Feder geruht hätte. Er starb 1637 und wurue in der Westminster-Abtei begraben: ein Freund liess auf seineh Grabstein die Worte setzen: ' O h rare Ben J o n s o n ! ' — Scrymgeour sagt von i h m : ' I i i s biographer, Gifford, disproves satisfactorily the frequently alleged generous patronage of J o n s o n , in his necessity, by Shakspeare, and equally satisfactorily, the alleged ingratitude and malignity of Jonson. * * During his happier years he acquired those habits of conviviality to which his enemies have given a less gentle name. His company was courted by all the talent of the time, and the suppers of the 'Mermaid', a tavern in Cornbill, are mentioned

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with enthusiasm by thotc who had.enjoyed tbeir keen encounter* of contending wits. * * Gifford heroically defends Jonson from the calumnies heaped on his memory, especially by the commentators of Sbakspeare, and vindicates for bis author the possession of qualities that commanded the affection and respect of the first men of the time, and caused bis death to be felt as a public loss. He seems to have been a man of strong and independent character; somewhat rough and arrogant in manner, but liberal and kind-hearted in temper, with the frankness and bluntneas of a true Englishman. His works display a veneration for all that is high-minded and virtuous; his learning i* so prodigious that his commentators pant with difficulty after his footsteps. He has not been popular since his own age. Gilford assigns for this various reasons: his characters want individuality, and illustrate 'humours' rather than minds. His wit is brilliant, but does not make the heart laugh. — His two tragedies, 'Sejanus' and 'Catiline,' lofty ornate, and correct in the costume of Roman manners, are frigid and passionless. In the plots of his comedies he is deserving of undisputed praise. Aristophanes, Terence, and Plautus are bis models. At the head of his comedies in reputation stand 'The Fox, the Alchemist, and Silent Woman, Done by Ben Jonson, and ontdone by no man.' His language is nervous and masculine: perhaps — says Dryden — he did a little too much romanize our tongue. His masques abound in passages of t h j most airy and animated beauty.' Ausser den bereits angeführten Lustspielen schrieb er noch folgende: 'Every Man out of His Humour,' 'Bartholomew-Fair,' ' T h e Poetaster,' ' T h e Devil is an Ass'; ferner: Episteln, Epigramme, Elegien, Oden und eine Uebersetzung der Poetik des Horaz. Im J. 1616 gab J. seine gesammelten Werke in einem Foliobande heraus: die vollständigste Ausgabe derselben besorgte P. Wkatley, London 1756, 7 Bde.

FROM: CATILINE, A TRAGEDY. (The morning of the conspiracy. — Lentulus, Cethegiu, and Catiline meet, before the other Conspirators are ready.) Lent. It is methinks a morning full of fate. It riseth slowly, as her sullen car Had all the weights of sleep and death hung at it. She is not rosy-finger'd, but swolln black. Her face is like a water turn'd to blood, And ber sick head is bound about with clouds, As if she threaten'd night ere noon of day. It does not look as it would have a hail Or health wish'd in it, as on other morns. Cel. Why, all the fitter, Lentulus: our coming Is not for salutation: we have business. Cat. Said nobly, brave Cethegus. Where's Autronius? Cel. Ia he not come?

Cat. Not here. Cet. Not Vargunteius? Cat. Neither. Cet. A fire in their beds and bosoms, That so well serve tbeir sloth rather than virtue. They are no Romans, and at such high need As now — Lent. Both they, Longinus, Leeea, Curius, Fulvius, Gabinus, gave me word last night, By Lucius Bestia, they would all be here, And early. Cet. Yes! as you, had I not call'd you. Come, we all sleep, and are mere dormice; flies A little less than dead: more dulntss hangs On us than on the morn. W e ' r e spirit bound, In ribs of ice; our whole bloods are one stone: And honour cannot thaw us, nor our wants. Though they bum hot as fevers to our states. Cat, I muse they would be tardy at an hour Of so great purpose.

BEN JONSON.

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The maw* and den* of beast* could not receive Cel. If the godi had call'd Them to a purpose, they would just have come The bodies that those souls were frighted from; With the same tortoise speed, that are thus And even the graves were fill'd with men yet living, slow Whose flight and fear had mix'd them with the To such an action, which the gods will envy; dead. As asking no less means than all their power* Cat. And this shall be again, and more, and Conjoin'd to effect. I would have seen Rome more, burnt Now Lentulus, the third Cornelius, By this time, and her ashes in an urn: Is to stand up in Rome. The kingdom of the senate rent asunder: Lent. Nay, urge not that And the degenerate talking gown run frighted Is so uncertain. Out of the air of Italy. Cat. How! Cat. Spirit of men. Lent. I mean, not clear'd; Thou heart of our great enterprise, bow much And therefore not to be reflected on. I love these voices in thee! Cat. The Sybil's leaves uncertain! or the Cet. O the days comment* Of Sylla's sway, when the free sword took leave Of our grave, deep, divining men, not clear! To act all that it would! Lent. All prophecies, you know, cuffer the Cat. And was familiar torture. With entrails, as our augurs — Cat. But this already hath confess'd, withCet. Sons kill'd fathers, out; Brothers their brothers — Cat. And had price and praise: And so been weigh'd, examin'd, and compar'd, As 'twere malicious ignorance in him All hate and licence giv'n it; all rage reins. Cet- Slaughter bestrid the streets, and Would faint in the belief. Lent. Do you believe it? stretch'd himself Cat. Do I love Lentulus, or pray to see it? To seem more huge: whilst to bis stained thighs Lent. The augur* all are constant I am The gore he drew flow'd up, and carried down meant. Whole heaps of limbs and bodies through his Cat. They had lost their science else. arch; Lent. They count from Cinna — No age was spar'd, no sex. Cat. And Sylla next — and so made you the Cat. Nay, no degree — third: Cet. Not infants in the porch of life were All that ran *ay the *un is ris'n, must think it. free. Lent. Men mark me more of late as I come The sick, the old, that could but hope a day forth! Longer by nature's bounty, not let stay. CfU. Why, what can they do less? Cinna Virgins and widows, matrons, pregnant wives, and Sylla All died. Cat. 'Twas crime enough that they had lives. Are set and gone; and we must turn our eyes On him that is, and shines. Noble Cethegus, To strike but only those that could do hurt, Was dull and poor. Some fell, to make the But view him with me here! He looks already As if he shook a sceptre o'er the senate, number; And the aw'd purple dropt their rods and axes. As some, the prey. The'ttatues melt again, and household god* Cet. The rugged Charon fainted, In groans confess the travail* of the city: And ask'd a navy rather than a boat, The very wall* sweat blood before the change; To ferry over the sad world that came: 10 II.

BBNfJONSON. And stone* (tart oat to rain, ere it comet. Cel. But be, and we, and all, are idle still. Lent. 1 am your creature, Sergius; and whate'er The great Cornelian name shall win to be, It is not augury, nor the Sybil's books, But Catiline, that make* it. Cat. I am a shadow To honour'd Lentulus, and Cethegus here, Who are the heirs of Mars.

2) PROM: THE NEW INN, A COMEDY. (Lovel discovers to the Host of the New Inn bis love for the Lady Frances, and his reasons for concealing his passion from her.) Lov. There is no life on earth, but being in love! There are no studies, no delights, no business, No intercourse, or trade of sense, or soul, But what is love! I was the laziest creature, The most unprofitable sign of nothing, The veriest drone, and slept away my life Beyond the dormouse, till I was in love! And now I can out-wake the nightingale, Out-watch an usurer, and out-walk him too, Stalk like agbost that haunted 'bout a treasure; And all that fancied treasure, it is love! Host. But is your name Love-ill, sir, or Lovewell? I would know that. Lov. I do not know it myself. Whether it is. But it is love hath been The hereditary passion of our house, My gentle host, and, as I guess, my friend; The truth is, I have loved this lady long, And impotently, with desire enough, But no success; for I have still forborne To express it in my person to her. Host. How then? Lov. I have sent her toys, verses, and anagrams, Trials of wit, mere trifles, she has commended, But knew not whence they came, nor could she guess.

Host. This was a pretty riddling way of wooing! Lov. I have been too in her company, And look'd upon her a whole day, admir'd her, Loved her, and did not tell her so, loved still, Look'd still, and loved; and loved, and look'd, and sigh'd; But, as a man neglected, I came off, And unregarded. Host. Could you blame her, sir, When yon were silent and not said a word ? Lov. 0 but I loved the more; and she might read it Best in my silence, had she been — Host. as melancholic, As you are. Pray you, why would you stand mute, sir? Lov. O thereon liangs a history, mine host. Did you ever know or hear of the Lord Beaufort, Who serv'd so bravely in France? a e

I was his

PR> And, ere he died, his friend! I follow'd him First in the wars, and in the times of peace I waited on his studies, which were right. He had no Arthurs, nor no Rosicleers, No Knights of the Sun, nor Amadis de Gauls, Primalions, and Pantagruels, public nothings; Abortives of the fabulous darlf cloister, Sent out to poison courts, and infest manners: But great Achilles', Agamemnon's acts, Sage Nestor's counsels, and Ulysses' sleights, Tydides' fortitude, as Homer wrought them In his immortal fancy, for examples Of the heroic virtue. Or, as Virgil, That master of the Epic Poem, limn'd Pious .¿Eneas, his religious prince, BeariDg his aged parent on his shoulders, Rapt from the flames of Troy, with his young son. And these he brought to practise and to use. He gave me first my breeding, I acknowledge; Then shower'd bis bounties on me, like the Hours, That open-handed sit upon the clouds, And press the liberality of heaven

BEN JONSON. — JOHN FLETCHER. Sown to t h e laps of thankful men I But then,

147

And though I know, and may presume her such.

The trust committed to me a t hi» death

As, out of humour, will return no love,

Was above all, and left *o i t r o n g a tye

And therefore might indifferently be made

[)n all my power» as time shall not dissolve,

The courting-stock for all to practise on,

Till it dissolve itself, and bury all:

As she d o t h practise on us all to s c o r n :

The care of his brave beir and only s o n !

Tet out of a religion to my charge,

Who being a virtuous, sweet, y o u n g , hopeful

And debt profess'd, I have made a self-decree, Ne'er to express my person though my passion

lord,

Burn me to cinder*.

Hath cast his first affections on this lady.

V. JOHN FLETCHER, geb. 1 5 7 6 , in Northamptonshire.

Wir wissen von seinen Lebensverhältnissen nichts weiter,

lis dass sein Vater Bischof von London dort die innige Freundschaft mit Beaumont

w a r , dass der Sohn

in Cambridge studirte

scbloss, die nur der T o d trennte.

und

' T h e y were

|he most inviolable of friends,' sagt die Biograpbica Dramatica, ' t h e Orestes and Pylade* of the poetical world.'

Fl. starb 1 6 2 5 .

Wie andere englische Dichter sich damals zu gemein-

schaftlichen dramatischen Arbeiten verbanden, so schrieb auch Ft. in Verbindung mit Beaumont e i n u n d f u n f z i g Stücke; in wie weit aber der Eine oder der Andere Antheil daran batte, lässt sich nicht ermitteln: Beide scheinen ein gleiches Talent zur dramatischen Poesie gehabt zu haben.

So sebr sich ihre Stücke

durch Eleganz der Sprache, gesunden Witz,

Wahrheit und Leichtigkeit des Dialogs auszeichnen, so abstossend Beleidigung des sittlichen Gefühls.

sind sie oft durch ihre

' T h e y are not safe teachers of morality,' sagt

Hailiä;

' t h e y tamper with it like an experiment in corpore etft.' * * ' T h e y were the first who laid the foundation of the artificial diction and tinsel p o m p of the next generation of poets: however, they are lyrical and descriptive poets of the highest order; every page of their writings is a florilegium.'

* *

' T h e r e is hardly a passion which they have not t o u c h e d , and whatever they

t o u c h e d , they adorned with some new grace or striking f e a t u r e ; they are masters of style and versification in almost every variety of which they are capable; in comic wit and spirit they are scarcely surpassed by any writers of any age.'

Die besten Ausgaben ihrer Werke sind die

von Theobald, Seward and Sympson, London 1750, 10 Bde., und von Wkaüey and Colman, L o n d o n 1 8 1 1 , 4 Bde.

1) F R O M : THE FAITHFUL SHEPHERDESS. Clorin,

a Shepherdeu,

watching by the Grave of

her Lover, it found by a Satyr. Clor. Hail holy e a r t h , whose cold arms do embrace The truest man that ever fed bis flocks

T o thy still loved ashes; thus I free Myself from all ensuing heat« and fires Of love: all sports, delights, and jolly games, T h a t shepherds hold full dear, thus put I off. Now no more shall these smooth brows be begirt With youthful coronals, and lead the dance. No more the company of fresh fair maids

By the fat plains of fruitful Thessaly.

And wanton shepherds be to me delightful:

T h u s I salute thy grave, thus do I pay

Nor the shrill pleasing sound of merry pipes

My early vows, and tribute of mine eyes,

Under some shady dell, when the cool wind

10 •

JOHN FLETCHER.

118

Plays on the leave*: all be far away, Since thou art far away, by whose dear tide How often have I «ate crown'd with fresh flowers For summer's queen, whilst every shepherd's boy Puts on his lusty green, with gaudy hook, And hanging script of finest cordevan. But thou art gone, and these are gone with thee, And all are dead but thy dear memory: That shall out-lire thee, and shall ever spring, Whilst there are pipes, or jolly shepherds sing. And here will I in honour of thy love, Dwell by thy grave, forgetting all those joys That former times made precious to mine eyes, Only rememb'ring what my youth did gain l a the dark hidden virtuous use of herbs. That will 1 practice, and as freely give All my endeavours, as I gain'd them free. Of all green wounds I know the remedies In men or cattle, be they stung with snakes, Or charm'd with powerful words of wicked art; Or be they love-sick, or through too much heat Grown wild, or lunatic; their eyes, or ears, Thick'ned with misty film of dulliog rheum: These I can cure, such secret virtue lies In herbs applied by a virgin's hand. My meat shall be what these wild woods afford, Berries and chestnuts, plantains, on whose cheeks The sun sits smiling, and the lofty fruit Pull'd from the fair bead of the straight-grown pine. On these I '11 feed with free content and rest, When night shall blind the world, by thy side blest. A Satyr enters. Satyr. Thorough yon same bending plain That flings his arms down to the main, And through these thirk woods have I run, Whose bottom never kist the sun. Since the lusty spring began, All to please my master Pan, Have I trotted without rest To get him fruit; for at a feast He entertains this coming night His paramour the Syrinx bright:

But behold a fairer sight! By that heavenly form of thine, Brightest fair, thou art divine. Sprung from great immortal race Of the gods, for in thy fare Shines more awful majesty, Than dull weak mortality Dare with misty eyes behold, And lire: therefore on this mold Lowly do I bend my knee In worship of thy deity. Deign it, goddess, from my hand To receive whate'er this land From her fertile womb doth send Of her choice fruits; and but lend Belief to that the Satyr tells, Fairer by the famous wells To thii present day ne'er grew, Never better, nor more true. Here be grapes whose lusty blood Is the learned poet's good, Sweeter yet did never crown The head of Bacchus; nuts more brown Than the squirrels teeth that crack them, Deign, O fairest fair, to take them : For these, black-eyed Driope Hath oftentimes commanded me With my clasped knee to climb. See how well the lusty time Hath deckt their rising cheeks in red, Such as on your lips is spread. Here be berries for a queen, Some be red, some be green, These are of that luscious meat The great god Pan himself doth eat: All these, and what the woods can yield, The hanging mountain, or the field, I freely offer, and ere long Will bring you more, more sweet and strong; Till when humbly leave I take, Lest the great Pan do awake, That sleeping lies in a deep glade, Under a broad beeches shade. I must go, I must run, Swifter than the fiery sun.

JOHN FLETCHER. — FRANCIS BEAUMONT. 2) FROM THE SAME. Cloe. Shepherd, 1 pray thee stay, where hast thou been, (r whither go'st thou ? Here be wooda as green ,s any, air likewiae aa fresh and sweet, >8 where smooth Zephyrus plays on the fleet ace of the curled streams, with flowers as many .» the young spring gives, and aa choice as any. [ere be all new delights, cool streams and wells, rbours o'ergrown with woodbines, caves and deUs,

149

Choose where thou wilt, whilst I ait by and sing, Or gather rushes to make many a ring For tby long fingers; tell thee tales of love, How the pale Phoebe, bunting in a grove, First saw the boy Endymion, from whose eyes She took eternal fire that never dies; How she convey"d him softly in a sleep, His temples bound with poppy, to the steep Head of old Latmus, where she stoops each night. Gilding the mountains with her brother's light, To kiss her sweetest.

VL FRANCIS BEAUMONT, eb. 1586, in Leicestershire, war der Sohn eines Richters, (Judge of the Common Pleas), r muss sich sehr früh entwickelt haben, da er, obschon 10 Jahre jünger, mit Fletcher in 'ambridge studirte. S. den Vor. Er starb bereits im J. 1615.

FROM: 'THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN.' (Beaumont and Fletcher.) P a l i m o o and Arcite, Captives in Greece.

Pal. How do you, noble cousin? Arc. How do you, sir? Pal. Wby, strong enough to laugh at misery, nd bear the chance of war yet; we are prisoners, fear, for ever, cousin. Arc. I believe it, nd to that destiny have patiently aid up my hour to come. Pal. Ob, cousin Arcite, There is Thebes now? where is our noble country? There are our friends and kindreds? never more >ust we behold those comforts, never see he hardy youths strive for the games of honour, ung with the paiDted favours of their ladies, ike tall ships under sail; then start amongst them, nd as an east wind leave them all behind us ike lazy clouds, whilst Palamon and Arcite, ven in the wagging of a wanton leg,

Outstript the people's praises, won the garlands Ere they have time to wish them ours. Oh, never Shall we two exercise, like twins of honour, Our arms again, and feel our fiery horses Like proud seas under us, our good swords now (Better the red-eyed god of war ne'er wore) Ravish'd our sides, like age, must run to rust, And deck the temples of those gods that hate us; These hands shall never draw them out like lightning To blast whole armies more 1 Arc. No, Palamon, Those hopes are prisoners with us; here we are, And here the graces of our youths must wither Like a too timely spring; here age must find us, And (which is heaviest) Palamon, unmarried; The sweet embraces of a loving wife Loaden with kisses, arm'd with thousand Cupids, Shall never clasp our necks, no issue know us, No figures of ourselves shall we e'er see, To glad our age, and like young eagles teach them

150

FRANCIS BEAUMONT.

Boldly to g u e against bright armi, and a ay 'Remember what your father« were,and conquer.' The fair-eyed maids ihall weep our banishments, And in their song* curse over-blinded Fortupe, Till she for shame see what a wrong she has done To youth and nature. This is all our world: We shall know nothing here but one another; Hear nothing but the clock that tells our woes. The vine shall grow, but we shall never see it: Summer shall c o m e , and with her all delights, But dead-cold winter must inhabit here still. Pal. 'Tis too true, Arcite. To our Theban hounds That shook'the aged forest with their echoes, No more now must we halloo, no more shake Our pointed javelins, whilst the angry swine Flies like a Parthian quiver from our rages, Struck with our well-steel'd darts. All valiant uses (The food and nourishment of noble minds) In us two here shall perish: we shall die (Which is the curse of honour) lastly Children of grief and ignorance.

We are young, and yet desire the ways of honour, That liberty and common conversation, The poison of pure spirits, might (like women) Woo us to wander from. What worthy blessing Can be, but our imaginations May make it ours ? And here being thus together, We are an endless mine to one another; We are one another's wife, ever begetting New births of love; we are father, friends, acquaintance ; We are, in one another, families; I am your heir, and you are mine. This place Is our inheritance; no hard oppressor Dare take this from u s ; here, with a little patience, We shall live l o n g , and loving; no surfeita seek us; The hand of war hurts none here, nor the seas Swallow their youth. Were we at liberty, A wife might part us lawfully, or business; Quarrels consume u s ; envy of ill men Crave our acquaintance; I might sicken, cousin, Where you should never know it, and so perish Without your noble hand to close mine eyes. Or prayers to the gods: a thousand chances, Were we from hence, would sever us.

Arc. Yet, cousin, Even from the bottom of the miseries, From all that fortune can inflict upon us, I see two comforts risiDg, two mere blessings, Pal. You have made me If the gods please to hold here; a brave patience, (I thank you, cousin Arcite) almost wanton And the enjoying of our griefs together. With my captivity: what a misery Whilst Palamon is with me, let me perish i It is to live abroad, and everywhere! If 1 think this our prison! 'Tis like a b e a s t , methinks! I find the courl j here, Pal. Certainly 'Tis a main goodness, cousin, that our fortunes Were twinn'd together; 'tis most true, two souls P u t in two noble bodies, let them suffer T h e gall of hazard, so tbey grow together, Will never sink; they must not; say tbey could, A willing man dies sleeping, and all's done.

I'm sure, a more content; and all those pleasures, I That woo the wills of men to vanity, i 1 see through now; and am sufficient To tell the world, 'tis but a gaudy shadow, | That old Time, as he passes by, takes with him i What had we been, old in the court of Creon,

Arc. Shall we make worthy uses of this place Where sin is justice, lust and ignorance ' The virtues of the great ones? Cousin Arcite, That all men hate so much? Pal. How, gentle cousin? Had not the loving gods found this place for uq Are. Let's think this prison holy sanctuary, We had died, as they do, ill old men, unwept And had their epitaphs, the people's curses. T o keep us from corruption of worse men !

PHILIP HASSiNGBK.

151

vn. PHILIP MASSINGER, geb. um das Jahr 1584, war der Sohn eines Gentleman im Dienste de« Barl of Pembroke. Er bezog die Universit&t zu Oxford um 1602, scheint sie aber nach zwei Jahren wieder verlassen zu haben, worauf er für die Bahne zu schreiben begann. Von seinen Lebensverhlltnissen ist nichts bekannt: er scheint jedoch kümmerlich gelebt zu haben und in Armuth gestorben zu sein. Im Marz 1604 wurde er eines Morgens, in einer Wohnung in Southwark, todt im Bette gefunden, und die Todtenliste der Gemeinde enthält nur die Worte: 'Philip Massinger, a Stranger.' Er schrieb eine grosse Anzahl (38) Theaterstacke, von denen sich sie•enzehn erhalten haben; die besten sind: 'The Virgin Martyr,' 'The Bondman,' 'The Fatal Lowry,' 'The City Madam,' und 'A New Way to Pay Old Debts,' welches noch jetzt gern gesehen wird. Seine Sprache ist korrekt und in der poetischen Darstellung der Leidenschaften steht er keinem Andern nach; weniger glücklich ist er in der Charakterzeichnung. Eine vollständige Ausgabe seiner Werke besorgte W. Gifford, Lond. 1805. in 4 Bdn.

FROM: THE CITY MADAM, A COMEDY. (Luie, from a state of indigence and dependence is suddenly raised into immense affluence by a deed of gift of the estates of his brother Sir John Frugal, a merchant, retired from the world. Ee enters, from taking a survey of his new riches.) Luke. 'Twas no fantastic object but a truth, A real truth, no dream. I did not slumber, And could wake ever with a brooding eye To gaze upon't! it did endure the touch, I saw, and felt it. Yet what I beheld And handled oft, did so transcend belief (My wonder and astonishment pass'd o'er) I faintly could give credit to my senses. Thou dumb magician, [To the Key. That without a charm Didst make my entrance easy, to possess What wise men wish and toil for. Hermes' Moly; Sybilla's golden bough; the great elixir, Imagin'd only by the alchymist, Compard with thee, are shadows, thou the substance And guardian of felicity. No marvel. My brother made thy place of rest his bosom. Thou being the keeper of his heart, a mistress To be hugg'd ever. In by-corners of

This sacred room, silver, in bags heap'd up, Like billets saw'd and ready for the fire, Unworthy toxoid fellowship with bright gold, That flow'd about the room, conceal'd itself. There needs no artificial light, the splendour Makes a perpetual day there, night and darkness By that still-burning lamp for ever banish'd. But when, guided by that, my eyes bad made Discovery of the caskets, and they open'd, Each sparkling diamond from itself shot forth A pyramid of flames, and in the roof Fix'd it a glorious star, and made the place Heaven's abstract, or epitome: Rubies, sapphires, And ropes of orient pearl, these seen, I could not But look on gold with contempt. And yet I found, What weak credulity could have no faith in, A treasure far exceeding these. Here lay A manor bound fast in a skin of parchment; The wax continuing hard, the acres melting. Here a sure deed of gift for a market town, If not redeem'd this day; which is not in The unthrift's power. There being scarce one shire In Wales or England, where my monies are not Lent out at usury, the certain hook To draw in more.

152

PHILIP MASSINGEB.

T%e extravagance of the City Madam'» court fathioni reprehended.

aping

(Luke, having come into possession of bis brother Sir John Frugals estates. Lady, wife to Sir John Frugal, and two daughters, in homely attire.) Luke. Save you, sister; I now dare style you so. You were before Too glorious to be look'd on: now you appear Like a city matron, and my pretty nieces Such things As they were born and bred there. Why should you ape The fashions of court ladies, whose high titles And pedigrees of long descent give warrant For their superfluous bravery? 'twas monstrous. Till now you ne'er look'd lovely. Lady. Is this spoken In scorn? Luke. Fie, no; with judgment. I make good My promise, and now shew you like yourselves, In your own natural shapes. Lady. We acknowledge We have deserv'd ill from you, yet despair not, Though we 're at your disposure, you '11 maintain us Like your brother's wife and daughters. Luke. 'Tis my purpose. Lady. And not make us ridiculous. Luke. Admir'd ratber, As fair examples for our proud city dames And their proud brood to imitate. Hear GeDtly, and in gentle phrase I '11 reprehend Your late disguis'd deformity. Your father was An honest country farmer, Goodman Humble, By his neighbours ne'er call'd master. Did your pride Descend from bim? but let that pass. Your fortune, Or rather your husband's industry, advanc'd you To the rank of merchant's wife. He made a knight, And your sweet mistress-ship ladyfy'd, you wore Satin on solemn days, a chain of gold,

A velvet hood, rich borders, and sometimes A dainty miniver cap, a silver pin Headed with a pearl worth threepence; and thus far You were privileg'd, and no man envied i t : It being for the city's honour that There should be distinction between The wife of a patrician and a plebeian.— But when the height And dignity of London's blessings grew Contemptible, and the name lady mayoress Became a by-word, and you scorn'd the m r u i By which you were rais'd (my brother's fond indulgence Giving the reins t o ' t ) and no object pleas'dyou But the glitt'ring pomp and bravery of the court; What a strange, nay monstrous metamorphosis follow'd! No English workman then could please your fancy; The French and Tuscan dress, your whole discourse; This bawd to prodigality entertain'd, To buz into your ears, what shape this countess Appear'd in, the last mask; and how it drew The young lord's eyes upon her: and this usher Succeeded in the eldest 'prentice's place, To walk before you. Then, as I said, (The reverend hood cast off) your borrow'd hair, Powder'd and curl'd, was by your dresser's art Form'd like a coronet, hang'd with diamonds, And the richest orient pearl: your carkanets, That did adorn your neck, of equal value; Your Hungerland bands, and Spanish Quellio ruffs: Great lords and ladies feasted, to survey Embroider'd petticoats; and sickness feign'd, That your nightrails of forty pounds a-piece Might be seen with envy of the visitants: Rich pantables in ostentation shewn, And roses worth a family. You were serv'd In plate; Stirr'd not a foot without a coach; and going To church, not for devotion, but to shew Your pomp, you were tickled when the beggars cried

PHILIP MASSINGER. — JOHN FORD. Heaven save your honour. This idolatry Paid to a painted room. And, when you lay In childbed, at the christening of this minx, I will remember it, as you had been An absolute princess (since they have no more) Three several chambers hung: the first with arras, And (hat for waiters; the second, crimson satin. For the meaner sort of guests; the third of scarlet

153

Of the rich Tynan dye: a canopy To cover the brat's cradle; you in state, Like Pompey's Julia. Lady. No more^I pray you — Luke. Of this be sure yon shall not. I'll cut off Whatever is exorbitant in you, Or in your daughters, and reduce you to Your natural forms and habits: not in revenge Of your base usage of me; but to fright Others by your example.

vm. JOHN FORD, geb. 1586 in Devonshire, widmete sich der Rechtswissenschaft, und schrieb, wkhrend er im Middle Temple studirte, Gedichte und Schauspiele, von denen sich neun erhalten haben. Er soll kurz nach der Veröffentlichung seines letzten Stückes: ' T h e Lady's Trial,' 1640, gestorben sein. ' A tone of pensive tenderness and pathos, with a peculiarly soft and musical style of blank verse, characterise this poet. The choice of his subjects was unhappy, for be ha* devoted to incestuous passion the noblest offerings of bis muse. * * * Mr. Ch. Lamb ranks him with the first order of poets; but this praise is excessive. Admitting his sway over the tender passions, and the occasional beauty of his language and conceptions, he wants the elevation of great genius. He has, as Hallam remarks, the power over tears: for he makes his readers sympathise even with his vicious characters.' (Chambers.)

FROM: THE BROKEN HEART, A TRAGEDY. (Penlhea recommends her brother as a dying bequest to the princess.) Calanlhi. Penlhea. Cal. Being alone, Penthea, you have granted The opportunity you sought, and might At all times have commanded. Pen. 'Tis a benefit Which I shall owe your goodness even in death for. My glass of life, sweet princess, bath few minutes Remaining to run down; the sands are spent: For by an inward messenger I feel The summons of departure short and certain. Cal. You feed too much your melancholy. Pen. Glories Of human greatness are but pleasing dreams,

And shadows soon decaying: on the stage Of my mortality my youth hath acted Some scenes of vanity, drawn out at length; By varied pleasures sweet'ned in the mixture, But tragical in issue. Cal. Contemn not your condition, for the proof Of bare opinion only: to what end Reach all these moral texts? Pen. To place before ye A perfect mirror, wherein you may see How weary I am of a lingering life, Who count the best a misery. Cal. Indeed, You have no little cause; yet none so great, As so distrust a remedy. Pen. That remedy Must be a winding sheet, a fold of lead, And some untrod on corner in the earth.

154

JOHN FORD.

Not to detain your expectation, Princess; I have an humble suit. Speak, and enjoy it. iVn. Vouchsafe then tc^be my Executrix; And take that trouble on ye, to dispose Such legacies as I bequeath impartially: I have not much to give, the pains are easy; Heaven will reward your piety and thank it, When I am dead; for sure I must not live; I hope I cannot. Cd. Now beshrcw thy sadness; Thou turnst me too much woman. Her fair eyes Melt into passion: then I have assurance Encouraging my boldness. In this paper My will was character'd; which you, with pardon, Shall now know from mine own mouth. Cal. Talk on, prithee; It is a pretty earnest. Pen

-

I have left me

But three poor jewels to bequeath. The first is My youth; for though I am much old in griefs, In years I am a child. Cal. To whom that ? Pen. To virgin wives; such as abuse not wedlock By freedom of desires, but covet chiefly The pledges of chaste beds, for ties of love Rather than ranging of their blood: and next To married maids; such as prefer the nuuiber Of honorable issue in their virtues, Before the flattery of delights by marriage; May those be ever young.

Pen. This jewel, Madam, Is dearly precious to me; you must use The best of your discretion, to employ This gift as I intend it. Cal. Do no doubt me. Pen. 'Tis long ago, since first I lost my heart; Long I have liv'd without it: but in stead Of it, to great Calantha, Sparta's heir, By service bound, and by affection vow'd, I do bequeath in holiest rites of love Mine only brother Ithocles. Cat. What saidst thou ? Pen. Impute not, heav'n-blest lady, to ambition, A faith as humbly perfect as the prayers Of a devoted suppliant can endow it: Look on him, Princess, with an eye of pity; How like the ghost of what he late appear'd He moves before you. Cal. Shall I answer here Or lend my ear too grossly? Pen. First his heart Shall fall in cinders, scorch'd by your disdain, Ere he will dare, poor man, to ope an eye On these divine looks, but with low-bent thoughts Accusing such presumption: as for words, He dares not utter any but of service; Yet this lost creature loves you. Be a Princess In sweetness as in blood; give him his doom, Or raise him up to comfort.

Cal. A second jewel You mean to part with? Pen. 'Tis my fauie; I trust, By scandal yet untouch'd: this I bequeath To Memory and Time's old daughter, Truth. If ever my unhappy name find mention, When I am fall'n to dust, may it deserve Beseeming charity without dishonour.

Cal. What new change Appears in my behaviour, that thou darest Tempt my displeasure? Pen. I must leave the world, To revel in Elysium; and 'tis just To wish my brother some advantage here. Yet by my best hopes, Ithocles is ignorant Of this pursuit. But if you please to kill him, Lend him one angi v look, or one harsh word, And you shall soon conclude how strong a power

Cal. How handsomely thou play'st with harmless sport Of mere imagination! Speak the last. I strangely like thy will.

Your absolute authority holds over His life and end. Cal. You have forgot, Penthea, How still I have a father.

JOHN FORD. — JOHN WEBSTER. Pen, But remember I am lister: though to we this brother Hath been, you know, unkind, 0 most unkind.

155

Col. Christaila, Pbilema, where are ye?Lady, Your check lies in my silence.

IX. JOHN WEBSTER, nach Einigen ein Schneider, nach Andern Küster an der St. Andreas Kirche in Holborn, London, schrieb um 1612—1623. Die StUcke, welche ihn allein zum Verfasser haben, sind: ' T h e Duchess of Malfy,' 'Guise, or the Massacre of France,' ' T h e Devil's Law Case,' 'Appius and Virginia,' und ' T h e White Devil, or Vittoria Corombona.' Es fehlt ihnen zwar Einheit des Plans, die Charaktere sind blufig verschroben, ja verzerrt: doch finden sich nicht selten in ihnen Scenen, in denen der Dichter Leidenschaften schildert, die dem Besten, was das Englische Drama aufzuweisen hat, an die Seite gestellt werden können. ' T h e White Devil' machte kein Glück auf der Bohne; W. veröffentlichte es deshalb mit einem Vorworte, worin er sagt: ' Most of the people that come to the play-house, resemble those ignorant asses, who, visiting stationers' shops, their use is not to inquire for good books, bat new books.'

FROM: 'THE DUCHESS OF MALFY,' A TRAGEDY. (The Duchess's marriage with Antonio being discovered, her brother Ferdinand shuts her up in a prisoD, and torments her with various trials of studied cruelty. — She is kept waking with noises of madmen, and at last, strangled by common executioners.) Duch. What hideous noise was that? Cariola. 'Tis the wild consort Of madmen, Lady: which your tyrant brother Hath placed about your lodging: this tyranny I think was never practis'd till this hour. Duch. Indeed I thank him; nothing but noise and folly Can keep me in my right wits, whereas reason And silence make me stark mad; sit down, Discourse to me some dismal tragedy. Car. O 'twill increase your melancholy. Duch. Thou art deceived. To hear of greater grief would lessen mine. This is a prison? Car. Yes : but thou shalt live To shake this durance off.

Duch. Thou art a fool. The Robin-red-breast and the Nightingale Never live long in cages. Car. Pray, dry your eyes. What think you of, Madam? Duch. Of nothing: When I muse thus, I sleep. Car. Like a madman, with your eyes open? Duch. Dost thou think we shall know one another In the other world ? Car. Yes, out of question. Duch. O that it were possible we might But hold some two days conference with the dead. From them I should learn somewhat I am sure I never shall know here. 1 '11 tell thee a miracle; I am not mad yet, to my cause of sorrow. Th' heaven o'er my head seems made of molten brass, The earth of flaming sulphur, yet I am not mad: I am acquainted with sad misery, As the tann'd galley-slave is with his oar; Necessity makes me suffer constantly, And custom makes it easy. Who do I look like now?

156

JOHN WEBSTER.

Car. Like to your picture in the gallery; A deal of life in (how, but none in practice; Or rather, like some reverend monument Whose ruins are even pitied. Duck. Very proper: And Fortune seems only to have her eyesight, To behold my tragedy: how now. What noise is that? A Servant enieri. Serv. I am come to tell you, Yonr brother hath intended you some sport. A great physician when the Pope was sick Of a deep melancholy, presented him With several sorts of madmen, which wild object (Being full of change and sport) forc'd him to laugh, And so th' imposthume broke: the selfsame cure The duke intends on you. Duck. Let them come in. (Here follows a Dance of sundry sorts of Madmen, with Music answerable thereto: after which Bosola [like an old Man] enters.) Duck. Is he mad too? Bos. I am come to make thy tomb. Duck. Ha: my tomb? Thou speak'st as if I lay upon my deathbed: Gasping for breath: dost thou perceive me sick ? Bos. Yes, and the more dangerously, since thy sickness is insensible. Duck. Thou art not mad sure: dost know me? Bos. Yes. Duck. Who am I? Bos. Thou art a box of wormseed: At best but a salvatory of green mummy. What's this flesh ? a little crudded milk, fantastical puff-paste. Our bodies are weaker than those paper-prisons boys use to keep flies in; more contemptible, since ours is to preserve earth-worms. Didst thou ever see a lark in a cage ? Such is the soul in the body: this world is like her little turf of grass; and the heaven o'er our heads like her looking glass,only gives us a miserable knowledge of the small compass of our prison.

Duck. Am not I thy duchess? Bos. Thou art some great woman sure, for riot begins to sit on thy forehead (clad in grey hairs) twenty years sooner than on a merry milk-maid's. Thou sleepest worSe, than if a mouse should be forced to take up her lodging in a cat's ear: a little infant that breeds its teeth, should it lie with thee would cry out, as if thou wert the more unquiet bedfellow. Duck. I am Duchess of Malfy still. Bos. That makes thy sleeps so broken: Glories, like glow-worms, afar off shine bright; But, look'd too near, have neither heat nor light. Duck. Thou art very plain. Bos. My trade is to flatter the dead, not the . living. I am a tomb-maker. Duch. And thou comest to make my tomb? Bos. Yes. Duck. Let me be a little merry. Of what stuff wilt thou make it ? Bos. Nay, resolve me first; of what fashion? Duck. Why, do we grow fantastical in our death bed? Do we affect fashion in the grave? Bos. Most ambitiously. Princes' images on their tombs do not lie as they were wont, seeming to pray up to heaven: but with their hands under their cheeks (as if they died of the tooth-acbe:) they are not carved with their eyes fixed upon the stars; but, as their minds were wholly bent upon the world, the self same way they seem to turn their faces. Duck. Let me know fully therefore the effect Of this thy dismal preparation, This talk, fit for a charnel. Bos. Now I shall. [A Coffin. Cords, and a Bell, produced. Here is a present from your princely brothers; And may it arrive welcome, for it brings Last benefit, last sorrow. Duck. Let me see it, I have so much obedience in my blood, I wish it in their veins to do them good.

JOHN WEBSTER. Bos. This is your laat pretence chamber. Car. O my sweet lady. Duck. Peace, it affrights not me. Bos. I am (he common bell-man, That usually is sent to condemn'd persons The night before they suffer. Duch. Even now thou saidst, Thou wast a tomb-maker. Bos. 'Twas to bring you By degrees to mortification: Listen. Dirgt. Hark, now every thing is still; Tbis screech-owl, and the whistler shrill, Call upon our dame aloud, And bid her quickly d'on her shroud. Much you had of land and rent; Your length in clay's now competent. A long war disturb'd your mind; Here your perfect peace is sign'd. Of what is 't fools make such vain keeping? Sin, their conception; their birth, weeping: Their life, a general mist of error, Their death, a hideous storm of terror. Strew your hair with powders sweet, D'on clean linen, bathe your feet: And (the foul fiend more to check) A crucifix let bless your neck. 'Tis now full tide 'tween night and day: End your groan, and come away. Car. Hence, villains, tyrants, murderers: alas! What will you do with my lady? Call for help. Duch. To whom; to our next neighbours? They are mad folks. Farewell, Cariola. I pray thee look thou giv'at my little boy Some syrup for his cold; and let the girl Say her pray'rs ere she sleep. — Now what you please; What death ? Bos. Strangling. Here are your executioners. Duch. I forgive them. The apoplexy, catarrh, or cough o' the lungs, Would do as much as they do. Bos. Doth not death fright you ? Duch. Who would be afraid on't,

157

Knowing to meet such excellent company In th' other world. Bo*. Tet methinks, The manner of your death should much afflict you; This cord should terrify you. Duch. Not a whit. What would it pleaaure me to have my throat cat With diamonds ? or to be smothered With cassia? or. to be shot to death with pearls? I know, death hath ten thousand several doors For men to take their exits: and 'tis found They go on such strange geometrical hinges, You may open them both ways: any way: (for heaven's take) So I were out of your whispering: tell my brothers, That I perceive, death (now I ' m well awake) Best gift is, they can give or I can take. I would fain put off my last woman's fault; I 'd not be tedious to you. Pull, and pull strongly, for your able strength Must pull down heaven upon me. Yet stay, heaven's gates are not so highly arch'd As princes' palaces: they that enter there Must go upon their knees. Come, violent death. Serve for Mandragora to make me sleep. Go tell my brothers, when I am laid out, They then may feed in quiet. [They strangle her. kneeling.) Ferdinand enters. Ferd. Is she dead? Bos. She is what you would have ber. Fix your eye here. Ferd. Constantly. Bos. Do you not weep? Other sins only speak; murder shriek? out. * The element of water moistens the earth, But blood flies upwards and bedews the heavens. Ferd. Cover her face: mine eyes dazzle: she died young. Bos. I think not so: her infelicity Seem'd to have years too many. Ferd. She and I were twins: And should I die this instant, I had lived Her time to a minute.

156

JAMES SHIRLEY.

X. JAMES SHIRLEY, wurde 1594 zu London geboren. Er studirte zu Oxford Theologie, war eine kurze Zeit Pfarrverweser in Hertfordshire, trat aber zur katholischen Religion Uber und wurde Lehrer an der lateinischen Schule zu St. Albans. Auch diese Stelle gab er bald auf und wendete •ich nach London, wo er für die Bühne zu schreiben anfing. Bei dem Ausbruche des Bürgerkrieges folgte er seinem Beschützer, dem Earl of Newcastle ins Feld. Nach Beendigung des Kampfes kehrte er nach London zurück und arbeitete wieder für die Bühne, bis die Theater im Jahre 1642 durch eine Parlamentsakte geschlossen wurden, wodurch er sich genöthigt sah, seinen früheren Beruf als Erzieher wieder aufzunehmen. Während des grossen Feuers in London, 1666, musste er mit seiner Familie aus seinem Hause in Whitefriars fliehen und starb bald darauf, in Folge des Schrecks, mit seiner Frau an e i n e m Tage. Von 1629 an schrieb SA. 3 9 Tragödien, Komödien und sogenannte Tragikomödien; es fehlt ihm zwar an Originalität, man vermisst bei ihm kräftige Charakterzeichnung: er besitzt aber ein poetisches GemUth, reiche Phantasie und grosse Gewandtheit in der dramatischen Verarbeitung des Stoffes, namentlich gelangen ihm die komischen Scenen. Eins seiner Lustspiele, 'The Gamester,' wurde von Garrik umgearbeitet und mit vielem Beifall wieder auf die Bühne gebracht. Eine vollständige Ausgabe seiner Werke besorgten Gifford und Dyce, London, 1832.

FROM: THE LADY OF PLEASURE, A COMEDY. (Sir Thomas Borneuiett expostulates with his Lady on her extravagance and love of pleasure.) Bornewell.

Arelina, his lady.

Are. 1 am angry with myself; To be so miserably restrain'd in things, Wherein it doth concern your love and honour To see me satisfied. Bar. In what, Aretina, Dost thou accuse me? have I not obey'd All thy desires, against mine own opinion; Quitted the country, and remov'd the hope Of our return, by sale of that fair lordship We liv'd in: chang'd a calm and retired life For this wild town, compos'd of noise and charge? Are. What charge, more than is necessary For a lady of my birth and education? Bar. I am not ignorant how much nobility Flows in your blood, your kinsmen great and powerful In the state; but with this lose not your memory Of being my wife: I shall be studious,

Madam, to give the dignity of your birth All the best ornaments which become my fortune; But would not flatter it, to ruin both, And be the fable of the town, to teach. Other men wit by loss of mine, employ'd To serve your vast expences. Are. Am I then Brought in the balance? so, sir. Bor. Though you weigh Me in a partial scale, my heart is honest: And must take liberty to think, you have Obey'd no modest counsel to effect, Nay, study ways of pride and costly ceremony; Your change of gaudy furniture, and pictures Of this Italian master, and that Dutchman's; Your mighty looking-glasses, like artillery Brought home on engines; the superfluous plate Antick and novel; vanities of tires, Four score pound suppers for my lord your kinsman, Banquets for t' other lady, aunt, and cousin9; And perfumes, that exceed all; train of servants, To stifle us at home, and shew abroad More motly than the French, or the Venetian, About your coach, whose rude postilion

JAMES

SHIRLÄY. — T H O M A S

Muit pester every narrow lane, till passengers And tradesmen curse your cboaking up their stalls, And common cries pursue your ladyship For hind'ring of their market. Are. Have you done, sir? Bor. I could accuse the gayety of your wardrobe, And prodigal embroideries, under which, Rich satins, plushes, cloth of silver, dare Not shew their own complexions; your jewels, Able to burn out the spectators' eyes. And shew like bonfires on you by the tapers: Something might here be spared, with safety of Your birth and honour, since the truest wealth Shines from the soul, and draws up just admirers. I could urge something more. Are. Pray, do. I like Your homily of thrift. Bor. I could wish, madam, You would not game so much. Are. A gamester, too! — Bor. But are not come to that repentance yet, Should teach you skill enough to raise your profit; You look not through the subtilty of cards, Aiid mysteries of dice, nor can you save Charge with the bos, buy petticoats and pearls, And keep your family by the precious income; Nor do I wish you should : my poorest servant Shall not upbraid my tables, nor his hire Purchas'd beneath my honour: you make play Not a pastime but a tyranny, and vex Yourself and my estate b y ' t . Are. Bor.

Good, proceed. Another game you have, which consumes more

159

HEYWOOD.

Your fame than p a n e , your revels in the night, Your meetings, call'd the ball, to which appear, As to the court of pleasure, all your gallant* And ladies, thither bound by a subpoena Of Venus and small Cupid's high displeasure: 'Tis but the Family of Love, translated Into more costly sin; there was a play o n ' t : And bad the poet not been brib'd to a modest Expression of your antic gambols i n ' t , Some darks had been discover*d; and the deeds too; In time be may repent, and make some blush, To see the second part danc'd oo the stage. My thoughts acquit you for dishonouring me By any foul act; but the virtuous know, 'Tis not enough to clear ourselves, but the Suspicions of our shame. Are. Have you concluded Your lecture? Bor. I have done; and howsoever Mv language may appear to you, it carries No other than my fair and just intent To your delights, without curb to their modest And noble freedom. Are. I 'II not be so tedious In my reply, but, without art or elegance, Assure you I keep still my first opinion; And though you veil your avaricious meaning With handsome names of modesty and thrift, I find you would intrench and wound the liberty I was born with. Were my desires unprivileged By example, while my judgment thought 'em fit, You ought not to oppose: but when the practice And tract of every honourable lady Authorize me, I take it great injustice To have my pleasures circumscrib'd and taught me.

XI. THOMAS HEYWOOD, dessen Geburtsjahr ungewiss ist, war Musiker, Schauspieler und dramatischer Dichter. Er stammte aus Lincolnshire, war einige Zeit in Cambridge und schrieb für die Bühne von 1600—1640. Er hatte, wie er selbst sagt, ' a n entire hand, or at least a main finger' in z w e i h u n d e r t u n d z w a n z i g Schauspielen, von denen jedoch nur drei und zwanzig übrig

160

THOMAS HEYWOOD.

geblieben sind. Zu den besten gehören: 'A Woman Killed with Kindness,' ' T h e English Traveller,' 'A Challenge for Beauty,' ' T h e Lancashire Witches,' 'Lore's Mistress'. Sein Todesjahr ist ebenfalls unbekannt. — Nach Chambers besitzt er: *a poetical fancy and abundance of classical imagery: but his taste was defective, and scenes of low buffoonery deform his pieces.'

1) FROM: 'A CHALLENGE FOR BEAUTY.' Miracle of Beauty. I remember, There lived a Spanish Princess of our name, An Isabella too, and not long since, Who from ber palace windows stedfastly Gazing upon the Sun, her hair took fire. Some augurs held it as a prodigy: I rather think that she was Latona's brood, And that Apollo courted her bright hair; Else, envying that her tresses put down his, He scorcbt them off in envy: nor dare I (From her deriv'd) expose me to his beams; Lest, as he burns the Phoenix in her nest, « Made of the sweetest aromatic wood, Either in love, or envy, he agree To use the like combustion upon me.

Made her no less; he caus'd a crown of gold To be new fram'd, and fitted to ber head, In honour of her courage: then the Bird, With great applause, was to the market place In triumph borne; where, when her utmost worth Had been proclaim'd, the common executioner First by the King's command took off her crown, And after with a sword struck off her head, As one no better than a noble Traitor Unto the King of Birds.

3) FROM: 'LOVE'S MISTRESS.' Description of Psyche. Admetus, Astioche, Petrea. Adm.

Welcome to both in one! O h , can you tell

What fate your sister hath ? Both.

Psyche is well.

2) FROM: 'THE ROYAL KING AND THE

Adm. So among mortals it is often said,

LOYAL SUBJECT.'

Children and fiends are well wheD they are dead.

Noble Traitor. A Persian history I read of late, how the great Sophy once Flying a uoble Falcon at the H e m e , In comes by chance an Eagle sousing by: Which when the Hawk espies, leaves her first game, And boldly ventures on the King of Birds; Long tugg'd they in the air, till at the length The Falcon (better breath'd) seiz'd on the Eagle, And struck it dead. The Barons prais'd the Bird, And for her courage she was peerless held. The E m p e r o r , after some deliberate thoughts,

Ast.

But Psyche lives, and on her breath attend

Delights that far surmouDt all earthly j o y ; Music, sweet voices, and ambrosian fare; Winds, and the light-wing'd creatures of the air; Clear chanell'd rivers, spriugs, and flowery meads, Are proud when Psyche wantons on their streams, When Psyche on their rich embroidery treads, When Psyche gilds their crystal with her beams. We have but seen our sister, and behold! She sends us with our laps full brimm'd with gold.

THOMAS OTWAY.

in. THOMAS OTWAY, wurde im Jahre 1651 zu Trotting in Sussex geboren, wo sein Vater Prediger war. Er erhielt seine Bildung auf der Schule t u Winchester, studirte zu Oxford, und trat 1672 als Schau, spieler in London auf. Da er keinen Erfolg hatte, so begann er fQr die Bahne zu schreiben. Im Jahre 1677 verschaffte ihm der Earl of Pembroke eine Kornetstrlle in einem Dragonerregimente und O. ging mit demselben nach Flandern, wurde aber wegen seines unordentlichen Lebens bald wieder entlassen. Er kehrte nach England zurück und schrieb von Neuem fQr die Bahne, starb aber schon 1685, in grosser Armuth. — Er hinterliess z e h n Trauerspiele, von drnen namentlich sein ' Venice Preserved' noch jetzt eins der beliebtesten auf der Englischen Bahne i s t ' His talents,' sagt W. Scott von ihm, ' in scenes of passionate affection, rival, at least, and sometimes excel, those of Shakspeare: more tears hare heen shed, probably, for the sorrows of Belvidera and Monimia, than for those of Juliet and Desdemona.'

And this my recompense! If I'm a traitor, Produce my charge, or show the wretch The Betrayed Caiupiratort, and the Revelation qf that'» base Jqflier't Treachery. And brave enough to tell me, I'm a traitor! Duke. Know you one Jaffirr? (Scene — The Senate House of Venice. The Pierre. Yes, and I know his virtue. Duke and Senators: Pierre, Renault and other His justice, truth, his general worth, and conspirators, in chains. Guards etc. sufferings Pierre. You, my lords and fathers, (As you are pleased to call yourselves) of Venice, From a hard father taught me first to love him. Duke. See him brought forth. If you sit here to guide the course of justice, Enter Captain and Jaffier in chains. Why those disgraceful chains upon the limbs Pierre. My friend too bound! Nay, then That have so often labour'd in your service? Our fate has conquer'd us, and we must fall — Are those the wreaths of triumph you bestow On those that bring you conquest home and Why droops the man, whose welfare's so much mine honours? They 're but one thing? These reverend tyDuke. Go on, you shall be heard, sir. rants, Jaffier, Pierre. Are these the trophies I've deserved Call us traitors. Art thou one, my brother? for fighting Jaffier. To thee I am the falsest, veriest slave Your battles with confederated powers ? When winds and seas conspired to overthrow you, That e'er betrayed a generous, trusting friend, And brought the fleets of Spain to your own And gave up honour to be sure of ruin; harbours; All our fair hopes which morning was t' have When y o n , great Duke, shrunk trembling in crowned, your palace — lias this cursed tongue o'erthrown. 8tepp'd not I forth and taught your loose Pierre. So then all's over: Venitians Venice has lost her freedom, I my life. The task of honour, and the way to greatness? No more? Duke. Say, will you make confession Raised you from your capitulating fears Of your vile deeds, and trust the senate's mercy To stipulate the terms of sued-for peace? 11 n. FROM: 'VENICE PRESERVED.'

162

THOMAS OTWAY.

Pierre. Cursed be your senate, cursed your constitution! The curse of growing faction», and divisions Still vex your councils, shake your public safety, And make the robes of government you wear Hateful to you, as these base chains to me! Duie. Pardon, or death 1 Pierre. Death, honourable death! Ben. Death's the best thing we ask or you can give. No shameful bonds, but honourable death! Duie. Break up the council. (To Officer) Guard your prisoners, sir. Take Pierre into your charge, apart from the rest. Jaffier, you 're free, but those must wait for judgment.

Pierre. Thou, Jaffier! my once loved, valued friend! By Heaven, fhou liest: the man so called my friend. Was generous, honest, faithful,just, and valiant; Noble in mind, and in bis person lovely; Dear to my eyes, and tender to my heart j But thou, a wretched, base, false, worthless coward, Poor, even in soul, and loathsome in thy aspect: All eyes must shun thee, and all hearts detest thee. Pr'ythee avoid, no longer cling thus round me. Like something baneful that my nature's chilled at. J a f f . I have not wronged thee, by these tears, I have not. Pierre. Hast thou not wronged me? Dar'st thou .call thyself Jaffier, Thut once loved, valued friend of mine. And swear thou bast not wrong'd me? Whence

(Exeunt Duke, Senators, Conspirators and Officer.) Pierre. Come, where is my dungeon? Lead me to my straw: It will not be the first time I've lodged hard, To do your senate service. these chains ? Jaff. Hold one moment. Whence the vile death which I may meet this Pierre. W h o ' s he disputes the judgment of moment? the senate? Presumptuous rebel!— on — (Strikes Jaffier.) Whence this dishonour, but from thee, thou false one! (Exeunt Captain and Guard.) J a f f . All's true: yet grant one thing, and Jaff. By Heaven, you stir not! I've done asking. I must be beard: I must have leave to speak. Pierre. W h a t ' s that? Tbou hast disgraced me, Pierre, by a vile blow: J a f f . To take tby life, on such conditions Had not a dagger done thee nobler justice ? But use me as thou wilt, thou canst not The council have proposed: tbou and thy friends May yet live long, and to be better treated. wrong me, For I am fallen beneath the basest injuries; Pierre. Life! ask my life! confess! record Yet look upon me with an eye of mercy. myself And, as there dwells a godlike nature in thee, j A villain, for the privilege to breathe, Listen with mildness to my supplications. And carry, up and down this cursed city, Pierre. What whining monk art thou? what A discontented and repining spirit, holy cheat ? Burdensome to itself, a few years longer: That wouldst eDcroach upon my credulous ears, To lose it, may be, at last, in a lewd quarrel And cant'st thus vilely ? Hence! I know thee not! For some new friend, treacherous and false aa thou art! J a f f . Not know me, Pierre ? Pierre. No, know thee not! What art thou? J a f f . Jaffier, tby friend, thy once loved, valued friend!

No, this vile world and I have longbeen jungling, And cannot part on better terms than now, When only men like thee are fit to live i n ' t . J a f f . By all t h a t ' s just — Tho' now, deservedly scorn'd and used most hardly. | Pierre. Swear by some other powefc

THOMAS OTWAY. For thou h u t broke that sacred oath already. Jaff. Then by that hell I merit, I '11 not leave thee, Till to thytelf at least thou 'rt reconciled, However thy resentments deal with me. Pierre. Not leave me! Jaff. No, thou shalt not force me from thee, Use me reproachfully, and like a slave: Tread on me, buffet me, heap wrongs on wrongs On my poor head; I'll bear it all with patience, Shall weary out thy most unfriendly cruelty; Lie at thy feet, and kiss them, though they spurn me; Till, wounded by my sufferings, thou relent, And raise me to thy arms, with dear forgiveness. Pierre. Art thou not — Jaff. What? Pierre. A traitor? Jeff. Yes. Pierre. A villain? Jaff. Granted. Pierre. A coward, a most scandalous coward; Spiritless, void of honour; one who has sold Thy everlasting fame for shameless life ? Jaff. All, all, and more, much more; my faults are numberless. Pierre. And would'st thou have me live on terms like thine? Base as thou 'rt false — Jaff. No. 'Tis to me that's granted; The safety of thy life was all I aimed at, In recompense for faith and trust so broken. Pierre. I scorn it more, because preserved by thee; And, as when first my foolish heart took pity On thy misfortunes, sought thee ip tby miseries, Relieved thy wants, and raised thee from the state Of wretchedness in which thy fate had plunged thee, To rank thee in my list of noble friends;

1C3

All I received, in surety for tby truth, Were unregarded oaths, and this, this dagger, Given with a worthless pledge, thou since hast stolen: So I restore it back to thee again; Swearing by all those powers which thou hast violated, Never, from this coursed hour, to bold communion. Friendship, or interest with thee, though our years Were to exceed those limited the world. Take it—farewell—for now I owe thee nothing. Jaff. Say, thou wilt live then. Pierre. For my life, dispose it Just as thou wilt. Because 'tis what I'm tired with. Jaff. O Pierre! Pierre. No more. J a f f . My eyes won't lose the sight of thee, But languish after thine, and ache with gazing. Pierre. Leave me: — Nay, then, thus I throw thee from me; And curses, great as is thy falsehood, catch thee! Jaff. He's gone, my father, friend, preserver; And here's the portion be has left me; This dagger. Well remembered! With this dagger I gave a solemn vow of dire importance; Parted with this, and Belvidera together. Have a care, mem'ry, drive that thought no farther: No, I '11 esteem it as a friend's last legary; Treasure it up, within this wretched bottom, Where it may grow acquainted with my heart, That, when tbey meet, they start not from each other. So, now for thinking — A blow, call'd traitor, villain, Coward, dishonourable coward! Faugh! Oh for a long sound sleep, and so forget it!

11*

161

DIE COURT MASQUES.

DIE COURT MASQUES DES XVII. JAHRHUNDERTS. Die Hoflager J a k o b ' s I. und K a r l ' « I. waren in ihrer BIQthezeit durch eine ganz besondere Belustigung — The Miuquet — belebt, eine Art dramatischer HoftbeaterstDclce, für welche die grössten Dichter ihrer Zeit — Shakspeare ausgenommen — es sich zur Ehre rechneten, die Texte zu liefern. Ihren U r s p r u n g fanden diese Darstellungen in den ' R e v e l s ' und ' S h o w s ' , welche im XIV, XV. und XVI. Jahrhunderte bei grossen Festlichkeiten sowohl bei Hofe ala in den Gerichtshofen und Universitäten ausgeführt wurden, sowie in den ' M y s t e r i e s ' und ' M o r a lities', die, wie bereits erwähnt, den Anfang des gesprochenen Dramas bildeten. In den bessern Tagen der Regierung H e i n r i c h ' s VIII. fanden derartige Belustigungen häufig Statt, die gewöhnlich von einer Anzahl maskirter, festlich und heiter geschmückter Charaktere aufgeführt wurden, wie u. A. auf folgende W e i s e : In der Halle des Palastes zu Greenwich erhob sich ein ganzes Schloss, mit zahlreichen Thürinen und Thoren , Warten und Schiessacharten, das alle Zeichen eines langwierigen Belagerungszustandes an sich trug und die Inschrift zeigte: 'Le Jortresse dtmgereux'; vertheidigt wurde es von sechs reicbgekleideten Dauien. Alsbald erschien der König mit fünf Hofleuten, sämmtlich als Ritler verkleidet, und begann den Angriff; nach einer tapfern Gegenwehr Übergaben die Damen das Schloss und das Ganze endigte mit einem von den Damen und Rittern gemeinschaftlich ausgeführten Tanze. Es war somit Anfangs Alles nur auf Scenerie und mimische Dartellung abgesehen und erst nach und nach traten Gesang, Musik und dichterische Reden erweiternd in die Darstellung mit ein. Gewöhnlich fanden ' The Masques' nur bei ganz ausserordentlichen Gelegenheiten Statt, wie bei Krönungen, bei der Geburt eines Prinzen oder des Kindes eines hohen Würdenträgers, der Hochzeit eines Pair's oder bei dem Besuche einer fremden königlichen Person, wobei man sich der grossen Halle des königlichen Palastes zu bedienen pflrgte; es sind indessen auch viele derselben in dem Banketsaale zu Wbitehall ausgeführt worden, durch welchen so mancher Fürst, der daran Theil genommen, später auf das Scbaffot wanderte . . ! Die H a n d l u n g einer Maske bestand stets in einer kurzen, einfachen, allegorischen oder mythologischen Scrne, deren wesentlichster Reiz in den darstellenden Persönlichkeiten und deren prachtvollen Kostümen bestand. Ausser Göttern, Göttinnen und Nymphen des klassischen Alterthums, erschienen Personifikationen der N a c h t , des Tages, der Schönheit, der Stärke u. s. w. Obgleich nun durch diesen Umstand die Personen des Dramas dem gewöhnlichen Leben entrückt waren, so unterliess man doch nicht, die Beziehung der ganzen Darstellung auf die sie hervorrufende Gelegenheit, oft auf die spasshafteste Weise, durchblicken zu lassen und Anspielungen zu machen, die jedesmal einen ganz handgreiflichen Charakter annahmen, wenn es g a l t , einer Person des königlichen Hauses ein Kompliment zu machen. Bei dem durchaus privaten Charakter der 'Masques' ko.nnte Dem auch gar nicht anders sein und es verstand sich von selbst, dass, wenn z. B. eine Zigeunerin hervortrat und dem Könige aus den Linien der Hand seine künftigen Geschicke wahrsagte, sie ihm nichts Anderes verkündigte, als was jeder treue Unterthan einem verehrten und geliebten Monarchen aus der Fülle des Herzens wünschen möchte. Die Pointe des Stücks lag denn auch gewöhnlich in derartigen Coups.

DIB COURT MASQUES.

165

Mr. Collier hat in seinen 'Annals of the Stage' ein Dokument mitgetheilt, welche* von einer Court-Masque berichtet, die in den eriten Jahren der Regierang Elisabeth's, gerade zur Zeit, wo das Englische Drama anfing seine erste Gestaltung zu erhalten, aufgeführt werden sollte. Diese Herrscherin beabsichtigte nemlich im Jahre 1562 ein freundschaftliches Zusammentreffen mit der Königin Maria Stuart von Schottland, zu Nottingham-Castle> welches jedoch, wie man glaubt, deshalb nicht zu Stande kam, weil Elisabeth die überlegene Schönheit der Königin Maria Stuart mit Eifersucht betrachtete. Dieses festliche Ereignisa nun hatte durch eine 'Masque' verherrlicht werden sollen, welche aus einer auf die Verhältnisse der beiden Königinnen speziell sich beziehenden Allegorie bestand, wie sie uns nach der von Lord Burleigh niedergeschriebenen Mittheilung erhalten worden ist. Sie wirft nicht nur ein helles Licht auf den Geschmack der Zeit, sondern auch auf die politische Geschichte jener Epoche. In der ersten Nacht sollte Folgendes geschehen: 'First, a prison to be made in the ball, the name whereof is Extreme Oblivion, and the keeper's name thereof Argus, otherwise called Circumspection: then a masque of Ladies to come in after this sort: First Pallas, riding upon an unicorn, having in her band a standard, in which is to be painted two ladies' hands, knit in one fast within the other, and over the hands, written in letters of gold. Fides. Then two ladies riding together, the one upon a golden lion with a crown of gold on his head, the other upon a red lion, with the like crown of gold; signifying two virtues; that is to say, the lady on the golden lion is to be called Prudentia, and the lady on the red lion Temperantia. After this, to follow six or eight ladies masquers, bringing in captive Discord and False Report, with ropes of gold about their necks. When these have marched about the ball, then Pallas to declare before the queen's majesty, in verse, that the goddess, understanding the noble meeting of these two queens, hath willed her to declare unto them that those two virtues, Prudentia and Temperantia, have made great and long suit unto Jupiter, that it would please him to give unto them False Report and Discord, to be punished as they think good; and that those ladies have now in their presence determined to commit them fast bound unto the aforesaid prison of Extreme Oblivion, there to be kept by the aforesaid jailor Argus, otherwise Circumspection, for ever, unto whom Prudentia shall deliver a lock, whereupon shall be written In Eternum. Then Temperantia shall likewise deliver unto Argus a key, whose name shall be Nunquam, signifying that, when False Report and Discord are committed to the prison of Extreme Oblivion, and locked there everlastingly, he should put in the key to let them out nunquam; and when he bath so done, then the trumpets to blow, and the English ladies to take the nobility of the strangers, and dance.' In der zweiten Nacht wird in der Halle ein Schloss dargestellt; der Friede kommt in einem Siegeswagen, der von einem Elephanten gezogen wird, auf welchem die Freundschaft sitzt. Nach einer Rede Uber die Ereignisse des vorangegangenen Abends zieht die Freundschaft sich zurOek und l&sst den Frieden bri der Klugkeit und Milsaigung; die Nacht wird beendigt durch das Loslassen eines Springbrunnens, der den edelsten Wein aussprudelt, 'during which time the English lords shall mask with the Scottish ladies.' Die dritte Nacht zeigt die Stolze Verachtung, auf einem wilden Eber, in Begleitung der Wohldurchdachten Bosheit, in Gestalt einer Schlange, welche beide sich bemühen, die Zwietracht und den Bösen Lettmund wieder in Freiheit zu setzen. Gegen das Ende des

166

DIE COURT MASQUES.

darauf folgenden Gefechts muss die Verachtung k o m m e n , die Wohldurchdachte

Bosheit

ihrer W e g e gehen u n d mit dem Leben davon-

aber m u s s e r s c h l a g e n werden, ' s i g n i f y i n g that some un-

godly men may still disdain the p e r p e t u a l peace made between these two virtues; b u t as for their p r e p e n s e d m a l i c e , it is easy t r o d d e n under these ladies' feet.' bildet ein Gesang, ' a s full of h a r m o n y as m a y be devised.'

D e n Schluss der N a c h t

Die ganze U n t e r h a l t u n g

unstreitig auf den aufrichtigen W u n s c h einer V e r s ö h n u n g

zwischen

von Seiten Elisabeth's h i n ,

ersten Scene

wiewohl

das G e f ä u g n i s s

der

deutete

den beiden Königinnen von Vielen als ein

unheilverkündendes O m e n gedeutet wurde. Ihren h ö c h s t e n G l a n z p u n k t erreichte die Maske, wie bereits erwähnt, u n t e r der Regierung J a k o b ' s I., welcher ganz beträchtliche S u m m e n auf die prachtvollste A u s s t a t t u n g derselben verwendete. höchsten

Ranges

dichterischen

Die Königin, die Prinzen von Geblüt, R i t t e r und Edelleute und D a m e n des nahmen Theil d a r a n ,

und

musikalischen

Theil

während der

die bedeutendsten Talente sowohl f ü r den

Aufführungen,

als

auch

f ü r Maschinerie

und

Koslürniruiig herangezogen wurden, und es ist vielleicht hier der O r t , wenigstens mit einem Worte anzudeuten,

dass die B ü h n e n t e c h n i k jener Zeit in E n g l a n d nicht so sehr im Argen

lag, wie die gewöhnlichen Berichte uns glauben machen wollen.

Man lese nur die Beschrei-

b u n g e n jener Marken, um sich von der Mannichfaltigkeit und Vortrefflichkeit ihrer B ü h n e n einrichtungen einen Begriff zu m a c h e n . Die V e r m ä h l u n g des Lord

James

Hay mit Anne,

welche am 6. J a n u a r 1 6 0 7 Statt f a n d , 'Memorable

Masque' grosse

durch

des Lord die

Denny,

sogenannte

verherrlicht, welche ein P r o d u k t des damals als Dichter u n d K o m p o n i s t

b e r ü h m t e n , jetzt vergessenen D r . Thomas Die

T o c h t e r und E r b i n

wurde bei H o f e ( W h i t e h a l l )

Halle

des Palastes war

Campion zu

war.

diesem

Zwecke

aufs

Prachtvollste

dekorirt

worden: ' O n e end of the hall was set a p a r t for the audience, having t h e king's seat in the c e n t r e ; next to it was a space for ten concerted musicians — base and mean lutes, a b a n d o r a , a double sackbut,

a h a r p s i c h o r d , and two treble violins — besides whom there were nine violins, three

luies, six cornets, and six chapel singers. T h e stage was concealed b y a curtain resembling dark clo.ids, which being withdrawn, disclosed a green valley with green trees round a b o u t it, and in the midst of them nine golden ones of fifteen feet h i g h .

T h e bower of F l o r a was on their r i g h t ,

the house of Night on the l e f t ; between them a hill h a n g i n g like a cliff over the grove.

The

bower of Flora was s p a c i o u s , garnished with flowers and flowery b r a n c h e s , with lights a m o n g t h e m ; the house of Night ample and s t a t e l y , with black columns s t u d d e d with golden s t a r s ; while a b o u t it were p l a c e d , on wires, artificial bats and owls continually moving.

As soon as

the king entered the great h a l l , the h a u t b o y s were heard f r o m the top of t h e hill and f r o m the wood, till Flora anil Zephyrus were seen busily gathering flowers f r o m the bower, throwing them into b a s k e t s which two sylvans held, attired in changeable taffety. Besides two o t h e r allegorical characters, Night and Hesperus,

there were nine m a s q u e r s , representing Apollo's k n i g h t s ,

and

p e r s o n a t e d by y o u n g men of rank.' Nach Gesängen blickte einen Hügel Hören,

und Recitativen

verschwand

mit D i a n e n s Baum.

plötzlich

Die Nacht

das ganze T h a l

erschien

in i h r e m

und m a n er-

Hause

mit

Neun

alle in langen Kleidern von schwarzem Taflet, reich mit Sternen b e m a l t ; das Gesicht

geschwärzt; das dunkle H a a r lang berabwallend und von goldenen Spangen u m f a n g e n ; auf ihren H ä u p t e r n S t e r n e n k r o n e n ; bemalte, brennende Fackel.

in der H a n d

t r u g jede H ö r e

eine

schwarze,

m i t Sternen

DIE COURT MASQUES. Night.

Vanish, dark vales, let night in glory shine,

167

Hymen had stolen a nymph out of her train, And matched her h e r e ,

plighted

shrine, You black-haired Hours, and guide us with your

henceforth

to be

As she doth burn in rage; come, leave our

Love's friend and stranger to virginity? And mak'st thou sport for this?

lights, Flora hath wakened wide our drowsy sprites. See where she t r i u m p h s , see her flowers are thrown,

Flora.

Be mild, stern N i g h t ;

Flora doth honour Cynthia and her right; * * The nymph was Cynthia's while she was her own,

And all about the seeds of malice sown; Despiteful Flora, is't not enough of grief,

But now another claims in her a right,

That C y n t h i a ' s r o b b e d , but thou must grace

By fate reserved thereto, and wise foresight.

the thief?

Zeph.

Can Cynthia one kind virgin's loss bemoan?

Or didst not hear Night's sovereign queen (Diana) complain

How, if perhaps she brings her ten for one? * *

After some more such dialogue, in which Hesperus takes p a r t , Cynthia is reconciled to the loss of her n y m p h ; the trees sink, by means of enginery, under the stage, and the masquers come out of their tops to fine music. Dances, processions, speeches, and songs follow, the last being a duet between a Sylvan and an Hour, by the way of tenor and bass. Syl.

Tell me, gentle H o u r of Night,

Wherein dost thou most delight? Hour.

Wherein, then ?

Syl.

In the frolic view of men.

Syl.

Oh, 'tis sweet.

Only to frequent the grove? Syl.

Life is fullest of content,

Hour.

Pleasure must vary, not be l o n g ;

Come, then, let's close and end our song.

What's dancing?

Hour.

We are of that sort ourselves:

Where delight is innocent.

Lov'st thou music?

Hour.

Joy you in fairies and in elves?

Hour.

But, Sylvan, say, why do you love

Not in sleep.

Syl. Hour.

Syl.

Even the mirth of feet.

Hierauf machten die ' Masquers' dem Könige ihre Reverenz und folgten ihm in den Banketsaal. Die Masken Jonson's

enthalten viele hochpoetische Stellen,

benden Parthien in Prosa zeichnen sich durch der Maske, die bei der Vermählung von Ramsay, aufgeführt w u r d e ,

Lord Haddington,

stellte die Scene eine wolkengekrönte,

dar, in Anspielung auf den

und selbst ihre beschrei-

Grazie und Zartheit

wahrscheinlichen Ursprung

der Sprache aus.

mit Lady Elizabeth

steile,

rothe

des Namens

In

Ratcliff

Klippe (red cliff)

der D a m e ;

vor dem

Felsen waren zwei Pfeiler aufgerichtet, ' charged with the spoils of love, amongst which were old and young persons bound with roses, wedding garments, rocks, and spindles, hearts transfixed with arrows, others flaming, virgins' girdles, garlands, and worlds of such like,'

Zuerst

hält Venus in einem von den Grazien umringten Wagen ihren Einzug, und spricht ihre Besorgnisse Uber ihren ihr entronnenen Sohn Cupido a u s , worauf die Grazien folgende Proklamation ergehen lassen: 1st Grace.

Beauties, have you seen this toy,

Cruel now, and then as kind?

Called love, a little boy,

If he be amongst ye, s a y ;

Almost naked, wanton, blind;

He is Venus' runaway.

DIG COURT MASQUES. 2d Grace. She that «rill but now discover Where tbe winged wag dotb hover, Shall to-nigbt receive a ki»«, How or where herself would wish; But who bring« hint to hi* mother, Shall hare that kiss, and another. 3d Grace. He hath marks about him plenty; Yon sbnll know him among twenty. All his body is a fire, And liis breath a flauie entire. That, being shot like lightning in, Wounds tbe heart but not the skiu. 1 st Grace. At his sight tbe sun hath turn'd, Neptune in the waters burn'd; Hell hath felt a greater heat; Jove himself forsook bis seat; From the centre to the sky Are bis trophies reared high. 2d Grace. Wings he hath, which though ye clip, He will leap from lip to lip, Over liver, light», and heart, But not stay in any part; And if chance his arrow misses, He will shoot himself in kisses. Grace. He doth bear a golden bow, And a quiver hanging low, Full of arrows, that outbrave Dian's shafts; where, if he have

Any bead more sharp than other. With that first he strikes his mother. 1 st Grace. Still the fairest are his fuel. When his days are to be cruel, Lover's hearts are all his food, And bis baths their warmest blood; Nought but wounds his hand doth season, And he bates none like to Reason. 2d Grace. Trust him not; his words, though sweet, Seldom with his heart do meet. All bis practice is deceit; Every gift it is a bait; Not a kiss but poison bears; And most treason in his tears. 3d Grace. Idle minutes are bis reign; Then tbe strsggler makes his gain, By presenting maids with toys, And would have ye think them joys; 'Tis the ambition of the elf To have all childish as himself. Is/ Grace. If by these ye please to know him, Beauties, be not nice, but show him. 2d Grace. Though ye had a will to hide him, Now, we hope, ye'll not abide bim. 3d Grace. Since you bear his falser play, And that h e ' s Venus' runaway.

Hier erscheint Cupido mit einem Oefolge von zwölf Knaben, welche ' the Sports and pretty Lightnesse» that accompany Love' darstellen; nachdem sie einen Tanz ausgeführt, schilt Venus ihren Sohn; es Entspinnt sich ein interessantes Gespräch zwischen ihnen und Hymen, worauf Vulcan erscheint, der die aufgerichteten Pfeiler als seine eigene Arbeit beansprucht und mit mächtigem Schlage die Rothe Klippe Öffnet, in deren Innern man in einer Lichtsphäre die astronomischen Zeichen des Thierkreises erblickt. Er hält nunmehr eine zierliche Rede und macht der Venus diesen Lichtkreis zum Geschenk für den Triumph ihres Sohnes. Nachdem sie sich zurückgezogen endet das StUck mit folgendem Hochzeitsgesange, in welchen verschiedene Tänze eingelegt sind: Up, youths and virgins, up, and praise The god, whose nights outshine hi* days;

Hymen, whose hallow'd rites Could never boast of brighter lights;

KB COURT MA8QUE8. Whose band* pan liberty. Two of your troop, that with the mora were free, Are now waged to hi« war. And what they are, If you'll perfection tee, Yourselves must be. Shine, Hesperus, shine forth, tbou wished star! What joy, what honours can compare With holy nuptials, when they are

m

Made out of equal part* Of years, of states, of hands, of hearts! When in the happy choice The spouse and spoused have foremost voice 1 Such, glad of Hymen's war, Live what they are, And long perfection see; And such ours be. Shine, Hesperus, shine forth, thou wished star!

Um diesen fast iu g&nzliche Vergessenheit gerathenen interessanten Theil der Englischen Literatur noch mehr hervorzuheben, lassen wir hier eine, von Chamber* mitgetbeilte, vollstlndige Maske Jonson's (S. 143.) folgen, welche im Jahre 1615 'by the lords and gentlemen, the King's servants,' wie es scheint zum Lobe der Gerechtigkeitsliebe des Königs aufgeführt wurde. THE GOLDEN AGE RESTORED. (Tkt court bring tented and in expectation.) Loud music: P a l l a s in her chariot descending to a softer music. Look, look! rejoice and wonder That you, offending mortals, are (For all your crimes) so much the care Of him that bears the thunder. Jove can endure no longer, Your great onea should your less invade; Or that your weak, though bad, be made A prey unto the stronger, And therefore means to settle Astrea in ber seat again; And let down in his golden chain An age of better metal. Which deed he doth the rather. That even Envy may heboid Time not rnjoy*d bis head of gold Alone beneath his father,

But bark! what tumult from yond' cave is beard 1 What noise, what strife, what earthquake and alarms, As troubled Nature for her maker fear'd, And all the Iron Age were up in arms! Hide me, soft cloud, from their profaner eyes, Till insolent Rebellion take the field; And as their spirits with their counsels rise, I frustrate all with showing but my shield. (She retiree behind a cloud.) The I r o n Age presents itself; calling forth the E v i l s . I. Age. Come forth, come forth, do we not hear What purpose, and how worth our fear, The king of gods hath on as? He is not of the Iron breed, That would, though Fate did help the deed, Let Shame in so upon us. Rise, rise then up, thou grandame Vice Of all my issue, Avarice, Bring with thee Fraud and Slander, Corruption with the golden hands, Or any subtler III, that stands To be a more commander.

But that his tare conserveth, . As time, so all time's honours too, Regarding still what heav'n should do, And not what earth deservetb. Thy boys, Ambition, Pride, and Scorn, (A tumult, and clotting of arms heard within,) Force, Rapine, and thy babe last born,

170

DIE COURT MASQUES.

Smooth Treachery, call hither.

|

Arm Folly forth, and Ignorance,

A s t r s e a and the G o l d e n

Age.)

j Descend, you l o n g , long wish'd and wanted

And teach them all our Pyrrhic dance:

•

W e may triumph together,

p«r,

And as your softer times divide tbe air, So shake all clouds off with your golden hair;

Upon this enemy 10 great,

For Spite is spent: the Iron Age is fled,

W h o m , if our forces can defeat,

A n d , with her power on earth, her name is

And but this once bring under,

dead.

W e are the masters of the skies, Where all the wealth, height, power lies, A s t r c m and the G o l d e n A g e

The sceptre, and the thunder.

descending

with a song. Which of you would not in a war

Ast. G. Age.

Attempt the price of any scar,

And are we then T o live agen, With men?

T o keep your own states even ? Ast.

But here, which of you is that he.

Will Jove such pledges to the earth restore

Would not himself the weapon be, T o ruin Jove and heaven?

As justice? G. Age.

Or the purer ore?

About it, then, and let him feel

Pal.

Once more.

The Iron Age is turn'd to steel,

G. Age.

But do they know, How much they owe?

Since he begins to threat her:

Below?

And though the bodies here are less Ast.

Than were the giants; he'll confess Our malice is far greater.

And will of grace receive it, not as due!

Pal.

If not, then harm themselves, not you.

Ast.

True.

G. Age. The E v i l s enter for the Antimasque, and '

True.

Cho. Let narrow natures, how they will, mistake,

dance to two drums, trumpets, and a confusion of martial music. At the end of which P a l l a s re-appears, showing her shield.

The

The great should still be good for their own sake.

Evils

are turned to statues.

(They come forward.)

I

i Pa/. So change, and perish, scarcely know- | ing how, That 'gainst the gods do take so vain a vow,

Pal.

Welcome to earth, and reign.

Ast.

G. Age.

But how, without a train,

I

Shall we our state sustain?

j

Pal. Leave that to Jove: therein you are

And think to equal with your mortal dates,

No little part of his Minerva's care.

Their lives that are obnoxious to no fates.

Expect awhile. —

'Twas time t' appear, and let their folly see | 'Gainst whom tbey fought, and with what des- { You far-famed spirits of this happy isle, tiny. ' T h a t , for your sacred songs have gain'd the Die all that can remain of you, cut stone,

style

And that be seen a while, and then be none!

J Of Phoebus' sons, whose notes the air aspire • Now, now descend, you both belov'd of Jove, | Of tb' old Egyptian, or tbe Thracian lyre, And of the good on earth no less the love. i That Chaucer, Gower, Lydgate, Spenser, bight, (The scent change», and the calls \ Put on your better fames, and larger light,

171

DIB COURT MASQUES. To wait upon the Age that shall your names new nourish, Since Virtue press'd ahall grow, and buried Arti •hall flouruh. Chan. Goto. We come. Lyd. Spen. We come. Omnes. Our best of fire, 1« that which Pallas doth inspire. (They descend.) Pal. Then Me yon yonder souls, set far within the (hade, That in Elysian bower« the blessed seats do keep, That for their living good, now semi-gods are made, And went away from earth, as if but tam'd with sleep? These we must join to wake; for these are of the strain That justice dare defend, and will the age sustain. Cho. Awake, awake, for whom these times were kept. O wake, wake, wake, as you had never slept! Make baste and put on air, to be tbeir guard, Whom once but to defend, is still reward. Pal. Thus Pallas throws a lightning from her shield. (The scene of tight discovered.) Cho. To which let all that doubtful darkness yield. . Ast. Now Peace. G. Age. And Love. Ast. Faith. G. Age. Joys. Ast. G. Age. All, all increase. (A pause.) Chan. And Strife, Goto. And Hate, Lfdg. And Fear, Spen. And Pain, Omnes. All cease* Pal. No tumour of an iron vein. The causes shall not come again. Cho. But, as of old, all now be gold. Move, move then to the sounds;

And do not only walk your solemn rounds, But give those light and airy bounds, That fit the Genii of these gladder grounds. The first Dance. Pal. Already do not all things smile T Ast. But when they haTe enjoy'd a while The Age's quickening power: Age. That every thought a seed doth bring, And every look a plant doth spring, And every breath a flower: Pd. The earth unplough'd shall yield her crop. Pure honey from the oak shall drop. The fountain shall run milk: The thistle shall the lily bear, And every bramble roses wear, And every worm make silk. Cho. The very shrub shall balsam sweat, And nectar melt the rock with heat, Till earth have drank her fill: That she no harmful weed may know, Nor barren farn, nor mandrake low, Nor mineral to kill. Here the main Dance. After wbich, Pal. But here's not all: you must do more, Or else you do hut half restore The Age's liberty. Poe. The male and female us'd to join, And into all delight did coin That pure simplicity. Then Feature did to Form advance, And Youth call'd Beauty forth to dance, And every Grace was by: It was a time of no distrust, So much of love had nought of lust; None fear'd a jealous eye. The language melted in the ear, Yet all without a blush might hear; They liv'd with open votv.

172

DIB COURT MASQUES. — ÜBERSICHTSTAPELLE.

Cko. Bach touch and k i n w u t o well plac'd, They were u sweet as they were chaste, And such must your« be now.

Here they dance the Galliards and Corantoe. P a l l a s (ascending, and calling the Poets.) 'Tis now enough; behold you here, What Jove hath built to be your sphere, You hither must retire.

Here they dance with the Ladies.

And as his bounty gives you cause, Alt.

What change i i here? I had not more

Be ready still without your pause,

Derire to leave the earth before,

To show the world yonr fire.

T h a n I have now to stay; My silver feet, like root«, are wreath'd

Like lights about Astrsea's throne,

Into the ground, my wings are sheath'd,

Tou here must shine, and all be one. In fervour and in flame;

And I cannot away.

That by your union she may grow, And, you sustaining her, may know

Of all there teem» a second birth;

The Age still by her name.

It it become a heaven on earth, And Jove i* present here.

Who vows, against or beat or cold,

I feel the godhead; nor will doubt But he can fill the place throughout, Whose power is everywhere.

To spin your garments of her gold, That want may touch you never; And making garlands ev'ry hour, To write your names in some new flower,

This, this, and only such as this, The bright Astnea's region is,

That you may live for ever.

Where she would pray to live; And in the midst of so much gold, Unbought with grace, or fear unsold, The law to mortals give.

Cho. To Jove, to Jove, be all the honour given. That thankful hearts can raise from earth to heaven.

ÜBERSICHTSTABELLE. ZWEITE PERIODE. 1558 — 1689.

ENGLISCHE DICHTER. George Gascoigne, geb. ? gest. 1577, Verfasser von lyrischen Poesien und zwei grosseren erzahlenden Gedichten ' T h e Fruits of War,' ' T h e Steel Glass;' Bearbeiter eines Lustspiels von Ariott und einiger Trauerspiele des Euripides. worth Castle' wurde 1 5 7 5 muthige Sprache,

Sein Maskenspiel: ' T h e Pleasure of Kenil-

t u K. vor der Königin Elisabeth

Reichthum der Phantasie,

aufgeführt. — Elegante,

an-

aber auch oft ein Streben nach Geziertheit

und Künstelei. John Harring ton,

1 5 3 4 — 1 5 8 2 ; lyrischer Dichter, empfiehlt sich durch

feines GefQhl und edle Sprache. einer Correspondenz mit Elisabeth,

Geschmack,

E r wurde von der Maria in den Tower gesetzt, wegen welche ihn später sehr begünstigte.

ÜBERSICHTSTABELLE.

173

Thomas SadviBe. 1536—1608, (S. 54.) Robert SovtkweB. 1550—1595. (S. 58.) Sir Philip Sidney. 1554—1586, (S. 59.) Sir W. Raleigh. 1552—1618, (S. 61.) Bdmmd Spatter. 1 5 5 3 - 1 5 9 8 , (S. 62.) Fuüe Greväle. 1 5 5 4 - 1 6 2 8 , (S. 70.) Nicholas Brehm. 1555 — 1624, schrieb mehre Schttfergrdichte und einen Band vermischter Gedichte ' T h e Works of a Young W i t ' : nicht ohne glückliche Gedanken and Bilder, aber aueh nicht frei von Affekt at ion. Samuel Darnel. 1562—1619, (S. 71.) Joshua Sylvester. 1 5 6 3 - 1 6 1 8 , (S. 72.) Michael Drayton. 1563—1631, (S. 74.) Witt. Shahtpeare. 1564—1616, (8. 77 und 139.) Sir John Harrington. Sohn des Obengenannten, gest. um 1612, der e r s t e englische Uebersetzer des Ariost; schrieb eine Anzahl Epigramme und ' A Brief View of the Church,' worin er die Ehe der Bischöfe tadelt. Seine Uebersetzung des A. hat wenig Poetisches; besser sind seine Epigramme. Sir Henry Wotion. 1568—1651 , Gesandter Jakob's I. in Venedig, bekannt durch seine Definition fines Ambassador'» — 'an honest gentleman, sent to fir abroad for the good of his country'; seine Gedichte erschienen unter dem Titel: ' Reliquiae Wottonianae'. Sie empfehlen sich durch Anmuth und Gedankenreicbthum und werden noch immer gern gelesen. Sir John Daeies. 1570—1626, Sprecher des ersten Irischen Hauses der Gemeinen, Verfasser eines philosophischen Gedichts: ' O n the Soul of Man and the Immortality thereof'; ferner: 'Orchestra, or a Poem of Dancing in a Dialogue between Penelope and One of her Wooers'; 'Nosce Te Ipsum,' und kleinere lyrische Poesien. Sie finden sich in Anderson's Sammlung, Bd. 2. Schönes Geftlhl, philosophische Tiefe und eine höchst gelungene Diktion zeichnen D. besonders aus. John Donne. 1573—1631, (S. 82.) Eduard Fairfax. um 1600; bekannt durch seine Uebersetzung von Tasso's Jerusalem, die wegen ihrer poetischen Schönheit und dem Wohlklange der Verse allgemein gelobt wird. Dryden stellt ihn Spenser an die Seile. Joseph Hall. 1574—1656, Bischof von Norwich, der erste Satiriker, welcher mit einer gewissen Eleganz schrieb. Seine Satiren, allgemeinen Inhalts, erschienen unter dem Titel: ' Virgideniarum,' 1597. Ben Jonson. S. Dramatiker, (S. 143 u. 169.) Richard Corbet. 1582—1635, der witzige Bischof von Norwich, veröffentlichte 1647 einen Band vermischter Gedichte; das Bekannteste derselben: 'A Journey of France'; andere, z. B. 'The Farewell to the Fairies,' zeichnen sich durch poetische Schönheit aus. Sir John Beaumont. 1582—1628, Bruder des Dramatikers. ' O n Bosworth Field': vermischte Gedichte. Korrekte Sprache und kräftiger Versbau. George Wither. 1588—1667, (S. 84.) Thomas Carew. 1589—1639, der Repräsentant einer zahlreichen Klasse von Dichtern, — courtiers of a gay und gallant school, who to personal accomplishments, rank, and education united a taste and talent for the conventional poetry then most popular and cultivated. * * * A foul taint of immorality and irreligion often lurked under the flowery surface , and insidiously made itself known and felt. C. sometimes went beyond this strain of heartless frivolity, and is graceful in sentiment as well as style. He repented deeply in his latter days and died with the greatest manifestation of Christianity that his best friends could desire. (Chambers.) Ausser einem Maskenspiele: 'Coelum Britannicum,' schrieb er hauptsächlich Gelegenheitsgedichte : sie waren sehr beliebt und werden noch gelesen. William Browne, 1590—1645, Verfasser von: 'Britannia's Pastorals' und 'The Shepherd's Pipe'; Einfachheit und naturgetreue Darstellung sind seine Vorzüge, trotzdem ist er fast vergessen: er schrieb auch ein Maskenspiel: 'The Inner Temple Masque.'

174

ÜBKHHCHT8TABBLLB.

Dr. Henry King, 1591—1669, (S. 87.) — Ptincas FUtcker, 1584—1650, (S. 88.) — GQet Flacker, ? — 1 6 2 3 , (S. 89.) — Robert Herrick, 1591—?, (S. 91.) — Francis Quartes, 1 5 9 2 - 1 6 4 4 , S. 94. — George Herbert, 1593—1632, ( 8 - 95.) — WUtiam Habmgtcm, 1605—1654, ver&ffentlichte seine Gedichte in drei Abschnitten: 'The Mistress', 'The Wife' und 'The Holy Man', welche alle Fehler der metaphysischen Schule haben. Seine Mutter soll die Verfasserin des bekannten Briefes an Lord MowUeagle sein, durch welchen die Entdeckung der PulververschwOrnng herbeigeführt wurde. (Vergl.: Tb. I. des Handb. S. 176.) Sir WWam Davcnaui, 1605—1669, nach Jontont Tode zum ' Poet Laurcate' ernannt, Sohn eines Weinschenken, schrieb ein heroisches Gedicht: 'Gondibert' und mehre Gedichte vermischten Inhalts. 'Gondibert', ermüdend durch seine Linge (gegen 6000 Verse), ist fast vergessen. Er schrieb auch Einiges für die BQhne, womit er mehr Glück machte. — Sir John Suckling, 1613—1641, (S. 97.) — Sir Richard Fenthaic, 1607—1666, übersetzte die Lusiade des Camoens und Pastor Fido von Guarini, mit der letzteren Uebersetzung veröffentlichte er zugleich einige vermischte Gedichte. Richard Lovelace, 1618—1651. Seine Gedichte erschienen unter dem Titel: 'Lucasta* (Lux Casta, wie er die Dame seines Herzens nannte); sie besteben aus Oden, Sonetten, Liedern u. s. w. und zeichnen sich durch warmes, natürliches Gefühl aus, obschon sie von den Geschmacklosigkeiten seiner Zeit nicht frei sind. Rickard Crathaw, gest. 1650, (S. 99.)

Edmund Waller, 1605—1687, (S: 105.) — Abraham Cowley, 1618—1667, (S. 108.) — John Milton, 1608—1674, (S. 110.) — Samuel Buüer, 1612—1680, (S. 124 ) — Henry Vaughan, 1 6 1 4 — 1 6 9 5 , erst Advokat, dann Arzt, schrieb einen Band 'Miscellaneous Poems', dem später ein Band 'Religious Poems' folgte, die sich durch Originalität der Gedanken und lebendige Darstellung auszeichnen, oft aber durch holprige Reime entstellt werden. — Andrew MarveU, 1620—1678, (S. 128.) — Thomas Stanley, der Herausgeber des 'Aeschylus' und Verfasser einer Geschichte der Philosophie, schrieb um 1650; seine Gedichte sowohl, wie seine Uebersetzungen empfehlen sich Gedankenreichthum und Kraft des Ausdrucks. Sir John Denham, 1615—1668. Seine gesammelten Gedichte erschienen London, 1684 und 1704 — auch bei Anderson, Bd. 5. Unter ihnen zeichnet sieb besonders ein grosseres, beschreibendes Gedicht 'Cooper's Hill' durch Anmuth und Eleganz aus, eine Gattung, die seit D. immer beliebter wurde. Charles Cotton, 1630 — 1687, schrieb mehre Travestien jind vermischte Gedichte, die sich durch Wärme und wahrhaft poetisches Gefühl empfehlen. Mrs. ¡Catherine Philips, 1631 —1664; ihre Gedichte waren ihrer Zeit sehr beliebt und werden von Cowley und Dryden besonders empfohlen. — John Dryden, 1631—1701. (S. 131.) — Duchess of Newcastle, gest. 1673; Verf. von 'Poems and Fancies.' — 'Sbe had invention, knowledge, and imagination, but wanted energy and taste.' — Earl of Roscommon, 1633 —1684. Seine Gedichte erschienen zuerst 1717; sie sind korrekt und elegant, aber kalt. — Earl of Dorset, 1637—1706; seine wenigen Gedichte sind 'elegant and forcible'; sein 'Song, written at sea, the night before an engagement' nennt Prior ' one of the prettiest compositions that ever was made.' Sir Charles Sedley, 1639—1701. Seine Schauspiele sind vergessen; seine lyrischen Gedichte, zu ihrer Zeit ungemein beliebt, empfehlen sich durch Leichtigkeit, Anmuth, Witz und feines Gefühl; sie finden sich bei Anderson, Bd. 6.

übersichtstabkllr.

175

John WOmot, Earl of Rockester, 1 6 4 7 — 1 6 8 0 , einer der grOiaten Wüstlinge im damaligen, sittenlosen Hofe, talentvoller Liederdichter, (Anderson, Bd. 5.) den Walpole bezeichaet als: ' a man whom the Muses were fond to inspire and ashamed to avow.' — Job* Pomfrei, 1 6 6 7 - 1703, Geistlicher. Seine Gedichte, London 1 6 9 9 , empfehlen sich durch Eleganz, glückliche Beschreibungen und Gewandtheit in Behandlung der Form, entbehren aber der Wirme. Das Beste und Beliebteste derselben, ' T h e Choice', wurde vom Bischof von London (Sr unmoralisch erklärt, weshalb P. auch nicht befördert wurde. — John Philips, 1676—170% zeigte bedeutendes Talent in seinem 'Splendid Shilling', einer Parodie auf den Stil Jiüton's. ' O n the Victory of Blenheim', ' O n Cider'. Seine sämmtlichen Gedichte aind in reimlosen Versen geschrieben.

SCHOTTISCHE

DICHTER.

Sir Richard Maitland, 1 4 9 6 — 1 5 8 6 , schrieb eigene Gedichte, grösstenteils moralischen Inhalts, und sammelte das Beste seiner Zeitgenossen. Alexander Scot, um 1560, Verfasser mebrer kurzer Satiren und vermischter Gedichte; er erhielt den Beinamen 'the Scott ish Anacreon', obschon er bei dem Vergleiche entschieden im Nachtheile ist. Alexander Hume, starb 1609, (S. 101.) — Alexander Arbutknot, 1 5 3 8 - 1 5 8 3 , ' a n ingenious and pleasing poet', (Irving). — Alexander Montgomery, um 1 5 6 8 ; unter seinen Gedichten zeichnet sich besonders ' T h e Cherry and tbe Slae', ein grosseres allegorisches Gedicht aus, Tugend und Laster darstellend. Seine Darstellung ist oft lebendig und kräftig. — James VI., 1566—1625, (S. 102.) — Sir Robert Ayton, 1570—1638, Earl of Ancnm, 1 5 7 8 - 1 6 5 4 , Earl of Stirlin;/, 1580 — 1640. Iu ihren Gedichten zeigt es sich namentlich, welchen wesentlichen Einfluss die Vereinigung der Kronen von Schottland und England unter James auf die Ausbildung der englischen Sprache in Schottland hatte. *

William Drumtnond, 1 5 8 5 — 1 6 4 0 , (S. 104.)

DRAMATIKER. Nicolas Udall, Lehrer an der Westminster-Schule, schrieb um 1550 das erste englische Lustspiel: 'Ralph Royster Doyster', in fünf Akten; es ist gut angelegt und geschickt durchgeführt und schildert die Sitten der damaligen mittleren Stände. — John Still, Bischof von Batb und Wells, schrieb um 1566 das Lustspiel: 'Gammer Gurton's Needle'; es dreht sich um eine verlorene und wiedergefundene Nähnadel, mit welcher G. Gurton ein Paar Beinkleider ihres Ehemannes ausbessert, ist nicht ohne Geschick angelegt, voll derben Humort und hat einige recht gut durchgeführte Charaktere. — Thomas Sackville, 1536—1608, Verfasser der ersten Tragödie: 'Ferres and Porrex', die vor Elisabeth, zu Whiteball, von den Mitgliedern des Iuner Temple, 1561, aufgeführt wurde. Es ist der frühsten englischen Geschichte entlehnt, voll blutiger Kämpfe und Mordthaten, in regelmässigen ftlnffUssigen Jamben geschrieben und hat einen Chor, der in lyrischen Stanzen seine moralischen Betrachtungen einwebt. — Während der folgenden zwanzig Jahre erschienen eine Menge Luttspiele, Trauerspiele und historische Schauspiele und es entatanden mehre regelmässige Theater in London.

ÜBERSICHTSTABELLE.

176

Zu den beliebtesten dramatischen Dichtern dieser Zeit g e h ö r e n : Robei't George Peele,

Thomas Kyd,

Thomas Lodge,

Thomas

Nash,

die jedoch

Greene, John

Lylly,

alle unter

Marlow,

1 5 6 2 — 1 5 9 2 , stehen. (S.136.) — George Chapman, 1 5 5 7 — 1 6 3 4 , (S.133.) — Anthony

Munday,

um 1 5 7 9 ; eins seiner S t ü c k e : ' S i r J o h n Oldcastle', erschien 1 6 0 1 , mit Shakspeare's Namen auf dem Titelblatte! Aus dem Tagebuche Henslowe's,

eines Pfandleihers, welcher Geld und Garderobestücke

an die Schauspieler verlieh, unter denen jedoch Shakspeare auch nicht einmal erwähnt ist, geht hervor,

dass zwischen 1 5 9 1 und 1 5 9 7 nahe an h u n d e r t

existirenden

Stücke von v i e r

z e h n Schauspielergesellschaften aufgeführt wurden.

Wir

der damals

besitzen aus dieser

Zeit noch mehre gute Schauspiele, deren Verfasser unbekannt sind: das Beste ist 'Arden of Feversham, von deutschen Kritikern wohl mit Unrecht Shakspeare zugeschrieben. John Marston, um 1 6 0 0 , 'whose forte is an impatient scorn and bitter indignation against the vices and follies of m e n ' , (Hazlitt). W. Shakspeare, — John Fletcher, Thomas Dekker,

1 5 6 4 - 1 6 1 6 , (S. 7 7 u. 139.) — Ben Jonson, 1 5 7 4 — 1 6 3 7 , (S. 1 4 3 u. 169.)

1 5 7 6 — 1 6 2 5 , (S. 147.) — Francis

' F o r t u n a t u s or the Wishing Cap.' absurd. —

Beaumont,

1 5 8 6 — 1 6 1 5 , (S. 149.) —

starb um 1 6 3 8 , Verfasser einiger zwanzig Stücke, unter denen das Beste:

Robert

Taylor;

Sein Stil gewählt und elegant; D. wird aber

Dr. Fisher;

Thomas May u. v. A . ,

'Dodsley's Collection of Old Plays', London 1 8 2 5 , Philip Massinger,

zuweilen

von denen sich Proben in

finden.

1 5 8 4 — 1 6 0 4 , (S. 151.) — John Ford,

1586-1640,

(S. 153.)

—

John Webster, schrieb um 1 6 1 2 - 1 6 2 3 , (S. 155.) — James Shirley, 1 5 9 4 — 1 6 6 6 , (S. 158.) — Thomas Heywood, John Dryden, phitryon',

um 1 6 0 0 — 1 6 4 0 , (S. 1 5 9 . ) —

1 6 3 1 — 1 7 0 1 , (S. 1 3 1 . )

'Cleomenes'

Sir

William Davenant,

Seine besten Dramen

und ' L o v e Triumphant.'

Chambers

1605—1668.

—

s i n d : ' D o n Sebastian', 'Amsagt über D . als Dramatiker:

' H e could reason powerfully in verse, and had the command of rich stores of language, information and imagery — but he had not art or judgment to construct an interesting or consistant d r a m a , or to preserve himself from extravagance and absurdity. — His comedy i s , with scarce an exception, false to n a t u r e , improbable and illarranged, and subversive equally of taste and morality. His merit consists in a sort of eastern magnificence of style and in the richness of his versification.' — Thomas

Otway,

1 6 5 1 — 1 6 8 5 , (S. 161.) — Nathanael Lee,

gest. 1 6 9 2 ,

schrieb elf Trauerspiele; ' T h e Rival Queens', 'Mithridates', ' T h e o d o s i u s ' e t c . ; sein Stil ist oft schwülstig. —

William

Wycherly,

1 6 4 0 - 1715, ein fruchtbarer Lustspieldichter,

' P i a i n Dealer' und ' C o u n t r y W i f e ' lange Zeit beliebt waren; sie zeichnen

dessen

sich durch ge-

sunden Witz und lebendigen Dialog aus, verlieren aber allen Werth durch die grobe Zügellosigkeit der Charaktere.

DEITTE PERIODE. VERSTANDESPOESIE. — SENTIMENTALITÄT. V O N 1689 — 1780. Wir

verweisen

in B e z u g auf

die C h a r a k t e r i s t i k dieser P e r i o d e

auf die im I . Theile

des H a n d b u c h e s (p. 1 1 0 u n d p. 1 4 9 ) gegebenen Einleitungen u n d Auszüge, welche die wichtigsten M o m e n t e derselben scharf und treffend h e r v o r h e b e n , dieser P e r i o d e n o c h m a l s in wenigen W o r t e n 1)

u n d fassen die H a u p t m o m e n t e

zusammen:

D a s S t r e b e n der D i c h t e r war vor allen Dingen m e h r der F o r m

zugewandt,

als

dem I n h a l t e selbst, aus G r ü n d e n , die d o r t n ä h e r nachgewiesen s i n d ; dieser ward d a h e r o f t vernachlässigt, wenn er ü b e r h a u p t poetischer N a t u r w a r ; j e n e hingegen, Medium,

die S p r a c h e ,

Stande waren, leihen,

dem

einer Eleganz

Pope'schen

die f ü r lange Zeit

und Korrektheit

Zeitalter

u n d b e s o n d e r s ihr

entgegengelührt,

einen Glanz

h i n r e i c h t e n , j e d e s andere S t r e b e n

und

die i m m e r h i n im

eine B e d e u t u n g zu ver-

a u f ' s V o l l k o m m e n s t e zu ver-

dunkeln. U n t e r solchen U m s t ä n d e n war es natürlich, dass die d i d a k t i s c h e ihrer höchsten Bliithe g e l a n g t e ; — mochte,

dass sie sich

lag in der N a t u r der S a c h e ,

da m a n

n u r zu bald

L e b e n s v e r r i c h t u n g c n zum G e g e n s t a n d e g e r e i m t e r Meditationen 2)

Poesie

hier zu

nicht lange in derselben zu erhalten verdie alltäglichsten,

profansten

wählte.

Diese kalte, b e r e c h n e n d e V e r s t a n d e s p o e s i e machte sieh indessen auch in der

L y r i k , Epik und D r a m a t i k geltend und g e r i e t h ,

da sie k a u m m e h r a n s t r e b t e

als eine

ge-

zierte empfindelmle Zartheit der Darstellung, in eine übertriebene Sentimentalität, von welcher selbst

die

konnten.

besten D i c h t e r

u n d Schriftsteller dieses Zeitraumes

der f ü h l b a r e Mangel an guten 3)

sich

nicht

D a h e r das i m m e r schärfere H e r v o r t r e t e n ihres G e g e n s a t z e s , Das T h e a t e r ,

frei

halten

der S a t i r e ,

ganz

sowie

Dramen.

welches vor

der

Revolution

von

1 6 8 8 in einen Z u s t a n d

der

Gemeinheit und Schamlosigkeit versunken war, von d e m m a n sich h e u t z u t a g e k a u m eine Vorstellung m a c h e n k a n n , war seiner Unsittlichkeit wegen, geschlossen anfangs

worden

und

trat

erst

d u r c h a u s nicht in einer

mit

zur Zeit der ' C o m m o n w e a l t h '

der ' R e s t a u r a t i o n ' auf's N e u e

veredelten,

verjungten Gestalt,

ins L e b e n ,

ganz

freilich

d a die r e a k t i o n ä r e P a r t e i

leider auch in Bezug auf Sittenreinheit den R e p u b l i k a n e r n entgegentreten zu m ü s s e n glaubte. E r s t allmälig erstreckte sich die Macht des Zeitgeistes

u n d des h e r r s c h e n d e n

auch auf die dramatischen L e i s t u n g e n u n d m a n v e r w a r f ,

Geschmackes

nach vielfachen f r u c h t - und nutz-

losen B e m ü h u n g e n , die N a c h a h m u n g des Französischen T h e a t e r s d u r c h a u s , indem m a n f ü r ' s D r a m a Prinzipien aufstellte, die z u m T h e i l n o c h gegenwärtig in K r a f t sind. II.

12

DRITTE PERIODE.

178

Zunächst scliicd m a n das tragische Element sorgfältig von dem komischen und Dichter wie S o u t h e r n e , L i l l o , der seiner Zeit f ü r pathetisch gehaltene, versgewandte Addison,

Arthur Murphy,

Edward

Moore

und

John Home

Rowe,

bereicherten die

Bühne mit echt nationalen Tragödien, die anfänglich zwar gezwungen und unnatürlich genug ausfielen, unter Edw. Moore's und J o h n H o m e ' s Händen aber bald mehr Lebenstreue erhielten.

W a s ihren Schöpfungen an W a h r h e i t und Tiefe der Auffassung mangelte, suchten sie

durch glänzende Diktion und äusserlichen Schmuck zu ersetzen. Für

die K o m ö d i e

waren

vorzüglich

thätig:

der

witzige W i l l i a m

dessen Charaktere aber sehr an U n n a t u r k r ä n k e l n ; G e o r g e F a r q u h a r , getreuer s c h r i e b ;

der launige J o h n V a n b u r g h ,

George Colman;

Goldsmith;

Garrik;

mehre gelungene Stücke hinterliessen,

Colley

Cibber;

Mrs.

F o o t e und M a c k l i n ,

von denen

sich einige

Congreve,

der bereits naturCentlivre;

die Alle ein oder

bis zum heutigen

Tage

auf

dem ß e p e r t o i r erhalten haben. 4)

Von dem Heere

der Dichter

nur eine bescheidene Anzahl aus und Garth, Alexander Schotten; deutendsten Cowper,

Gray,

dieser Periode zeichnete Matthew

Pope, Thomas

unter ihnen

sieh

Joseph

dennoch

Goldsmith

zu bezeichnen sein.

im

Addison,

Parnell, Young; Thomson

Collins, Akenside,

welche den Ucbergang

Prior,

Ganzen Samuel

und einige andere

und B e a t t i c dürften als die be-

Namentlich

waren es die L e t z t e r e n ,

sowie

dieser E p o c h e zu der einer f r e i e m Natürlichkeit vermit-

telten, obwohl auch sie noch hier und da an den Fesseln ihrer Zeit zu tragen hatten.

ENGLISCHE DICHTER. I. MATTHEW PRIOR geb. 1 6 6 4 ,

gest. 1 7 2 1 , zu W i m p o l e ,

H e r k u n f t , doch schwang er sich

dem Landsitze des L o r d s O x f o r d , war zwar dunkler

durch

seine Talente zu ansehnlichen StaatsUmtern empor.

Als Dichter ist er b e r ü h m t wegen seiner ' T a l e s ' und s e i n e r h e i t e r n , epigrammatischen Dichtungen, in welcher G a t t u n g er die höchste Meisterschaft an den T a g legte; leider sind sie, wie die meisten Dichtungen seiner Zeit, nicht frei von Schlüpfrigkeiten. didaktische Gedicht ' S o l o m o n , or the Vanily of the W o r l d ' and E m m a , ' die sich

durch

Leichtigkeit

und A n m u t h

und

Am bekanntesten ist das das Schäfergedicht ' H e n r y

im Versbau

und Lebendigkeit

der

Erzählung vortheilhaft auszeichnen und noch gegenwärtig ziemlich beliebt sind.

1) SAUNTERING JACK AND IDLE JOAN. (An

Epitaph.)

Did round this globe their courses r u n ; If human things went ill or well, If changing empires rose or fell,

Interr'd beneath this marble stone,

T h e m o r n i n g past, t h e evening came,

Lie sauntering Jack and idle Joan.

And found this couple j u s t the same.

While rolling threescore years and one

T h e y walk'd and ate, good f o l k s : W h a t t h e n ?

MATTHEW PRIOR. Why, then they walk'd and ate again;

179

They l e d — a kind o f — a s it were;

They soundly slept the night away;

Nor wish'd, nor car'd, nor laugh'd, nor cried;

Tliey did just nothing all the day.

And so they liv'd, and so they died.

Nor sister either had nor b r o t h e r ; They seemed just tallied for each other. Their Moral and Economy

2) THE GARLAND.

Most perfectly they made agree;

The pride of every grove I chose,

Each virtue kept its proper bound,

The violet sweet and lily fair,

Nor trespass'd on the other's ground.

The dappled pink and blushing rose,

Nor fame nor censure they regarded;

T o deck my charming Chloe's hair.

They neither punish'd nor rewarded. He cared not what the footman d i d ; Her maids she neither prais'd nor chid: So every servant took his course, And, bad at first, they all grew worse. Slothful disorder fill'd his stable, And sluttish plenty deck'd her table. Their beer was strong, their wine was p o r t ; Their meal was large, their grace was short. They gave the poor the remnant meat, Just when it grew not fit to eat. They paid the church and parish rate, And took, but read not, the receipt; For which they claim'd their Sunday's due, Of slumbering in an upper pew. No man's defects sought they to know, So never made themselves a foe. No man's good deeds did they commend, So never rais'd themselves a friend. No»1 cherish'd they relations poor, T h a t might decrease their present s t o r e ; Nor barn nor house did they repair, T h a t might oblige their future heir. They neither added nor confounded; They neither wanted nor abounded. Nor tear nor smile did they employ At news of public grief or joy. When bells were rung and bonfires made, If ask'd, they ne'er denied their aid; Their j u g was to the ringers carried, Whoever either died or married. Their billet at the fire was found, Whoever was depos'd or crown'd. Nor good, nor bad, nor fools, nor wise, They would not learn, nor could advise; Without love, hatred, joy, or fear,

At morn the nymph v o u c h s a f d to place Upon her brow the various wreath; The flowers less blooming than her face, The scent less fragrant than her breath. The flowers she wore along the day, And every nymph and shepherd said, T h a t in her hair they look'd more gay Than glowing in their native bed. Undress'd at evening, when she found Their odours lost, their colours past, She chang'd her look, and on the ground Her garland and her eyes she cast. T h a t eye dropp'd sense distinct and clear, As any muse's tongue could speak, When from its lid a pearly tear Ran trickling down her beauteous cheek. Dissembling what I knew too well, My love, my life, said I, explain This change of humour ; prithee tell — That falling tear — what does it mean? She sigh'd, she smil'd; and to the flowers Pointing, the lovely mor'list said, See, friend, in some few fleeting hours, See yonder, what a change is made. Ah m e ! the blooming pride of May And that of beauty are but o n e : At morn both flourish bright and gay, Both fade at evening, pale, and gone. 12*

190

MATTHEW PBIOK. 3) T H E CAMELEON.

A« the Cameleon, who ii known T o have no colour« of his own, But borrows from his neighbour's hue. His white or black, his green or blue; And struts as much in ready light, W h i c h credit gives him upon sight, As if the rainbow were in tail, Settled on him and his heirs male;

4) RICHARD'S THEORY OF THE MIND.

(Prvm

'Alma.')

I say, whatever you maintain Of Alma in the heart or brain, T h e plainest man alive may tell ye, Her seat of empire i t the belly. From hence she sends out those supplies, Which make us either stout or wise: Your stomach makes the fabric roll

So the young squire, when first he comes

Just as the bias rules the bowl.

From country school to Will's or Tom's,

The great Achilles might employ

And equally, in truth, is fit

The strength design'd to ruin T r o y ;

T o be a statesman, or a wit;

He dined on lion's marrow, spread

Without one notion of bis own,

On toasts of ammunition b r e a d ;

H e saunters wildly up and down,

But, by his mother sent away

Till some acquaintance, good or bad,

Amongst the Tracian girls to play,

Takes notice of a staring lad,

Effeminate he sat and quiet —

Admits him in among the g a n g ;

Strange product of a cheese-cake diet! * *

They jest, reply, dispute, harangue;

Observe the various operations

H e acts and talks, as they befriend him,

Of food and drink in several nations.

Stnear'd with the colours which they lend him. Thus, merely as bis fortune chances,

W a s ever Tartar fierce or cruel Upon the strength of water-gruel ?

His merit or his vice advances.

But who shall stand his rage or force

If hsply he the sect pursues,

If first he rides, then eats his horse?

T h a t read and comment upon news;

Sallads, and eggs, and lighter fare,

H e takes up their mysterious face;

T u n e the Italian spark's g u i t a r ;

H e drinks his coffee without lace;

And, if I take Dan Congreve right,

This week his mimic tongue runs o'er

Pudding and beef make Britons fight.

What they have said the week before;

Tokay Bnd coffee cause this work

His wisdom sets all Europe right,

Between the German and the T u r k ;

And teaches Marlborough when to fight.

And both, as they provisions want.

Or if it be his fate to meet With folks who have more wealth than wit, H e loves cheap port, and double bub, And settles in the Humdrum Club; H e learns how stocks will fall or rise; Holds poverty the greatest vice; Thinks wit the bane of conversation; And says that learning spoils a nation. But if, at first, he minds his hits, And drinks champaign among the wits; Five deep he toasts the towering lasses; Repeats you verses wrote on glasses; I s in the chair; prescribes the law; And 'a lov'd by those he never saw.

Chicane, avoid, retire, and faint. * * As, in a watch's fine machine, Though many artful springs are seen; The added movements, which declare How full the moon, how old the year, Derive their secondary power From that which simply points the h o u r ; For though these grimcracks were away (Quare*) would not swear, but Quare would say), However more reduced and plain, The watch would still a watch remain: But if the horal orbit ceases, The whole stands still, or breaks to pieces *) A renowned watchmaker of the day.

MATTHEW PRIOR. — JONATHAN SWIFT. 1« now no longer what it * u , And you may e'en go tell the c u e . So, if unprejudiced you scan The goings of this clock-work, man, Tou find a hundred movenfents made By fine device« in hi« bead; But 'tis the stomach's solid itroke That tells his being what's o'clock. If you take off this rhetoric trigger, He talks no more in trope and figure; Or clog bis matkematic wheel, His buildings fall, bis ship stands still; Or, lastly, break his politic weight, His voice no longer rules the state: Yet, if these finer whims are gone. Your clock, though plain, will still go on: But, spoil the organ of digestion, And you entirely change the question; Alma's affairs no power can mend; The jest, alas! is at an end; Soon ceases all the worldly bustle, And you consign the corpse to Russel.

5) A SIMILE. Dear Thomas, did'st tbon never pop Thy bead into a tinman's shop? There, Thomas, did'st thou never see CTis but by way of simile) A squirrel spend bis little rage, In jumping round a rolling cage; The cage, aa either tide turned up, Striking a ring of bell* at top? Mov'd in the orb, pleas'd with the chimes, The foolish creature think« be climb*: But, here or there, turn wood or wire, He never gets two inches higher. So fares it with those merry blades, That frisk it under Phoebus' «hade*, In noble song and lofty odes, Tbey tread on stars, and talk with god«; Still dancing in an airy round, Still pleas'd with their own verse«' tound: Brought back, bow fast soe'er they go, Always aspiriDg, always low.

IL JONATHAN SWIFT, geboren 1667, gestorben 1 7 4 5 ; S. Thl. I. des Handb., p. 116.

1) BAUCIS AND PHILEMON. In ancient times, as story tells, The saints would often leave their cells, And stroll about, but hide their quality, To try good people's hospitality. It happened on a winter night (As authors of the legend write), Two brother hermits, saints by trade, Taking their tour in masquerade, Disguised in tattered habits, went To a small village down in Kent; Where, in the strollers' canting strain, They begged from door to door in vain;

181

Tried every tone might pity win, But not a soul would let them in. Our wandering saints in woful state, Treated at this ungodly rate, Having through all the village past, To a small cottage came at last, Where dwelt a good old honest yeoman, Called in the neighbourhood Philemon, Who kindly did the saints invite In his poor hut to pass the night. And then the hospitable sire Bid Goody Baucis mend the fire, While he from out the chimney took A flitch of bacon off the hook,

182

JONATHAN SWIFT.

And freely from the fattest side Cut out large slice« to be fried; Then stepped aside to fetch them drink, Filled a large jng up to the brink, And saw it fairly twice go round; Yet (what was wonderful) they found 'Twas still replenished to the top, As if they ne'er had touched a drop. The good old couple were amaxed, And often on each other gazed: For both were frighted to the heart, And just began to cry — ' What art? 1 Then softly turned aside to view, Whether the lights were burning blue. The gentle pilgrims, soon aware on't, Told them their calling aud their errant: ' Good folks, you need not be afraid, We are but saints, the hermits said; No hurt shall come to you or yours; But, for that pack of churlish boors, Not fit to live on Christian ground, They and their houses shall be drowned: While you shall see your cottage rise, And grow a church before your eyes.' Thry scarce had spoke, when fair and soft, The roof began to mount aloft; Aloft rose every beam and rafter, Tbe heavy wall climbed slowly after. The chimney widened, and grew higher, Became a steeple with a spire. The kettle to tbe top was hoist, And there stood fastened to a joist; But with tbe up-side down, to show Its inclination for below: In vain; for some superior force, Applied at bottom, stops its course; Doomed ever in suspense to dwell, 'Tis now no kettle, but a bell. A wooden jack, which bad almost Lost by disuse the art to roast, A sudden alteration feels. Increased by new intestine wheels: And, what exalts the wonder more, The number made tbe motion slower; The flier, which, though't had leaden feet, Turned round so quick, yon scarce could sec't.

Now, slackened by some secret power. Can hardly move an inch an hour. The jack and chimney, near allied, Had never left each other's side: The chimney to a Steeple grown, Tbe jack would not be left alone; But, up against the steeple reared, Became a clock, and still adhered: And still its love to household cares, By a shrill voice at noon, declares; Warning the cook-maid not to burn That roast meat, which it cannot turn. The groaning chair was seen to crawl, Like a huge snail, half up the wall; There stuck aloft in public view, And, with small change, a pulpit grew. Tbe porringers, that in a row Hung high, and made a glittering show. To a less noble substance changed, Were now but leathern buckets ranged. The ballads pasted on tbe wall, Of Joan of France, and English Moll, Fair Rosamond, and Robin Hood, The Little Children in the Wood, Now seemed to look abundance better, Improved in picture, size, and letter; And high in order placed, describe The heraldry of every tribe. A bedstead of the antique mode, Compact of timber many a load; Such as our grandsires wont to use, Was metamorphosed into pews; Wbich still their ancient nature keep, By lodging folks disposed to sleep. Tbe cottage, by such feats as these, Grown to a church by just degrees; Tbe hermits then desire their host To ask for what he fancied most. Philemon, having paused a while, Returned them thanks in homely style; Then said, my bouse is grown so fine, Metbinks I still would call it mine: I'm old, and fain would live at ease; Make me the parson, if you please. He spoke, and presently be feels His grazier's coat fall down his heels:

188

JONATHAN 8WITT. He see«, yet hardly can believe, About each arm a pudding sleeve: Hii waiatcoat to a cassock grew, And both assumed a sable hue; But being old, continued just As threadbare and as full of dust. His talk was now of tithes and dues, Could smoke his pipe, and read the news: Knew how to preach old sermons next, Vamped in the preface and the text: At christenings well could act his part, And had the service all by heart: Wished women might have children fast, And thought whose sow bad farrowed last: Against dissenters would repine, And stood up firm for right divine: Found his head filled with many a system. But classic authors — he ne'er missed them. Thus having furbished up a parson, Dame Baucis next they played their farce on Instead of home-spun coifi, were seen Good pinner*, edged with Colberteen: Her petticoat, transformed apace. Became black satin flounced with lace. Plain Goody would no longer down; 'Twas Madam, in her grogram gown. Philemon was in great surprise, And hardly could believe his eyes: Amazed to see ber look so prim; And she admired as much at bim.

Old Goodman Dobson, of the green, Remembers he the trees hath seen; He'll talk of them from noon to night, And goes with folks to show the sight; On Sundays, after evening prayer, He gathers all the parish there; Points out the place of either yew, Here Baucis, there Philemon grew. Till once a parson of our town, To mend his barn, cut Baucis down; At which, 'tis hard to be believed, How much the other tree was grieved; Grew scrubby, died a-top, was stunted; So the next parson stubbed and burnt it.

2) ON HIS OWN DEATH.

Vain human-kind! fantastic race! Tby various follies who can trace ? Self-love, ambition, envy, pride, j Their empire in our heart divide. Give others riches, power, and station 'Tis all to me a usurpation. I have no title to aspire; Yet, when you sink, I seem the higher. In Pope I cannot read a line, But with a sigh I wish it mitte: When be can in one couplet fix More sense than I can do in six. I grieve to be outdone by Gay Thus, happy in their change of life, In my own humorous biting way. Were several years the man and wife: Arbuthnot is no more my friend, When on a day, which proved their last. Who dares to irony pretend, Discoursing o'er old stories past, Which I was born to introduce, They went by chance, amidst their talk, Refin'd at first, and show'd its use. To the churchyard to fetch a walk; St. John, as well as Pulteney, knows When Baucis hastily cried out, That I had some repute for prose; My dear, I see your forehead sprout! Sprout, quoth the man, what's this you tell is? And, till they drove me out of date, Could maul a miniser of state. I hope you don't believe me jealous? If they have mortified my pride, But yet, methinks, I feel it true; And made me throw my pen aside; And really yours is budding too — If with such talents heaven hath bless'd 'em, Nay — now I cannot stir my foot; ! Have I not reason to detest 'em ? It feels as if 'twere taking root. From Dublin soon to London spread, Description would but tire my Muse; 'Tis told at court, 'the Dean ia dead;' In short, they both were turned to yews.

181

JONATHAN SWIFT.

And Lady Suffolk, in the spleen, Ran« laughing op to tell th» queen. The queen so gracious, mild, and good, Cries, 'It he-gone! 'tin time he should. He's dead, yon say; then let him rot: I'm glad the medals were forgot I promis'd him, I own; but when? I only was the princess then: Bat now, as consort of the king, You know, 'tis quite another thing.' Now Chartres, at Sir Robert's levee, Tells with a sneer the tidings heavy : ' Why, if he died without his shoes,' Cries Bob, 'I'm sorry for the news: Ob, were the wretch but living (till, And in his place my good friend Will! Or bad a mitre on bis head, Provided Bolingbroke were dead!' Now Curie his shop from rubbish drains: Three genuine tomes of Swift's remains! And then, to make tbem pass tbe glibber, Revis'd by Tibbalds, Moore, and Cibber. He'll treat me as be does my betters, Publish my will, my life, my letters; Revive tbe libels born to die : Which Pope must bear as well as I. Here shift tbe scene, to represent How those I love my death lament. Poor Pope will grieve a month, and Gay A week, and Arbuthnot a day. St. John himself will scarce forbear To bite bis pen, and drop a trar. The rest will give a shrug, and cry, •I'm sorry— but we all must die!' My female friends, whose tender hearts Have better learn'd to act their parts, Receive the news in doleful dumps: 'The Dean is dead: (Pray, what is trumps?) Then, Lord have mercy on bis soul! (Ladies, I'll venture for the vole.) Six deans, they say, must bear the pall: (I wish I knew what king to call.) Madam, your husband will attend The funeral of so good a friend?' 'No, madam, 'tis • shocking sight;

And he's engag'd to-morrow night: My Lady Club will take it ill, If he should fail her at quadrille. He lov'd the Dean — (I lead a heart:) But dearest friends, tbey say, must part. His time was come; he ran his race; We hope he's in a better place.' Suppose me dead; and then suppose A club assembled at the Rose; Where, from discourse of this and that, I grow tbe subject of tbeir chat. And while tbey toss my name about, With favour some, and some without; One, quite indifferent in the cause, My character impartial draws. ' Perhaps I may allow the Dean Had too much satire in his vein, And seem'd determin'd not to starve it, Because no age could more deserve it., Yet malice never was bis aim; He lasb'd the vice, but spar'd the name. No individual could resent, Where thousands equally were meant: His satire points at no defect, But what all mortals may correct; For he abhorr'd the senseless tribe Who call it humour when they gibe: He spar'd a hump, or crooked nose, Whose owners set not up for braux. True genuine dullness mov'd bis pity, Unless it offer'd to be witty. Those who their ignorance confessed, He ne'er offended with a jest; But laugh'd to hear an idiot quote A verse from Horace learn'd by rote. Vice, if it e'er can be abash'd, Must be or ridicul'd or lash'd. If you resent it, who's to blame ? He neither knows you, nor your name. Should vice expect to 'scape rebuke, Because its owner is a duke? His friendships, still to few confin'd, Were always of the middling kind; No fools of rank, or mongrel breed, Who fain would pass for lords indeed:

m

JONATHAN SWIFT. — JOSEPH ADDISON. Where title* give no right or power, And peerage is a witber'd flower; He would have deem'd it a disgrace, If *uch a wretch had known hia face. ' He never thought an honour done him, Became a peer wa* proud to own him; Would rather (lip aaide, and choose To talk with wits in dirty shoes; And scorn the fools with stars and garters, So often seen caressing Chartres. He never courted men in station, Nor persons held in admiration; Of no man's greatness was afraid, Because he sought for no man's aid. Though trusted long in great affairs, He gave himself no haughty airs: Without regarding private ends, Spent all his credit for his friends; And only chose the wise and good; No flatterers; no allies in blood: But succour'd virtue in distress, And seldom fail'd of good success; As numbers in their hearts must own, Who, but for him, had been unknown.' ' He kept with princes due decorum; Yet never stood in awe before 'em. He follow'd David's lesson just: In princes never put bis trust:

And, would you make him truly sour, Provoke him with a slave in power. The Irish senate if yon nam'd, With what impatience be declaim'd! Fair L i b e r t y waa all his cry; For her be stood prepar'd to die; For her he boldly stood alone; For her he oft espoa'd his own. Two kingdoms, just as faction led, Had set a price upon hia bead; Bnt not a traitor could be found. To sell him for sis hundred pound.' ' Had he but spar'd his tongue and pen, He might have rose like other men: But power was never in his thought, And wealth he valued not a groat; Ingratitude he often found, And pitied those who meant the wound; But kept the tenour of bis mind, To merit well of human-kind; Nor made a sacrifice of those Who still were true, to please his foes. He labour'd many a fruitless hour, To reconcile his friends in power; Saw mischief by a faction brewing, While tbey pursued each other's ruin; But finding vain was all his care, He left the court in mere despair.' *

*

IIL JOSEPH ADDISON, geboren 1672, gestorben 1719.

S. Thl. I. des Handb., p. 127.

1) ODE. How are thy servants blest, O Lord! How sure is their defence! Eternal wisdom is their guide, Their help Omnipotence.

Thy mercy sweeten'd every soil, Made every region please The hoary Alpine bills it warm'd, And smooth'd the Tyrrhene seas.

In foreign realms, and lands remote, Supported by thy csre. Through burning climes I pasa'd unhurt, And breathed in tainted air.

Think, O my soul! devoutly think, How, with affrighted eyes, Thou saw'st the wide-extended deep In all its horror* rise.

186

J O S E P H ADDISON.

Confusion dwelt on every face, And fear in every heart, When waves on waves, and gulfs on gulfs, O'ercame the pilot's art.

And nightly to the list'ning earth Repeats the story of her birth: Whilst all the stars that round her burn, And all the planets in their turn, Confirm the tidings as they roll,

Yet, then from all my griefs, O L o r d !

And spread the truth from pole to pole.

Thy mercy set me free; Whilst in the confidence of prayer My soul took hold on thee.

W h a t , though in solemn silence, all Move round the dark terrestrial ball? What though nor real voice nor sound

F o r though in dreadful whirls we hung High on the broken wave, I knew thou wert not slow to hear, Nor impotent to save.

Amid their radiant orbs be found? In reason's ear they all rejoice, And utter forth a glorious voice, F o r ever singing, as they shine, The hand that made us is divine.

The storm was laid, the winds retir'd, Obedient to thy will; The sea that roar'd at thy command, At thy command was still. In midst of dangers, fears, and death, T h y goodness I'll adore; I'll praise thee for thy mercies past, And humbly hope for more. My life, if thou preserv'st my life, Thy sacrifice shall b e ; And death, if death must be my doom, Shall join my soul to thee.

3)

PSALM XXIII.

The Lord my pasture shall prepare, And feed me with a shepherd's care; His presence shall my wants supply, And guard me with a watchful eye: My noon-day walks he shall attend, And all my midnight hours defend. When in the sultry glebe I faint, Or on the thirsty mountain pant; T o fertile vales and dewy meads My weary wandering step he leads, Where peaceful rivers, soft and slow, Amid the verdant landscape flow. Though in the paths of death I tread,

2)

ODE.

T h e spacious firmament on high, With all the blue ethereal sky, And spangled heavens, a shining frame, Their great original proclaim: Th' unwearied sun, from day to day, Does his Creator's power display, And publishes to every land T h e work of an Almighty hand. Soon as the evening shades prevail, T h e moon takes up the wond'rous tale,

With gloomy horrors overspread. My steadfast heart shall fear no ill, F o r thou, o Lord, art with me still; Thy friendly crook shall give me aid, And guide me through the dreadful shade. Though in a bare and rugged way, Through devious lonely wilds I stray, Thy bounty shall my wants beguile: The barren wilderness shall smile, With sudden greens and herbage crown'd, And streams shall murmur all around.

187

J O S E P H ADDISON. — ALEXANDER P O P E .

4)

T H E BATTLE OF BLENHEIM. (From 'The

Campaign'.)

N o vulgar f e a r s can British m i n d s c o n t r o l ; H e a t of revenge, and noble pride of soul, O'erlook t h e foe, advantag'd by his post,

B u t now the t r u m p e t terrible f r o m far,

Lessen his n u m b e r s , and contract his h o s t ;

In shriller clangours animates t h e w a r ;

T h o u g h fens and floods possess'd the middle space,

Confed'rate d r u m s in fuller concert beat, And echoing hills the loud alarm r e p e a t :

T h a t unprovok'd they would have fear'd to p a s s ;

Gallia's proud standards to Bavaria's j o i n ' d ,

N o r fens nor floods can stop Britannia's b a n d s ,

U n f u r l their gilded lilies in the w i n d ;

W h e n her p r o u d foe r a n g ' d o n their borders

T h e daring prince his blasted hopes renews

stands.

And while the thick embattled host h e views S t r e t c h ' d out in deep array, and dreadful length,

But O , my m u s e , what n u m b e r s wilt t h o u

His heart dilates, and glories in his s t r e n g t h .

find T o sing the furious troops in battle j o i n ' d !

T h e fatal day its mighty course began,

Methinks I hear the d r u m ' s tumultuous sound,

T h a t t h e griev'd world h a d long desir'd in vain ;

T h e victor's shouts and dying groans c o n f o u n d ;

States that their new captivity b e m o a n ' d ,

T h e dreadful b u r s t of cannon rend the skies,

Armies of martyrs that in exile g r o a n ' d ,

And all the t h u n d e r of the battle rise.

Sighs

' T w a s then great Marlbro's mighty soul was

from

the

depth of gloomy dungeons

prov'd,

heard, And prayers in bitterness of soul p r e f e r r ' d ;

T h a t , in the shock of charging h o s t s u n m o v ' d ,

E u r o p e ' s loud cries, that providence assail'd,

Amidst confusion, horror, and despair,

And Anna's ardent vows, at length pievail'd;

Gxamin'd all the dreadful scenes of w a r ;

T h e day was come when Heav'n design'd to

In peaceful t h o u g h t the field of death survey'd,

show H i s care and conduct of the world below.

T o fainting s q u a d r o n s sent the timely aid, Inspir'd repuls'd battalions to engage, And t a u g h t the doubtful battle where to rage.

'

Behold, in awful m a r c h and dread array

So when an angel, by divine c o m m a n d ,

T h e long-extended s q u a d r o n s shape their w a y !

W i t h rising tempests shakes a guilty land,

D e a t h , in approaching, terrible, imparts

Such as of late o'er pale Britannia pass'd,

An anxious h o r r o r to the bravest h e a r t s ;

Calm and serene he drives the furious blast,

Yet do their b e a t i n g breasts demand the strife,

And, pleas'd th' Almighty's orders to perform,

And thirst of glory quells the love of life.

Rides in t h e whirlwind, and directs the s t o r m .

IV. ALEXANDER POPE. W i r h a b e n bereits im I. Theile des H a n d b u c h e s , pag. 1 3 8 , von ihm

gesprochen

und

fügen hier noch Folgendes ergänzend h i n z u : I n seinem 2 1 . L e b e n s j a h r e g a b er bereits den allgemein bewunderten ' E s s a y on Criticism' h e r a u s , ' w h i c h at once describes, and is a very fair specimen of whati the wits of Queen Anna's reign were m o s t captivated by — an epigrammatic turn of t h o u g h t , and a happy appropriateness of expression'.

Zwei J a h r e später schrieb

er die zwei schönsten seiner eigenen D i c h t u n g e n : ' T h e R a p e of t h e L o c k ' und

die ' E l e g y

on an U n f o r t u n a t e Lady,' welche m e h r dichterischen Schwung haben, als irgend ein anderes W e r k des Dichters.

I m J a h r e 1 7 1 3 , in seinem 2 5 . J a h r e , k a m er auf die sehr

glückliche,

188

ALEXANDER POPE.

weil seit gemistt Idee, die JBade zu übersetzen, welches Unternehmen bereit* 1720 zu Ende geführt war und ihm fortan ein sorgenfreies Leben sieberte. Von seiner lliade beisst es, dass sie 'is not regarded as a faithful version of the original; it does not possess the simple majesty and unaffected grandeur of the heathen poet Yet, while every succeeding attempt to copy these characteristic« has failed, it must be allowed that Pope, in changing those qualities of the original for his own brilliant and elaborate diction and elegance of description, bas produced a most fascinating work, and one that, in all probability, will not soon lose its popularity. Von der Odyssee Übersetzte er nur einen Theil, den Rest lieferten seine Freunde Elgak Fenton und William Broome, die auch am Gewinne Theil nahmen. (Vergl. George Ckaprruam II., pag. 133.) Pope hatte ein kränkliches, missgestaltetes Aeussere und zog sich durch seine beissenden Ausfalle gegen Jeden, von dem er glaubte, er kSnne seinen literarischen Ruhm verdunkeln, die heftigsten und oft wohlverdientesten Angriffe zu; ebenso ist es bekannt und schon Öfter Vorwurf zu künstlerischer Darstellung geworden, dass er der reizenden, geistreichen Lady Montague (S. I. Theil des Handb., pag. 140.) eine Liebeserklärung zu machen wagte, wofttr er herzlich ausgelacht wurde. Seine bittere, inhumane Satire machte sich besonders Luft in der 'Dunciad,' die 1728 erschien. Pope's edlere Freunde suchten ihn dem Bessern zuzuwenden, besonders war es Lord Boltngbroke, der ihn veranlasste, den ganz vorzüglichen 'Essay on Man' zu verfassen, 'that gave an example of the poet's extraordinary power of managing argument in verse, and of compressing bis thoughts into clauses of the most energetic brevity, as well as of expanding them into passages glittering with every poetic ornament*. Ausser seinen 'Imitations of the Satires and Epistles of Horace,' und seinen 'Moral Essays in four Epistles' besitzen wir noch eine Sammlung 'Letters,' von denen wir Proben im I. Bande des Handbuches mitgetheilt haben.

1) ELEGT ON AN UNFORTUNATE LADY. What beckoning ghost, along the moon-light shade, Invites my steps, and points to yonder glade? 'Tis she! — but why that bleeding bosom gor'd, Why dimly gleams the visionary sword? Oh, ever beauteous, ever friendly! tell, Is it, in heaven, a crime to lore too well? To bear too tender, or too firm a heart, To act a lover's or a Roman's part? Is there no bright reversion in the sky, For those who greatly think, or bravely die? Why bade ye else, ye powers! her soul aspire Above the vulgar flight of low desire? Ambition first sprung from your blest abodes; The glorious fault of angels and of gods: Thence to their images on Earth it flows, And in the breasts of kings and heroes glows.

Most souls, 'tis true, but peep out once an »gf. Dull sullen prisoners in the body's cage: Dim lights of life, that burn a length of years, Useless, unseen, as lamps in sepulchres; Like eastern kings a lazy state they keep, And, close confin'd to their own palace, sleep. From these perhaps (ere Nature bade her die) Fate snatch'd her early to the pitying sky. As into air the purer spirits flow, And separate from their kindred dregs below; So flew the soul to its congenial place, Nor left one virtue to redeem her race. But thou, false guardian of a charge too good, Thou, mean deserter of tby brother's blood! See on these ruby lips the trembling breath, These cheeks now fading at the blast of death;

ALEXANDER F O R . Cold is that brewt which wanned the world before, And those love-darting eyes must roll no more. Thus, if eternal Justice rules the ball, Thus shall your wives, and thus your children fall: On all the line a sudden vengeance waits, And frequent hearses shall besiege your gates; There passengers shall stand, and pointing say, (While the long funerals blacken all the way) ' L o ! these were they, whose souls the Furies steel'd And curst with hearts unknowing how to yield.' Thus unlamented pass the proud away, The gaze of fools, and pageant of a d a y ! So perish all, whose breast ne'er learned to glow For others' good, or melt at others' woe. What can atone, ob, ever-injur'd shade! Thy fate uDpitied, and thy rites unpaid? No friend's complaint, no kind domestic tear Pleas'd (by pale ghost, or grac'd thy mournful bier:

189

'Tia all thou art, and all the proud shall b e ! Poeta themselves must fall, like those they song. Deaf the praia'd ear, and mute the tunefnl tongne. Ev'n he, whose soul now melts in mournful lays, Shall shortly want the generous tear he pays; Then from his elosing eyea thy form shall part, And the last pang shall tear thee form his heart; Life's idle business at one gasp be o'er, The Muse forgot, and thou belov'd no more!

2) FROM THE EPISTLE OP ELOISA T O ABELARD. In these deep solitudes and awful cells, Where heavenly-pensive contemplation dwells, And ever-musing melancholy reigns, What means this tumult in a vestal's veins-' Why rove my thoughts beyond this last retreat?

By foreign bands thy flying eyes were clos'd, By foreign hands thy humble grave adorn'd. By strangers honour'd, and by strangers mourn'd!

Why feels my heart its long-forgotten beat? Yet, yet I love! — From Abelard it came, And Eloisa yet must kiss the name.

What though no friends in sable .weeds appear, Grieve for an liour, perhaps, then mourn ayear, And bear about the mockery of woe To midnight dances, and the public show? What though no weeping Loves thy ashes grace, Nor polish'd marble emulate tby face? What though no sacred earth allow thee room, Nor ballow'd dirge be muttered o'er thy tomb ? Yet shall thy grave with rising flowers be dress'd.

Dear, fatal name! rest ever unrevealed, Nor pass these lips in holy silence sealed: Hide it, my heart, within that close disguise, Where, mixed with God's, bis loved idea lies: O, write it not, my hand — the name appears Already written — wash it out, my tears! In vain lost Eloisa weeps and prays, Her heart still dictates, and ber hand obeys. Relentless walls! whose darksome round contains

And the green turf lie lightly on tby breast: There »hall the morn her earliest tears bestow, There the first roses of the year shall blow; While angels with their silver wings o'ershade The ground now sacred by tby reliques made.

Repentant sighs, and voluntary pains: Ye rugged rocks, which holy knees have worn! Ye grots and caverns shagged with horrid

So, peaceful rests, without a stone, a name, Wbat once had beauty, titles, wealth, and fame, How lov'd, how honour'd once, avails thee not, T o whom related, or by whom begot; A heap of dust alone remains of thee.

thorn! Shrines, where their vigils pale-eyed virgins keep! And pitying saints, whose statues learn to weep! Though cold like y o u , unmoved and silent grown, I have not yet forgot myself to stone.

190

ALBXANDU POPE.

All is not heaven'« while Abelard baa part, Still rebel nmtere bold* out half my heart; Nor prayers nor fasts its stubborn pulse re* strain, Nor tears for ages taught to flow in vain. Soon as tby letters trembling 1 unclose, That well-known name awakens all my woes. Oh, name for ever sad, for ever dear; Still breathed in sighs,'still ushered with a tear! I tremble, too, where'er my own 1 find, Some dire misfortune follows close behind. Line after line my gushing eyes o'erflow, Led through a tad variety of wo: Now warm in lore, now withering in my bloom, Lost in a convent'« solitary gloom! There stern religion quenched the unwilling flame, There died the best of passions, love and fame. Tet write, oh write me all, that I may join Griefs to thy griefs, and echo sighs to thine! Nor foes nor fortune take this power away; And is my Abelard let« kind than they? Tears «till are mine, and those I need not «pare; Love but demands what else were shed in prayer; No happier task these faded eye« pursue; To read and weep is all they now can do. Then share thy pain, allow that sad relief; Ah, more than share it, give me all thy grief. Heaven first taught letter« for some wretch'« aid, Some banithed lover, or lomc captive maid; They live, they «peak, they breathe what love inspires, Warm from the soul, and faithful to it* fires. The virgin« wiih without her fear« impart, Excuse the bluib, and pour out all the heart, Speed the «oft intercourse from soul to soul, And waft a sigh from Indus to the pole. * * Ah, think st least thy flock deserves thy care, Plants of tby hand, and children of tby prayer; From the false world in early youth they fled. By thee to mountains, wilds, and deserts led. Yon raised these hallowed walls; the desert smiled, And paradise waa opened in the wild.

No weeping orphan saw his father'« store* Our shrines irradiate, or emblaze the floors; No silver saints, by dying misers given, Here bribed the rage of ill-requited heaven: But sneh plain roofs as piety could raise, And only vocal with the Maker's praise. In these lone walls (their day's eternal bound) These moss-grown domes with spiry turrets crowned, Where awful arches make a noon-day night, And the dim windows shed a solemn light; Thy eyes diffused a reconciling ray, And gleams of glory brightened all the day. But now no face divine contentment wears, 'Tis all blank sadness or continual tears. See how the force of others' prayers I try, 0 pious fraud of amorous charity! But why ahould I on other«' prayer« depend ? Come thou, my father, brother, huaband, friend! Ah, let thy handmaid, sister, daughter, move, And all thoae tender name« in one, thy love! The darksome pine« that o'er yon rock« reclined, Wave high, and murmur to the hollow wind; The wand'ring streams that shine between the bills, The grots that echo to the tinkling rill«, The dying gales that pant upon the tree«, The lake« that quiver to the curling breeze; No more these scenes my meditation aid, Or lull to rest the visionary maid. But o'er the twilight groves and dusky cave«, Long sounding islet, and intermingled grave«, Black Melancholy sits, and round her throw« A death-like «ilence, and a dread repose: Her gloomy presence saddens all the scene, Shades every flower, and darkens every green, Deepens the murmur of the falling floods, And breathe« a browner horror on the wood«. * * What icenet appear where'er I turn my view ? The dear ideaa, where I fly, pursue, Rise in the grove, before the altar rise, Stain all my soul, and wanton in my eyes. 1 waste the matin lamp in sighs for thee; Tby image ateala between my God and a e ;

191

ALEXANDER POTO. Thy voice I teem in every hymn to hear,

But all ia calm in this eternal tleep;

With every bead I drop too «oft a tear.

Here grief forget* to groan, and love to weep,

When from the center cloud* of fragrance roll,

Even superstition lose* every fear;

And «welling organ« lift the rising aoul,

For Ood, not man, absolves our frailties here.'

One thought of thee put« all the pomp to flight,

I come, I come! prepare j o u r roseate bowers,

Priett«, tapers, temple*, swim before my sight;

Celestial palms, and ever-blooming flower*;

In sea« of flame my plunging *oul is drowned,

Thither, where sinners may have rest, I go,

While altar* blaze, and angel* tremble round.

Where flame« refined in breasts seraphic glow:

While prostrate here in humble grief I lie,

Thou, Abelard! the la«t «ad office pay,

Kind virtuou« drops just gathering in my eye;

And «mooth my passage to the realms o f day.

While praying, trembling in the dust I roll,

See my lips tremble, and my eyeball« roll,

And dawning grace i* opening on my aoul:

Suck my least breath, and catch my flying soul!

Come, if thou dar'st, all charming as thou art!

Ah no! — in sacred vestments may'st thou

Oppose thyself to heaven; dispute my heart:

stand,

Come, with one glance of those deluding eyes

The hallowed taper trembling in thy hand;

Blot out each bright idea of the skies;

Present the cross before my lifted eye,

Take back that grace, those sorrows, and those

Teach me at once, and learn of me to die.

tears;

Ah then, thy once-loved Eloisa see!

Take back my fruitless penitence and prayers;

I t will be then no crime to gaze on me.

Snatch me, just mounting, from the blest abode;

See from my cheek the transient roses fly!

Assist the fiends, and tear my from my Ood!

See the last sparkle languish in my eye!

No, fly me, fly me! far as pole from pole, Rise Alps between us! and whole oceans roll!

Till every motion, pulse, and breath be o'er, And even my Abelard be loved no more.

Ah, come not, write not, think not once of me,

Oh death, all-eloquent! you only prove

Nor share one pang of all I felt for thee.

What dust we dote on, when 'tis man we love.

Thy oaths I quit, thy memory resign; Forget, renounce me, hate whate'er was mine. Fair eyes, and tempting looks (which yet I view!) Long loved, adored ideas, all adieu! Oh grace serene! Oh virtue heavenly fair!

Then, too, when fate shall tby fair frame destroy (That cause of all my guilt, and all my joy). In trance ecstatic may thy pang« be drowned, Bright cloud* detcend, and angel« watch thee round;

Divine oblivion of low tboughted care!

From opening ikie* thy »treaming glories thine,

Fresh-blooming hope, gay daughter of the sky!

And saints embrace thee with a love like mine!

And faith, our early immortality!

May one kind grave unite each hapless name,

Enter, each mild, each amicable guest:

And graft my love immortal on thy fame!

Receive, and wrap me in eternal rest!

Then, ages hence, when all my woes are o'er,

See in her cell sad Eloisa spread,

When this rebellious heart shall heat no more,

Propt on some tomb, a neighbour of the dead.

If ever chance two wand'ring lovers brings

In each low wind methinks a spirit calls,

To Paraclete's white wall« and silver springs.

And more than echoes talk along the walls.

O'er the pale marble shall they join

Here, as I watched the dying lamp* around, From yonder shrine I heard a hollow sound.

their

bead«, And drink the falling tears each other sheds;

'Come, sister, come! (it said, or seemed to say)

Then sadly say, with mutual pity moved,

Thy place is here; sad sister, come away;

' Oh may we never love as theae have loved!'

Once like thyself, I trembled, wept, and prayed, Love's victim then, though now a sainted maid:

IM

ALEXANDER POPS. — ISAAK WATTS. 3) THE SEVERING OF THE LOCK.

For lo! the board with cups and spoons is crown'd, The berries crackle, and the mill tqnu round; On shining altars of Japan they raise The silver lamp; the fiery spirits blaze: From silver spouts the grateful liquors glide, While China's earth receive the smoking tide: At once they gratify their scent and taste, And frequent cups prolong the rich repaste. Strait hover round the Fair her airy band; Some, as she sipp'd, the fuming liquor fann'd, Some o'er her lap their careful plumes display'd. Trembling, and conscious of the rich brocade. Coffee (which makes the politician wise, • And see thro' all things with his balf-shut eyes) Sent up in vapours to the Baron's brain New stratagems, the radiant Lock to gain. Ah cease, rash youth! desist ere 'tis too late, Fear the just Gods, and tbink of Seylla's Fate! Chang'd to a bird, and sent to flit in air, She dearly pays for Niaut' injur'd hair! But when to Mischief mortals bend their will, How soon they find fit instruments of ill ? Just then, Clarissa drew with tempting grace A two-edg'd weapon from her shining case: So Ladies in Romance assist tbeir Knight, Present the spear, and arm bim for the fight. He takes the gift with rev'rence, and extends The little engine on bis Soger's ends; This just behind Belinda's neck he spread,

As o'er the fragrant steams she bends her head. Swift to the Lock a thousand Sprites repair, A thousand wings, by turns, blow back the hair: And thrice they twitch'd the diamond in her ear; Thrice she look'd back, and thrice the foe drew near. Just in that instant, anxious Ariel sought The close recesses of the Virgin's thought; As on the nosegay in her breast reclin'd, He wateh'd th' Ideas rising in her mind, Sudden he view'd, in spite of all her art, An earthly Lover lurking at her heart. Amaz'd, confus'd be found his pow'r expir'd, Resign'd to fate, and with a sigh retir'd. The Peer now spreads the glitt'ring Forfex wide, T ' inclose the L o c k ; now joins it, to divide. Ev'n then, before the fatal engine clos'd, A wretched Sylph too fondly interpos'd; Fate urg'd the shears, and cut the Sylph in twain, (But airy substance soon unites again) The meeting points the sacred hair dissever From the fair bead for ever and for ever! Then flash'd the living light'ning from her eyes, And screams of horror rend th' affrighted skies. Not louder shrieks to pitying heav'n are cast, When

husbands, or when lapdogs

breathe

their last; Or when rich China vessels fall'n from high. In glitt'ring dust, and painted fragments lie!

V. ISAAK WATTS, D. D. von 1 6 7 4 — 1 7 4 8 , war anfangs Geistlicher in London, zog sich aber, seiner schwachen Gesundheit wegen, von

allen Aemtern in den Scbooss einer reichen Familie nach Newington

zurück, in deren Mitte er bis zu seinem Tode segensreich, und gehebt und verehrt wirkte. Ausser vielen 'Miscellaneous P o e m s ' hinterliess licher Gedichte, d i e ,

er eine bedeutende Anzahl lyrischer erbau-

von wahrer Frömmigkeit durchdrungen,

der Ausdruck

religiösen Begeisterung sind und noch immer sehr geschätzt werden. machte er sich durch seine herrlichen religiösen Lieder filr die Jugend.

der

Besonders

zartesten verdient

ISAAC WATTS. 1) THE ROSE. ow fair is the rose! what a beautiful flower, The glory of April and May! ut the leaves are beginning to fade in an hour, And they wither and die in a day. et the rose has one powerful virtue to boast, Above all the flowers of the field ; Phen its leaves are all dead, and its fine colours lost, Still how sweet a perfume it will yield! o frail is the youth and the beauty of men, Though they bloom and look gay like the rose; tut all our fond care to preserve tbein is vain, Time kills tbem as fast as be goes. 'hen I'll not be proud of my youth nor my beauty, Since both of them wither and fade; lut gain a good name by well-doing my duty; This will scent like a rose when I'm dead.

2) TRUE RICHES. I am not concern'd to know What to-morrow fate will do; 'Tis enough that I can say I've possess'd myself to-day: Then if haply midnight death Seize my flesh, and stop my breath, Yet to-morrow I shall be Heir of the best part of me. Glittering stones, and golden things, Wealth and honours that have wings, Ever fluttering to be gone, I could never call my own: Riches that the world bestows, She can take, and I can lose; But the treasures that are mine Lie afar beyond her line. When I view my spacious soul, i And survey myself a whole, > D.

And enjoy myself alone, I'm a kingdom of my own. I've a mighty part within That the world hath never seen, Rich as Eden's happy ground, And with choicer plenty crown'd. Here on all the shining boughs. Knowledge fair and useful grows; On the same yonng flowery tree All the seasons you may see; Notions in the bloom of light, Just disclosing to the sight; Here are thoughts of larger growth, Ripening into solid truth; Fruits refin'd, of noble taste — Seraphs feed on such repast. Here, in a green and shady grove, Streams of pleasure mis with love; There beneath the smiling skies Hills of contemplation rise; Now upon some shining top Angels light, and call me u p ; I rejoice to raise my feet, Both rejoice when there we meet. There are endless beauties more Earth hath no resemblance for; Nothing like tbem round the pole, Nothing can describe the soul: 'Tis a region half unknown, That has treasures of its own, More remote from public view Than the bowels of Peru; Broader 'tis, and brighter far, Than the golden Indies are; Ships that trace the watery stage Cannot coast it in an age; Harts, or horses, strong and fleet, Had they wings to help their feet, Could not run it half way o'er In ten thousand days and more. Yet the silly wandering mind. Loth to be too much confin'd, Roves and takes her daily tours, Coasting round her narrow shores, Narrow shores of flesh and sense, Picking shells and pebbles thence: 13

ISAAC W A T T S . — Dr. E D W A R D

191

YOUNG.

And gives a sure hope at the end of hi« days,

Or she sit» at fancy'« door,

O f rising in brighter array.

Calling shapes and shadows to her; Foreign visits still receiving, And t' herself a stranger living.

4)

Never, never would she buy

G O D K N O W N O N L Y T O HIMSELF.

Indian dust, or Tyrian dye,

Stand and adore! bow glorious He

Never trade abroad for more,

That dwell* in bright eternity!

If she saw her native store;

W e gaze and we confound our sight.

If her inward worth were known,

Plunged in th' abyss of dazzling light.

She might ever live alone. Thou sacred One, Almighty Three, Great, everlasting Mystery, What lofty numbers shall we frame Equal to thy tremendous name? 3) A SUMMER EVENING. H o w fine has the day been, how bright was

Seraphs, the nearest to the throne, Begin to speak the Great Unknown :

the sun, How lovely and joyful the course that be run,

Attempt the song, wind up your strings

Though he rose in a mist when his race he be-

T o notes untried, and boundless things!

gun, And there followed some dropping o f rain!

You, whose capacious powers survey

But now the fair traveler's come to the west,

Largely beyond our eyes of clay,

His rays are all gold, and his beauties are best;

Y e t what a narrow portion too

H e paints the sky gay as he sinks to his rest,

Is seen or thought or known by y o u !

And foretells a bright rising again. How flat your highest praises fall Just such is the Christian; his course he begins,

Before th' immense Original!

Like the sun in a mist, when he mourns for

W e a k creatures we, that strive in vain T o reach an uncreated strain.

his sins, And melts into tears; then he breaks out anil

Great God ! forgive our feeble lays,

shines,

Sound out thine own eternal praise;

And travels his heavenly w a y : But when he comes nearer to finish his race,

A song so vast, a theme so high,

Like a fine setting sun, he looks richer in grace,

Call for the voice that tuned the sky.

VI. EDWARD YQUNG, geb. 1681 zu Upham

in Hampshire,

gest. 12. April 1765.

Nachdem

er

in O x f o r d

die

Rechte studirt und von 1712 an als Ilofmann und Dichter geglänzt hatte, trat er noch in seinem 40. Jahre

in

den

geistlichen Stand,

nach Wunsch befördert worden war.

weil

er

in seiner

bisherigen Laufbahn

nicht

Aber auch in seiner Pfarrei zu Wetwyn in Hertford-

shire fühlte er sich nicht befriedigt; der Verlust seiner Frau und seiner 2 Stiefkinder beugte ihn vollends

nieder

und

den

aus diesen Missstimmungen

erwachsenen Betrachtungen

ver-

dankt er zunächst seinen R u h m , der auf den viel bewunderten, düsteren ' N i g h t Thoughta 1

D r . E D W A R D YOUNG. hauptsächlich

basirt

ist,

da weder

195

seine T r a g ö d i e ' R e v e n g e '

tischen D i c h t u n g e n irgendwie g ü n s t i g

aufgenommen

wurden.

noch

seine ü b r i g e n

' Y o u n g ' sagt Craik

drama(V. 1 4 4 )

von ihm ' m a y be shortly characterised as, at least in a m a n n e r , a sort of s u c c e s s o r , u n d e r the reign of P o p e and the new style established b y him and D r y d e n , of the D o n n e s and the Cowleys of a f o r m e r age. l i e had n o t h i n g , however, of D o n n e ' s subtle fancy, and as little of the gaiety and playfulness t h a t occasionally b r e a k out a m o n g the quibbles and c o n t o r s i o n s of Cowley.

* *

Iiis style is radically an affected and false o n e ; and of what force it seems to possess, the greater p a r t is the result n o t of any real principle of life within it, b u t t h e mere s t r u t t i n g a n d straining.' In's Deutsehe

wurden

von Benzcl-Sternau hausen

(Kassel 1 8 4 4 ) .

FROM

die ' N a c h t g e d a n k e n '

übersetzt

( I ' r a n k f . 1 8 2 5 ) ; von Schmidt

von

Eberl

(Braunschw.

1790—95);

( D r e s d e n 1 8 2 5 ) u n d von Elise von

Hohen-

—

'NIGHT

1) Procrastination.

THOUGHTS'. (Night

I.)

K n o w s it at forty, and r e f o r m s h i s p l a n ; At fifty chides his i n f a m o u s delay, P u s h e s his p r u d e n t p u r p o s e t o r e s o l v e ;

Be wise to d a y : 't is m a d n e s s to d e f e r ;

In all the m a g n a n i m i t y of t h o u g h t

Next day the fatal p r e c e d e n t will p l e a d ;

R e s o l v e s ; and resolves; t h e n dies t h e same.

T h u s o n , till wisdom is p u s h ' d out of life.

And w h y ? Because he t h i n k s himself immortal.

P r o c r a s t i n a t i o n is the thief of t i m e ; Year after year it steals, till all are fled,

All men t h i n k all m e n m o r t a l , b u t t h e m s e l v e s ;

And t o t h e mercies of a m o m e n t leaves

Themselves, when some a l a r m i n g s h o c k of fate

T h e vast concerns of an eternal scene.

Strikes t h r o u g h their wounded hearts the s u d den d r e a d ;

If not so f r e q u e n t , would not this b e s t r a n g e ? T h a t 'tis so f r e q u e n t , this is s t r a n g e r still. Of m a n ' s miraculous mistakes, this b e a r s

But their h e a r t s w o u n d e d , like the w o u n d e d air, S o o n close; where, p a s t t h e shaft, n o trace is found.

T h e p a l m , ' T h a t all m e n are a b o u t t o live,' F o r ever on the b r i n k of b e i n g b o r n .

As f r o m t h e wing no scar the sky retains,

All pay themselves the c o m p l i m e n t to t h i n k

T h e p a r t e d wave n o f u r r o w f r o m t h e k e e l , —

T h e y one day shall n o t drivel: and their pride

So dies in h u m a n h e a r t s the t h o u g h t of death;

On t h i s reversion takes u p ready p r a i s e ;

E ' e n with the tender tear which N a t u r e sheds

At least, their o w n ; their f u t u r e selves a p p l a u d :

O ' e r those we love, — we d r o p it in their grave.

H o w excellent t h a t life they ne'er will l e a d ! T i m e lodg'd in their own h a n d in folly's vails; T h a t lodg'd in fate's, t o wisdom they c o n s i g n ; T h e thing they can't b u t p u r p o s e , they p o s t pone ;

2) Value of Time.

(Night

II.)

O t i m e ! t h a n gold m o r e s a c r e d ; m o r e a load

' T i s n o t in folly, not to scorn a f o o l ;

T h a n lead to fools, and fools r e p u t e d wise.

And scarce in h u m a n wisdom, to do m o r e .

W h a t m o m e n t granted m a n w i t h o u t a c c o u n t ?

All promise is p o o r dilatory m a n ,

W h a t years arc squandered, wisdom's d e b t unpaid?

And t h a t t h r o u g h every s t a g e ; when y o u n g , indeed,

O u r wealth in days all due to t h a t discharge.

In full c o n t c n t we, sometimes, nobly rest,

H a s t e , h a s t e , he lies in wait, h e ' s at the door,

Unanxious for o u r s e l v e s ;

Insidious D e a t h ; should his s t r o n g h a n d arrest,

and only wish,

As duteous sons, o u r fathers were m o r e wise.

N o composition sets t h e p r i s o n e r free.

At thirty m a n suspects himself a f o o l ;

E t e r n i t y ' s inexorable chain

13*

D r . EDWARD YOUNG. — THOMAS TICKELL.

196

Can every part depend, and n o t the whole ?

F a s t b i n d s , and vengeance claims the full ar-

Yet g r a n t it t r u e ; new difficulties r i s e ;

rear. Youth is not rich in t i m e ; it may be p o o r :

I ' m still quite out at s e a ; n o r see the shore.

P a r t with it as with money, sparing;

W h e n c e Earth, and these b r i g h t o r b s ? — Eter-

pay

nal t o o ?

N o m o m e n t , b u t in purchase of its w o r t h ;

G r a n t matter was eternal; still these orbs

And what its worth, ask d e a t h - b e d s ; they can

W o u l d want some other f a t h e r ; — much design

tell. P a r t with it as with life, r e l u c t a n t ; big

Is seen in all their motions, all their m a k e s ;

W i t h holy hope of nobler time to c o m e ;

Design implies intelligence, and a r t ;

Time higher aimed, still nearer the great mark

T h a t can't be f r o m t h e m s e l v e s — or m a n : that art

Of men and angels, virtue more divine.

Man scarce can comprehend, could m a n bestow ? And n o t h i n g greater yet allovv'd than m a n . — W h o , motion, foreign to the smallest grain, 3) Argument for the Existence of God. (Night IX.)

Shot through vast masses of enormous weight?

R e t i r e ; the world shut o u t ; — thy t h o u g h t s call

W h o bid brute matter's restive lump assume Such various forms, and gave it wings to fly?

home; — Imagination's airy wing repress; —

H a s matter innate m o t i o n ? then each atom,

L o c k up thy senses; — l e t no passion s t i r ; —

Asserting its indisputable right

W a k e all to r e a s o n ; — let her reign a l o n e ;

T o dance, would f o r m an universe of d u s t :

Then, in thy soul's deep silence, and the depth

H a s matter none ? T h e n whence these glorious forms

Of N a t u r e ' s silence, midnight, thus inquire, As I have d o n e ; and shall inquire n o more.

And boundless flights, f r o m shapeless, and re-

I n N a t u r e ' s channel, thus the questions r u n : —

pos'd?

• W h a t am I ? and f r o m whence ? — I n o t h i n g

H a s matter more than m o t i o n ? has it thought,

know

J u d g m e n t , and genius? is it deeply learn'd

B u t that I a m ; and, since I am, conclude

In mathematics ? H a s it fram'd such laws,

Something eternal: h a d there e'er been n o u g h t ,

W h i c h b u t to guess, a Newton made immortal?

N o u g h t still had b e e n ; eternal there must b e . —

If so, how each sage atom laughs at me,

But what eternal? — W h y not h u m a n race?

W h o think a clod inferior to a m a n !

And Adam's ancestors without an end? —

If art, to f o r m ; and counsel, to c o n d u c t ;

That's hard to be conceiv'd, since every link

And that with greater far t h a n human skill,

Of that long-chain'd succession is so frail.

Resides not in each block; — a Godhead reigns.

VII. THOMAS TICKELL, geb. 1 6 8 6

zu Bridekirk

zu Oxford und

war einer

bei Carlisle, gest. 1 7 4 0 ,

erhielt seine

der thätigsten Mitarbeiter

E r erfreute sich der besonderen Gunst Addison's,

der ihn nicht nur in seinem literarischen

Streben a u f m u n t e r t e , sondern ihm

auch

Die von

begonnene Uebersetzung

ihm

gleichzeitig mit Pope

die gesammte W h i g - P a r t e i der Pope's Freundschaftsbruche Eleganz und

zwischen

Zartgefühl a u s ,

diesen

zu nicht unbedeutenden

v o r z o g , war ragt

Staatsämtern

der I l i a d e ,

T.'s

seine Ballade

heranzog.

die Addison

die Veranlassung zu dem

beiden Dichtern.

besonders

wissenschaftliche Bildung

an dem ' S p e c t a t o r ' und ' G u a r d i a n . '

Gedichte zeichnen

und

unheilbaren sich

' C o l i n and L u c y ' durch

durch edle

THOMAS TICKELL.

197

Einfachheit und wahren P a t h o s vor allen seinen übrigen W e r k e n v o r t e i l h a f t hervor, denen es im Ganzen an Verschiedenartigkeit und K r a f t gebricht.

COLIN AND LUCY. (A

Ballad.)

Of Leinster, famed for maidens fair,

Ah, Colin! give n o t her thy vows, Vows due to m e a l o n e ; N o r thou, fond m a i d ! receive his kiss, N o r think him all thy own.

Bright Lucy was the g r a c e ; N o r e'er did Liffy's limpid stream Reflect so sweet a f a c e : Till luckless love and pining care Impair'd her rosing hue,

T o - m o r r o w in the church to wed, Impatient, both p r e p a r e ! But k n o w , fond m a i d ! and know, false m a n , T h a t Lucy will be t h e r e !

H e r coral lips, and damask cheeks, And eyes of glossy blue.

T h e n bear my corpse, m y c o m r a d e s ! b e a r , This bridegroom blithe to m e e t ;

O h ! have you seen a lily pale, W h e n beating rains descend?

He in his wedding trim so gay, I in my winding sheet.'

So droop'd the slow-consuming maid, H e r life now near its end. By Lucy warned, of flattering swains T a k e heed, ye easy fair!Of vengeance due to broken vows, Ye perjur'd swains! beware. Three times, all in the dead of night, A bell was heard to ring! And shrieking, at her window thrice

She s p o k e ; she died. Her corpse was borne T h e bridgeroom blithe to m e e t ; H e in his wedding trim so gay She in her winding sheet.

T h e n what were perjur'd Colin's t h o u g h t s ? How were these nuptials k e p t ? T h e bridesmen flock'd round Lucy dead, And all the village wept.

T h e raven flapp'd his wing. Confusion, shame, remorse, despair, T o o well the love-lorn maiden knew T h e solemn b o d i n g s o u n d ; And thus, in dying words, bespoke

At once his b o s o m swell; T h e damps of death bedew'd his b r o w ; H e shook, he groaned, he fell.

T h e virgins weeping r o u n d : ' I hear a voice you cannot hear, W h i c h says I m u s t not s t a y ; I see a h a n d you cannot see, Which beckons me away. By a false heart and broken vows In early youth I die: W a s I to blame because his bride W a s thrice as rich as I ?

F r o m the vain bride, a h ! bride no m o r e ! T h e varying crimson fled, W h e n , stretched before her rival's coipse, She saw her h u s b a n d d e a d :

T h e n to his Lucy's new made grave, Convey'd by trembling swains, One m o u l d with her, beneath one sod, F o r ever he remains.

THOMAS TICKELL. — JOHN

198

O f t at this grave the constant hind

GAY.

B u t , swain f o r s w o r n ! w h o e ' e r t h o u a r t ,

And plighted maid are s e e n ;

T h i s hallowed spot f o r b e a r ;

W i t h garlands gay and true-love knots,

R e m e m b e r Colin's dreadful fate,

T h e y deck the sacred green.

A n d fear to m e e t h i m t h e r e .

VIII.

JOHN

GAY,

g e b . 1 6 8 8 zu B a r n s t a p l e in D e v o n s h i r e , gest. a m 4 . D e c b r . 1 7 3 2 zu L o n d o n , w a r ein M a n n von

einfachem,

liebenswürdigen

liefer M e n s e h e n k e n n t n i s s .

Wesen,

and point, have never been matched.' t h e S t r e e t s of L o n d o n ' angesehen;

seinen

und

reich

begabt

mit

sprudelndem

Witz

und

S e i n e p o p u l ä r s t e n G e d i c h t e s i n d die ' F a b l e s ' ' w h i c h , in liveliness

wird

S e i n e h e r o i s c h e P o s s e ' T r i v i a , or t h e A r t of W a l k i n g

f ü r eine der gelungensten

Hauptruhm

erntete

er

indessen

D a r s t e l l u n g e n der S i t t e n s e i n e r

von

dem

Schauspiele

'The

Zeit

Beggar's

O p e r a ' ( 1 7 2 7 ) , d a s 6 3 m a l h i n t e r e i n a n d e r a u f g e f ü h r t w u r d e u n d sich n o c h i m m e r auf d e m R e pertoir erhält.

E s i s t dies ' a play c e r t a i n l y v e r y r e p r e h e n s i b l e o n t h e s c o r e of m o r a l i t y , b u t

w h i c h was so m u c h a d m i r e d f o r i t s m u s i c , a n d f o r t h e r i d i c u l e which it t h r e w o n t h e w e a k p o i n t s of h u m a n i n s t i t u t i o n s . ' Seine Dichtungen erschienen unter dem Titel ' P o e t i c a l W o r k s '

(London 1 7 9 7 . 3 Bde.

1 8 0 6 . 2 B d e . ) u n d eine S a m m l u n g s e i n e r d r a m a t i s c h e n W e r k e zu L o n d o n

1) T H E C O U N T R Y B A L L A D (Prom

' The Shepherd's

SINGER.

Week.')

Sublimer strains, O rustic m u s e ! p r e p a r e ; F o r g e t awhile t h e b a r n a n d d a i r y ' s c a r e ; T h y h o m e l y voice t o l o f t i e r n u m b e r s raise, T h e d r u n k a r d ' s flights r e q u i r e s o n o r o u s l a y s ; W i t h B o w z y b e u s ' s o n g s exalt t h y verse, W h i l e r o c k s a n d w o o d s t h e v a r i o u s n o t e s rehearse. 'Tvvas in t h e s e a s o n w h e n t h e r e a p e r s ' toil Of the ripe harvest 'gan to rid the s o i l ;

1760.

Ballads, a n d r o u n d e l a y s , a n d c a t c h e s s u n g : T h e y l o u d l y l a u g h t o see t h e d a m s e l ' s f r i g h t , A n d in d i s p o r t s u r r o u n d t h e d r u n k e n w i g h t . Ah, B o w z y b e e , why d i d s t t h o u s t a y so l o n g ? T h e m u g s were large, the drink was w o n d r o u s strong! T h o u s h o u l d ' s t h a v e left t h e fair b e f o r e 'twas night, B u t t h o u s a t ' s t t o p i n g till t h e m o r n i n g l i g h t . Cicely, b r i s k m a i d , s t e p s f o r t h b e f o r e t h e r o u t , A n d k i s s e d with s m a c k i n g lip t h e s n o r i n g l o u t , ( F o r custom says, ' W h o e ' e r this venture proves,

W i d e t h r o u g h t h e field was s e e n a g o o d l y r o u t ,

F o r s u c h a k i s s d e m a n d s a p a i r of g l o v e s ' ) .

Clean d a m s e l s b o u n d t h e g a t h e r e d s h e a v e s a b o u t ;

By h e r e x a m p l e D o r c a s b o l d e r g r o w s ,

T h e lads w i t h s h a r p e n e d h o o k a n d s w e a t i n g b r o w

A n d p l a y s a tickling s t r a w within his n o s e .

C u t d o w n t h e l a b o u r s of t h e w i n t e r p l o u g h . * *

H e r u b s his n o s t r i l , a n d in w o n t e d j o k e

W h e n fast asleep they Bowzybeus spied, H i s h a t a n d o a k e n staff lay close b e s i d e ;

T h e s n e e r i n g s t r a i n s with s t a m m e r i n g s p e e c h bespoke:

T h a t B o w z y b e u s w h o c o u l d sweetly sing,

T o y o u , m y l a d s , I'll s i n g m y carols o ' e r ;

O r with t h e r o s i n e d b o w t o r m e n t t h e s t r i n g ;

As f o r t h e m a i d s , I ' v e s o m e t h i n g else in s t o r e .

T h a t B o w z y b e u s w h o , with f i n g e r s ' s p e e d , C o u l d call s o f t w a r b l i n g s f r o m t h e b r e a t h i n g r e e d ; T h a t Bowzybeus who, with j o c u n d tongue,

N o s o o n e r ' g a n he r a i s e his t u n e f u l s o n g , B u t l a d s a n d lasses r o u n d a b o u t h i m t h r o n g . | N o t b a l l a d - s i n g e r place a b o v e t h e c r o w d

JOHN GAT. Sings with a note so shrilling sweet and loud; Nor parish-clerk, who calls the psalm so clear, Like Bowzybeus soothes the attentive ear. Of nature's laws his carols first begun, Why the grave owl can never face the sun. For owls, as swains observe, detest the light, And only sing and seek their prey by night. How turnips bide their swelling heads below, And how the closing coleworts upwards grow; How Will-a-wisp misleads night-faring clowns O'er hills, and sinking bogs, and pathless downs. Of stars he told that shoot with shining trail, And of the glow-worm's light that gilds his tail. He sung where woodcocks in the summer feed, And in what climates they renew their breed (Some think to northern coasts their flight they tend, Or to the moon in midnight hours ascend); Where swallows in the winter's season keep, And how the drowsy bat and dormouse sleep; How nature does the puppy's eyelid close, Till the bright sun has nine times set and rose (For huntsmen by their long experience find, That puppies still nine rolling suns are blind). Now be goes on, and sings of fairs and shows, For still new fairs before his eyes arose. How pedlers' stalls with glittering toys are laid, The various fairings of the country maid. Long silken laces hang upon the twine, And rows of pins and amber bracelets shine; How the tight lass knives, combs, and scissors spies. And looks on thimbles with desiring eyes. Of lotteries next with tuneful note he told, Where silver spoons are won, and rings of gold. The lads and lasses trudge the street along, And all the fair is crowded in his song. The mountebank now treads the stage, and sells His pills, his balsams, and bis ague-spells; Now o'er and o'er the nimble tumbler springs, And on the rope the venturous maiden swings; Jack Pudding, in bis party-coloured jacket, Tosses the glove, and jokes at every packet. Of raree-shows he sung, and Punch's feats, Of pockets picked in crowds, and various cheats. Then sad he sung 'The Children in the Wood,'

199

(Ah, barbarous uncle, stained with infant blood!) How blackberries they plucked in deserts wild, And fearless at the glittering faulchion smiled; Their little corpse the robin-redbreasts found, And strewed with pious bill the leaves around. (Ab, gentle birds! if this verse lasts so long, Your names shall live for ever in my song.) For 'Buxom Joan' he sung the doubtful strife, How the sly sailor made the maid a wife. To louder strains he raised his voice, to tell What woful wars in 'Chevy Chase' befell, When ' Percy drove the deer with hound and horn; Wars to be wept by children yet u n b o m ! ' Ah, Witherington! more years thy life had crowned, If thou hadst never heard the horn or hound! Yet shall the squire, who fought on bloody stumps, By future bards be wailed in doleful dumps. 'AH in the land of Essex' next he chaunts, How to sleek mares starch Quakers turn gallants: How the grave brother stood on bank so green— Happy for him if mares had never been! Then he was seized with a religious qualm, And on a sudden sung the hundredth psalm. He sung of 'Taffy Welsh' and 'Sawney Scot,' 'Lilly-bullero' and the 'Irish Trot.' Wby should I tell of 'Bateman' or of 'Shore,' Or 'Wantley's Dragon' slain by valiant Moore, ' The Bower of Rosamond,' or ' Robin Hood,' And how the 'grass now grows where Troy town stood?' His carols ceased: the. listening maids and swains Seem still to bear some soft imperfect strains. Sudden he rose, and, as be reels along, Swears kisses sweet should well reward his song. The damsels laughing fly; the giddy clown Again upon a wheat-sheaf drops adown; The power that guards the drunk his sleep attends, Till, ruddy, like his face, the sun descends.

200

«

JOHN GAY.

2) THE HARB AND MANY FRIENDS. (From: ' The Fttbtet.') Friendship, like lore, is but a name, Unless to one you stint the flame. The child, whom many fathers share, Hath seldom known a father's care. 'Tis thus in friendship; who depend On many, rarely find a friend. A Hare, who in a civil way, Complied with everything, like Gay, Was known by all the bestial train, Who haunt the wood, or graze the plain. Her care was never to offend, And every creature was her friend. As forth she went at early dawn. T o taste the dew-besprinkled lawn, Behind she hears the hunter's cries. And from the deep-mouthed thunder flies: She starts, she stops, she pants for breath; She bears the near advance of death; She doubles, to mislead the hound, And measures back her mazy round; Till, fainting in the public way, Half dead with fear she gasping lay; What transport in her bosom grew, When first the Horse appeared in view! Let me, says she, your back ascend, And owe my safety to a friend. You know my feet betray my flight, To friendship every burden's light. The Horse replied: Poor honest Puss, It grieves my heart to see thee thus; Be comforted, relief is near, For all your friends are in the rear. She next the stately Bull implored, And thus replied the mighty lord: Since every beast alive can tell That I sincerely wish you well, I may, without offence, pretend To take the freedom of a friend. Love calls me hence; a favourite cow Expects me near yon barley-mow; And when a lady's in the case, You know, all other things give place. To leave you thus might teem unkind;

Bnt see, the Goat is just behind. The Goat remarked her pulse waa high, Her languid head, her heavy eye; My back, says he, may do you harm. The Sheep's at hand, and wool is warm. Tbe Sheep was feeble, and complained His sides a loAd of wool sustained: Said he was slow, confessed his fears, For bounds eat sheep as well as hares. She now the trotting Calf addressed, To save from death a friend distressed. Shall I, says he, of tender age, In this important care engage? Older and abler passed you b y ; How strong are those, how weak am I ! Should I presume to bear you hence, Those friends of mine may take offence. Excuse me, then. You know my heart; But dearest friends, alas! must part. How shall we all lament! Adieu ! For, see, the hounds are just in view!

3) SWEET WILLIAM'S FAREWELL TO BLACK-EYED SUSAN. All in the downs the fleet was moored, The streamers waving in tbe wind, When black-eyed Susan came aboard, O h ! where shall I my true love find? Tell me, ye jovial sailors, tell me true, If my sweet William sails among the crew? William, who high upon the yard Rocked with tbe billow to and fro, Soon as her well-known voice he heard, He sighed, and cast his eyes below: The cord slides swiftly through his glowing hands, And (quick as lightning) on the deck he stands. So sweet the lark, high poised in air, Shuts close his pinions to his breast (If chance his mate's shrill call he hear), And drops at once into her nest. The noblest captain in the British fleet Might envy William's lip those kisses sweet.

JOHN OAT. Wide o'er the foaming billows She cast i wistful look; Her bead was crowned with willows, That trembled o'er the brook.

O ! SUIIUI, Susan, lovely dear, My TOWS shall ever true remain; Let me kiss off that falling tear; We only part to meet again. Change as ye list, ye winds! my heart shall be The faithful compass that still points to thee.

Twelve months are gone and over, And nine long tedious days; Why didst thou, venturous lover, Why didst thou trust the seas? Cease, cease thou cruel ocean, And let my lover rest: Ah! what's thy troubled motion To that within my breaat?

Believe not what the landmen say, Who tempt with doubt thy constant mind; They'll tell thee, sailors, when away, In every port a mistress find: Yes, yes, believe them when they tell thee so, For thou art present wheresoe'er I go. If to fair India's coast we sail, Thy eyes are seen in diamonds bright, Tby breath is Afric's spicy gale, Thy skin is ivory so white. Thus every beauteous object that I view, Wakes in my soul some charm of lovely Sue.

The merchant robbed of pleasure, Sees tempests in despair; But whafs the loss of treasure, To losing of my dear? Should you some coast be laid on, Where gold and diamonds grow. You'd find a richer maiden, But none that loves you so.

Though battle call me from thy arms, Let not my pretty Susan mourn; Though cannons roar, yet, safe from harms, William shall to his dear return. Love turns aside the balls that round me fly, Lest precious tears should drop from Susan's eye. The boatswain gave the dreadful word, The sails their swelling bosom spread; No longer must she stay aboard; They kissed, she sighed, he hung his head. Her lessening boat unwilling rows to land, Adieu! she cries, and waved her lily hand.

4) A

BALLAD.

Twas when the seas were roaring With hollow blasts of wind, A damsel lay deploring, All on a rock reclined.

| | ,

How can they say that nature Haa nothing made in vain; Why then, beneath the water, Should hideous rocks remain ? No eyes the rocks discover That lurk beneath the deep, To wreck the wandering lover, And leave the maid to weep.

All melancholy lying, Thus wailed she for her dear; Repaid each blast with sighing, Each billow with a tear. When o'er the white wave stooping His floating corpse she spied, Then, like a lily drooping, She bowed her bead, and died.

202

ROBERT BLAIR.

IX. ROBERT BLAIR, geb. 1 6 9 9 zu E d i n b u r g ,

gest. 1 7 4 6 zu Athelstaneford, E a s t - L o t h i a n .

eine« schottischen Geistlichen er das Glück hatte ein

E r war der Sohn

und widmete sieb mit Liebe dem Stande seines Vaters.

anständiges Vermögen zu besitzen,

und er sieb ausserdem

Da durch

Liebenswürdigkeit des Charakters und die vielseitigsten gründlichsten Kenntnisse auszeichnete, so wurde sein Umgang nicht nur sehr gesucht, sondern mehre der namhaftesten Gelehrten und Dichter traten

sogar in Briefwechsel mit ihm.

Das schönste seiner Gedichte, ' T h e

G r a v e ' , hatte er u m ' s J a h r 1 7 3 1 geschrieben; im Drucke erschien es jedoch erst im J a h r e 1743.

E s ist zwar nur von geringem Umfange, aber von meisterhafter Arbeit und unfehl-

barem, mächtigem Eindrucke.

SELECT PASSAGES FROM:

' T H E GRAVE'.

Where are the mighty thunderbolts of war ? The Roman Csesars and the Grecian chiefs, T h e boast of story? Where the hot-brained youth, W h o the tiara at bis pleasure tore

( O h cruel i r o n y ! ) these come too late, And only mock whom they were meant to honour! *

* *

Invidious Grave! how dost thou rend in sunder Whom love has knit, and sympathy made one!

From kings of all the then discovered globe;

A tie more stubborn far than nature's band.

And cried, forsooth, because his arm was ham-

Friendship! mysterious cement of the soul!

pered, And had not room enough to do its work?

Sweetener of life! and solder of society! I owe thee much. Tbou hast deserved from me

Alas, bow slim — dishonourably slim!

Far, far beyond what I can ever pay.

And crammed into a space we blush to name!

Oft have I proved the labours of thy love,

Proud royalty! How altered in thy looks!

And the warm efforts of thy gentle heart,

How blank thy features, and how wan thy hue !

Anxious to please. O h ! when my friend and I

Son of the morning! whither art thou gone?

In some thick wood have wandered heedless on,

Where hast thou hid thy many-spangled head,

Hid from the vulgar eye, and sat us down

And the majestic menace of thine eyes

Upon the sloping cowslip-covered bank,

Felt from a f a r ? Pliant and powerless now:

Where the pure limpid stream has slid along

Like new-born infant wound up in his swathes,

In grateful errors through the underwood,

Or victim tumbled flat upon his back,

Sweet murmuring, methought the shrill-tongued

T h a t throbs beneath his sacrificer's knife;

thrush

Mute must thou bear the strife of little tongues,

Mended his song of love; the sooty blackbird

And coward insults of the base-born crowd,

Mellowed his pipe, and softened every n o t e :

T h a t grudge a privilege thou never hadst,

T h e eglantine smelled sweeter, and the rose

But only hoped for in the peaceful grave —

Assumed a dye more d e e p ; whilst every flower

Of being unmolested and alone!

Vied with its fellow-plant in luxury

Arabia's gums and odoriferous drugs,

Of dress! O h ! then the longest summer's day

And honours by the heralds duly paid

Seemed too, too much in h a s t e : still, the full

In mode and form, e'en to a very scruple;

heart

ROBERT BLAIR. — JAMBS THOMSON. Had not imparted half: 'twas happiness Too exquisite to list. Of joys departed Not to return, how painful the remembrance! * •

*

Death's shafts fly thick! Here falls the village swain, And here his pamper" d lord. The cup goes round, And who so artful as to put it by ? 'Tis long since Death had the majority; Yet strange, the living lay it not to heart. The Sexton, hoary-headed chronicle, Of hard unmeaning face, down which ne'er stole A gentle tear, with mattock in his hand,

203

Dig* thro' whole rows of kindred and acquaintance, By far his junior*. Scarce a skull ' i eaat op But well be knew its owner, and can tell Some passage of his life. Thus, hand in hand, The sot has walk'd with Death twice twenty year«; And yet ne'er younker on the green langhs louder, Or tells a smuttier tale. When drunkards meet, None sings a merrier catch, or lends a hand More willing to his cup. Poor wretch! he minds not That soon some trusty brother of the trade Shall do for him what he bas done for thousands!

X. JAMES THOMSON, geb. 11. September 1700, zu Ednam, Roxburghshire, gest. 27. August 1748. — Er war der Sohn eines presbyterianischen Predigers seines Geburtsortes und bildete sein dichterisches Talent, das sich schon früh zeigte, namentlich auf der Universität zu Edinburg aus. Nach dem Tode seines Vaters begab er sich nach London, wo er 1726 sein beschreibendes Gedicht ' T h e Winter' und 1728 'TheSummer' herausgab, denen 1729 ' T h e Spring' und 1730 'The Autumn' folgte, von denen er in demselben Jahre nochmals eine Gesammtausgabe unter dem Titel 'The Seasons' besorgte. Die grössten Männer seiner Zeit traten mit ihm in Verbindung und selbst seine äussere Stellung gewann durch die Freigebigkeit des Prinzen von Wales eine so sichere, sorgenfreie Gestaltung, dass er unstreitig der Nachwelt noch mehr Ursache zur Bewunderung hinterlassen hätte, wäre er nicht so früh ein Opfer des Todes geworden. Ausser den 'Seasons' schrieb T. noch fünf Trauerspiele, die aber fast nichts Anderes als dramatisirte Lehrgedichte sind; ferner: 'The Castle of Indolence', ein in Spenser's Manier gehaltenes, vortreffliches, allegorisches Gedicht und das berühmte englische Volkslied: 'Rule Britannia'. Treue Beobachtung der Natur, verbunden mit wahrer dichterischer Begeisterung und hoher Meisterschaft der Darstellung, machen nicht nur die 'Seasons* zum Hauptwerke der englischen didaktischen Poesie, sondern sind auch in seinen Übrigen Werken nicht zu verkennen. In's Deutsche Ubersetzt wurden die 'Jahreszeiten' oft, ebenso seine Dramen. Gesammtausgaben seiner Werke erschienen zu Edinburgh (1788, 2 Bde.); seine Biographie von Murdoch (London, 1803, 3 Bde.).

1) FROM: 'THE SEASONS'. a) Prom 'Spring'. D o m e s t i c Bliss. But happy they! the happiest of their kind! Whom gentler stars unite, and in one fate

Their hearts, their fortunes, and their beings blend. 'Tis not the coarser tie of human laws, Unnatural oft, and foreign to the mind, That binds their peace, but harmony itself, Attuning all their passions into love;

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Where friendship fall exerts her softest power, Perfect esteem, enliven'd by desire Ineffable, and sympathy of soul; Thought meeting thought, and will preventing will, With boundless confidence. * * What is the world to them, Its pomp, its pleasure, and its nonsense all! Who in each other clasp whatever fair High fancy forms, and lavish hearts can wish; Something than beauty dearer, should they look Or on the mind, or mind-illumin'd face; Truth, goodness, honour, harmony and love, The richest bounty of indulgent Heaven. Meantime a smiling offspring rises round, And mingles both their graces. By degrees, The human blossom blows, and every day. Soft as it rolls along, shows some new charm, The father's lustre, and the mother's bloom. Then infant reason grows apace, and calls For the kind hand of an assiduous care. Delightful task! to rear the tender thought. To teach the young idea how to shoot, To pour the fresh instruction o'er the mind, To breathe th' enlivening spirit, and to fix The generous purpose in the glowing breast. Oh, speak the joy! ye whom the sudden tear Surprises often, while you lock around, And nothing strikes your eve but sights of bliss, All various nature pressing on the heart: An elegant sufficiency, content, Retirement, rural quiet, friendship, books, Ease and alternate labour, useful life, Progressive virtue, and approving Heaven. These are the matchless joys of virtuous love, And thus their moments fly. The seasons thus, As ceaseless round the jarring world they roll, Still find them happy, and consenting Spring Sheds her own rosy garland on their heads: Till evening comes at last, serene and mild; When, after the long vernal day of life, Enamour'd more, as more remembrance swells With many a proof of recollected love, Together down they sink in social sleep; Together freed, their gentle spirits fly To scenes where love and bliss immortal reign.

t) From • SuMHUt . Sunrise. Yonder comes the powerful king of day. Rejoicing in the east. The lessening cloud, The kindling azure, and the mountain's brow Illum'd with fluid gold, his near approach Betoken glad. Lo ! now apparent all. Aslant the dew-bright Earth, and colour'd air, He looks in boundless majesty abroad; And sheds the shining day, that burnish'd plays On rocks, and hills, and towers, and wand'ring streams, High gleaming from afar. Prime cheerer Light ! Of all material beings first, and best ! Efflux divine! Nature's resplendent robe! Without whose vesting beauty all were wrapt In unessential gloom ; and thou, 0 Sun ! Soul of surrounding worlds, in whom best seen Shines out thy Maker! May I sing of thee? * * *

Meantime th' expecting nations, circled gay With all the various tribes of foodful earth, Implore thy bounty, or send grateful up A common hymn: while, round the beaming car, High-seen, the Seasons lead, in sprightly dance Harmonious knit, the rosy-fingered Hours, The Zephyrs floating loose, the timely Rains Of bloom ethereal, the light-footed Dews, And soften'd into joy the surly Storms. These, in successive turn, with lavish hand, Shower every beauty, every fragrance shower, Herbs, flowers, and fruits ; till kindling at tby touch, From land to land is flush'd the vernal year.

c) From Evening

'Autumn'. Scene.

But see the fading many-coloured woods Shade deepening over shade, the country round Imbrown; a crowded umbrage dusk and dun. Of every hue, from wan declining green To sooty dark. These now the lonesome muse.

JAMES THOMSON. Low whispering, lead into their leaf-strown walks, And give the season in its latest view. Meantime, light shadowing all, a sober calm Fleeces unbounded ether: whose least wave Stands tremulous, uncertain where to turn The gentle current: while illumined wide, The dewy-skirted clouds imbibe the sun, And through their lucid veil his softened force Shed o'er the peaceful world. Then is the time, For those whom virtue and whom nature charm, To steal themselves from the degenerate crowd, And soar above this little scene of things: To tread low-thoughted vice beneath their feet; To soothe the throbbing passions into peace; And woo lone Quiet in her silent walks. Thus solitary, and in pensive guise, Oft let me wander o'er the russet mead, And through the saddened grove, where scarce is heard One dying strain, to cheer the woodman's toil. Haply some widowed songster pours his plaint, F a r , in faint warblings, through the tawny copse; While congregated thrushes, linnets, larks, And each wild throat, whose artless strains so late Swelled all the music of the swarming shades, Robbed of their tuneful souls, now shivering sit On the dead tree, a dull despondent flock: With not a brightness waving o'er their plumes, And nought save chattering discord in their note. O let not, aimed from some inhuman eye, The gun the music of the coming year Destroy; and harmless, unsuspecting barm, Lay the weak tribes a miserable prey In mingled murder, fluttering on the ground! The pale descending year, yet pleasing still, A gentler mood inspires; for now the leaf Incessant rustles from the mournful grove; Oft startling such as studious walk below, And slowly circles through the waving air. But should a quicker breeze amid the boughs Sob, o'er the sky the leafy deluge streams; Till choked, and matted with the dreary shower,

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The forest wallu, at every rising gale, Roll wide the withered waste, and whistle bleak. Fled is the blasted verdure of the fields; And, shrunk into their beds, the flowery race Their sunny robes resign. E'en what remained Of stronger fruit falls from the naked tree; And woods, fields, gardens, orchards all around, The desolated prospect thrills the soul. * * The western sun withdraws the shortened day, And humid evening, gliding o'er the sky In her chill progress, to the ground condensed The vapour throws. Where creeping waters ooze, Where marshes stagnate, and where rivers wind, Cluster the rolling fogs, and swim along The dusky-mantled lawn. Meanwhile the moon. Full-orbed, and breaking through the scattered clouds, Shows her broad visage in the crimsoned east. Turned to the sun direct her spotted disk, Where mountains rise, umbrageous dales descend, And caverns deep as optic tube descries, A smaller earth, gives us his blaze again, Void of its flame, and sheds a softer day. Now through the passing clouds she seems to stoop, Now up the pure cerulean rides sublime. Wide tlie pale deluge floats, and streaming mild O'er the skied mountain to the shadowy vale, While rocks and floods reflect the quivering gleam; The whole air whitens with a boundless tide Of silver radiance trembling round the world. * * The lengthened night elapsed, the morning shines Serene, in all her dewy beauty bright, Unfolding fair the last autumnal day. And now the mounting sun dispels the fog; The rigid hoar-frost melts before his beam; And hung on every spray, on every blade Of grass, the myriad dew-drops twinkle round.

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d) Prom ' Winter'. A Winter Storm. Then cones the father of the tempest forth, Wrapt in black glooms. First joyless rains obscure Drive through the mingling skies with vapour foul, Dash on the mountain's brow, and shake the woods, That grumbling wave below. Th' unsightly plain Lies a brown deluge, as the low-bent clouds Pour flood on flood, yet unexhausted still Combine, and deepening into night, shut up The day's fair face. The wanderers of Heaven, Each to his home, retire; save those that love To take their pastime in the troubled air, Or skimming flutter round the dimply pool. The cattle from th' untasted fields return, And ask, with meaning low, their wonted stalls, Or ruminate in the contiguous shade. Thither the household feathery people crowd, The crested cock, with all his female train, Pensive, and dripping, while the cottage bind Hangs o'er th' enlivening blaze, and taleful there Recounts his simple frolic: much be talks, And much be laughs, nor recks the storm that blows Without, and rattles on his humble roof. Wide o'er the brim, with many a torrcut swell'd, And the mix'd ruin of its banks o'erspread, At last the rous'd-up river pours along: Resistless, roaring, dreadful, down it comes, From the rude mountain, and the mossy wild, Tumbling through rocks abrupt, and sounding far; Then o'er the sanded valley floating spreads, Calm, sluggish, silent; till again, constraint Between two meeting bills, it bursts away, Where rocks and woods o'erhang the turbid stream; There, gathering triple force, rapid and deep, It boils, and wheels, and foams, and thunders through. • * «

When from the pallid sky the Sun descends, With many a spot, that o'er his glaring orb Uncertain wanders, stain'd: red fiery streaks Begin to flush around. The reeling clouds Stagger with dizzy poise, as doubting yet Which master to obey: while rising slow, Blank, in the leaden-colour'd east, the Moon Wears a wan circle round her blunted horns. Seen through the turbid fluctuating air, The stars obtuse emit a shiver'd r a y ; Or frequent seen to shoot athwart the gloom, And long behind them trail the whitening blaze. • * *

Ocean unequal press'd, with broken tide And blind commotion, heavesj while from the shore, Eat into caverns by the restless wave, And forest-rustling mountains, comes a voicc, That solemn sounding bids the world prepare. Then issues forth the storm with sudden burst, And hurts the whole precipitated air, Down, in a torrent. On the passive main Descend's th' ethereal force, and with strong gust Turns from its bottom the discolour'd deep. Through the black night that sits immense around, Lash'd into foam, the fierce conflicting brine Seems o'er a thousand raging waves to burn. Meantime the mountain-billows to the clouds In dreadful tumult swell'd, surge above surge, Burst into chaos with tremendous roar, And anchor'd navies from their stations drive, Wild as the winds across the howling waste Of mighty waters; now th' inflated wave Straining they scale, and now impetuous shoot Into the secret chambers of the deep The winter) Baltic thundering o'er their head. Emerging thence again, before the breath Of full-exerted Heaven they wing their course, And dart on distant coasts; if sonie sharp rock, Or shoal insidious break not their career, And in loose fragments fling them floating round. *

*

*

JAMES THOMSON. Low ware* the rooted forest, vex'd, and sheds What of iti tarnish'd honours yet remain; Daah'ddown, and scatter'd, by the tearing wind's Assiduous fury, its gigantic limbs. Thus struggling through the dissipated grove, The whirling tempest raves along the plain; And on the cottage tbatch'd or lordly roof, Keen-fastening, shakes them to the solid base. Sleep frighted flies, and round the rocking dome, For entrance eager, howls the savage blast. Then too, they say through all the burden'd air, Long groans are heard, shrill sounds, and distant sighs, That, utter'd by the demon of the night, Warn the devoted wretch of woe find death. Huge uproar lords it wide. The clouds, commix'd With stars swift gliding, sweep along the sky. All Nature reels: till Nature's King, who oft Amid tempestuous darkness dwells alone. And on the wings of the careering wind Walks dreadfully serene, commands a calm; Then strait, air, sea, and earth, are hush'd at once.

2) FROM THE 'CASTLE OF INDOLENCE.' O mortal man, who livest here by toil, Do not complain of this thy bard estate; That like an emmet thou must ever moil, Is a sad sentence of an ancient date; And, certes, there is for it reason great; F o r , though sometimes it makes thee weep and wail, And curse thy star, and early drudge and late, Withouten that would come a heavier bale, Loose life, unruly passions, and diseases pale. Iu lowly dale, fast by a river's side, With woody hill o'er hill encompassed round, A most enchanting wizard did abide, Than whom a fiend more fell is uowhere found. It was, I ween, a lovely spot of ground: And there a season atween June and May,

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Half pranked with spring, with summer half imbrowned, A listless climate made, where, sooth to »ay, No living wight could work, ne cared even for play. Was nought around but images of rest: Sleep-soothing groves, and quiet lawns between; And flowery beds that slumberous influence kest, From poppies breathed; and beds of pleasant green, Where never yet was creeping creature seen. Meantime unnumbered glittering streamlets played, And hurled everywhere their waters sheen; T h a t , as they bickered through the sunny glade, Though restless still themselves, a lulling murmur made. Joined to the prattle of the purling rills, Were heard the lowing herds along the vale, And flocks loud bleating from the distaut hills, And vacant shepherds piping in the dale: And now and then sweet Philomel would wail, Or stock-doves 'plain amid the forest deep, That drowsy rustled to the sighing gale; And still a coil the grasshopper did keep; Yet all these sounds yblent inclined all to sleep. Full in the passage of the vale above, A sable, silent, solemn forest stood, Where nought but shadowy forms was seen to move, As Idlesse fancied in her dreaming mood: And up the hills, on either side, a wood Of blackening pines, aye waving (o and fro, Sent forth a sleepy horror through the blood; And where this valley winded out below. The murmuring main was heard, and scarcely heard, to flow. A pleasing land of drowsy-head it was, Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye:

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JAMBS THOMSON.

And of gay castle* in the clouds that pass, For ever flashing round a summer sky: There eke the soft delights, that witchingly Instil a wanton sweetness through the breast. And the calm pleasures, always hovered nigh; But whate'er smacked of noyance or unrest, Was far, far off expelled from this delicious nest. The landskip such, inspiring perfect ease, Where Indolence (for so the wizard bight) Close hid bis castle mid embowering trees, That half shut out the beams of Phoebus bright, And made a kind of checkered day and night. Meanwhile, unceasing at the massy gate, Beneath a spacious palm, the wicked wight Was placed; and to his lute, of cruel fate, And labour harsh, complained, lamenting man's estate. Thither continual pilgrims crowdcd still, From all the roads of earth that pass there by; For, as they chanced to breathe on neighbouring bill, The freshness of this valley smote their eye, And drew them ever and anon more nigh; Till clustering round the enchanter false they hung, Ymolten with his syren melody; While o'er the enfeebling lute his hand he flung, And to tbe trembling chords these tempting verses sung: 'Behold! ye pilgrims of this earth, behold! See all but man with unearned pleasure gay: See her bright robes the butterfly unfold, Broke from her wintry tomb in prime of May! What youthful bride can equal ber array? Who can with her for easy pleasure vie? From mead to mead with gentle wing to stray, From flower to flower on balmy gales to fly, Is all she has to do beneath the radiant sky. Behold the merry minstrels of the morn. The swarming songsters of the careless grove,

Then thousand throats! that from the flowering thorn, Hymn their good God, and carol sweet of love, Such grateful kindly raptures them emove: They neither plough, nor sow; ne, fit for flail, E'er to tbe barn the nodding sheaves they drove; Yet theirs each harvest dancing in the gale, Whatever crowns the hill, or smiles along the vale. Outcast of nature, man! the wretched thrall Of bitter dropping sweat, of sweltry pain, Of cares that eat away thy heart with gall, And of the vices, an inhuman train. That all proceed from savage thirst of gain: For when bard-hearted Interest first began To poison earth, Astrsea left the plain; Guile, violence, and miyder, seized on man. And, for soft milky streams, with blood the rivers ran! Come, ye who still the cumbrous loap of life Push hard up hill; but as the farthest steep You trust to gain, and put an end to strife, Down thunders back the stone with mighty sweep, And hurls your labours to the valleys deep, For ever vain; come, and, withouten fee, I in oblivion will your sorrows steep. Your cares, your toils, will steep you in a sea Of full delight: oh come, yc weary wights, to me' With me, you need not rise at early dawn, To pass the joyless day in various stounds; Or, touting low, on upstart fortune fawn, And sell fair honour for some paltry pounds; Or through the city take your dirty rounds, To cheat, and dun, and lie, and visit pay, Now flattering base, now giving secret wounds: Or prowl in human courts of law for human prey, In venal senate thieve, or rob on broad highway. No cocks, with me, to rustic labour call, From village on to village sounding clear:

JAMftS THOMSOK. To tardy •wain no thrill - voiced matron* •quail; No dog«, no babes, no wive*, to stnn your ear; No hammert thump; no horrid blacksmith fear; No noisy tradesmen your sweet slumbers start. With sounds that are a misery to hear: But all is calm, as would delight the heart Of Sybarite of old, all nature, and all art. Here nought but candour reigns, indulgent ease, Good-natured lounging, sauntering up and down: They who are pleased themselves must always please; On others' ways they never squint a frown. Nor heed what haps in hamlet or in town: Thus, from the source of tender indolence, With milky blood the heart is overflown, Is soothed and sweetened by the social sense; For interest, envy, pride, and strife, are banished hence. What, what is virtue, but repose of mind, A pure ethereal calm, that knows no storm; Above the reach of wild ambition's wind, Above tbe passions that this world deform, And torture man, a proud malignant worm? But here, instead, soft gales of passion play, And gently stir the heart, thereby to form A quicker sense of joy; as breezes stray Across tbe enlivened skies, and make them still more gay. The best of men have ever loved repose: They bate to mingle in tbe filthy fray: Where the soul sours, and gradual rancour grows, Imbittered more from peevish day to day. Even those whom Fame has lent her fairest ray, The most renowned of worthy wights of yore, From a base world at last have stolen away: So Scipio, to tbe soft Cumsean shore Retiring, tasted joy he never knew before. 0L

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But if a little exercise you choose, Some zest for ease, 'tis not forbidden here. Amid the groves you may indulge the muse. Or tend the blooms, and deck the vernal year; Or sofUy stealing, with your watery gear. Along tbe brook, the crimson-spotted fry Tou may delude; the whilst, amused, you hear Now the hoarse stream, and now the zephyr's sigh, Attuned to the birds, and woodland melody. Ob, grievous folly! to heap up estate, Losing the days you see beneath the s u n ; When, sudden, comes blind unrelenting fate, And gives the untasted portion you have woo, With ruthless toil, and many a wretch undone, To those who mock you gone to Pluto's reign, There with sad ghosts to pine, and shadows dun: But sure it is of vanities most vain, To toil for what you here untoiling may obtain.' He ceased. But still their trembling ears retained The deep vibrations of his 'witching song; That, by a kind of magic power, constrained To enter in, pell-mell, the listening throng, Heaps poured on heaps, and yet they slipped along, In silent ease; as when beneath the beam Of summer-moons, the distant woods among, Or by some flood all silvered with the gleam, The soft-embodied fays through airy portal stream.

3) RULE BRITANNIA. When Britain first at Heaven's command, Arose from out the azure main, This was the charter of the land, And guardian angels sung the strain: 14

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JAMES TH0M80N. — DAVID MALLET.

Rale Britannia, Britannia rale the wave*! Briton* never «ball be slaves. The nations not so blest as tbee, Must in their turn to tyrants fall, 'Whilst thou shalt flourish great and free, The dread and envy of them all. Rule Britannia, &c. Still more majestic shalt thou rise, More dreadful from each foreign stroke; As the loud blast that tears the skies, Serves but to root thy native oak. Rule Britannia, &c. The haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame; All their attempts to bent thee down

Will bat arouse thy generoat flame. And work their wo and thy renown. Rule Britannia, &c.

To tbee belongs the rural reign; Thy cities shall with commerce shine; All shall be subject to the main, And every shore it circles thine. Rule Britannia, &c.

The muses, still with freedom found, Shall to thy happy coast repair; Blest isle, with matchless beauty crowned, And manly hearts to guard the fair. Rule Britannia, &c.

XI. DAVID MALLET, geb. um's Jahr 1700 zu CriefF, Pertbshire, gest. 21. April 1761, war der SOIID eines kleinen Gasthofbesitzers und erhielt seine Bildung in Aberdeen College. In seinem 23. Jabrc schrieb er bereits die schönste seiner Balladen 'William and Margaret' und gab dadurch Veranlassung zu den grössten Erwartungen, die er aber bei Weitem nicht rechtfertigte. Zwar ist es nicht zu läugnen, dass mehre seiner Balladen unübertroffene Meisterwerke sind; auch erklärt Percy die oben erwähnte Ballade 'William and Margaret' geradezu für eine der bessten, die je in englischer Sprache geschrieben worden sind; allein desto geringem Werth haben dagegen seine übrigen, meist dramatischen Dichtungen. Malle! war ein durchaus niedriger Charakter, der Alles seinem eigenen Interesse aufopferte und dem dieser Zweck jedes Mittel heiligte; von seinen Freunden heute unterstützt und erhoben, konnte er sie morgen verlästern und verhöhnen, wenn man seine Feder dazu erkaufte oder er sonst irgend eine Art von Vortheil damit zu erzielen hoffte. Sein Name bleibt auf ewig beschmutzt durch die Folgen seiner Selbstsucht, seines Ehrgeizes, seiner Geldgier und des niedrigsten Verrathes. Zu den besten seiner Balladen gehören ferner: 'Edwin and Emma', ' T h e Birks (birches) of Invernay', ' The Excursion' und 'Amyntor und Theodora'; die letzten beiden bereits von geringerem poetischen Werthe. —

1) WILLIAM AND MARGARET. (A

Ballad.)

'Twas at the silent, solemn hour, When night and morning meet; In glided Margaret's grimly ghost, And stood at William's feet.

Her face was like an April-morn, Clad in a wintery cloud; And clay-cold was her lily band, That held her sable shroud. So shall the fairest face appear, When youth and years are flown:

DAVID MALLET. Such is the robe that king? mutt wear, When death ha* reft their crown. Her bloom was like the springing flower, That sips the silver dew; The rose was budded in her cheek, Just opening to the view. But love had, like the canker-worm, Consum'd her early prime; The rose grew pale, and left hrr cheek; She died before ber time. 'Awake!' she cried, 'thy true love calls, Come from ber midnight-grave; Now let tby pity bear the maid Thy love refus'd to save. ' This is the dark and dreary hour, When injur'd ghosts complain: When yawning graves give up their dead, To haunt the faithless swain. ' Bethink thee, William, of tby fault, Tby pledge and broken oath! And give me back my maiden-vow. And give me back my troth. ' Why did you promise love to me, And not that promise keep ? Why did you swear my eyes were bright, Yet leave those eyes to weep ? ' How could you Bay my face was fair, And yet that face forsake? How could you win my virgin-heart, Yet leave that heart to break? ' Why did you say my lip was sweet, And made the scarlet pale ? And why did I, young witless maid! Believe the flattering tale? ' That face, alas! no more is fair, Those lips no longer red: Dark are my eyes, now clos'd in death, And every charm is fled.

' The hungry worm my sister is, This winding sheet I wear: And cold and weary lasts our night. Till that last morn appear. ' But, bark! the cock has warn'd me hence A long and late adieu! Come, see, false man, how low she lies, Who died for love of you.' The lark sung loud; the morning smil'd, With beams of rosy red: Pale William quack'd i n every limb, And raving left bis bed. He hied him to the fatal place Where Margaret's body lay; And stretched him on the green-grass turf, That wrapp'd her breathless clay. And thrice be call'd on Margaret's name. And thrice he wept full sore; Then laid his cheek to her cold grave, And word spoke never more!

2) EDWIN AND EMMA. (A Ballad.) Far in the windings of a vale, Fast by a sheltering wood, The safe retreat of health and peace, An humble cottage stood. There beauteous Emma flourish'd fair, Beneath a mother's eye: Whose only wish on earth was now To see her blest, and die. The softest blush that nature spreads Gave colour to her cheek; Such orient colour smiles through heaven, When vernal mornings break. Nor let tbe pride of great ones scorn This charmer of the plains: 14*

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t)AV!D MALLST.

That sun, who bid* their diamonds blaze, To paint our lily deigns. Long had «he fill'd each youth with love, Each maiden with despair; And though by all a wonder own'd, Yet knew not she was fair. Till Edwin came, the pride of swains, A soul devoid of art; And from whose eye, serenely mild, Shone forth the feeling heart. A mutual flame was quickly caught: Was quickly too reveal'd: For neither bosom lodged a wish, That virtue keeps conceal'd. What happy hours of bome-felt bliss Did love on both bestow! But bliss too mighty long to last, Where fortune proves a foe. His sister, who, like envy form'd, Like her in mischief joy'd, To work them harm, with wicked skill, Each darker art employ'd. The father too, a sordid maD, Who love nor pity knew, Was all-unfeeling as the clod From whence his riches grew. Long had he Been their secret flame, And seen it long unmov'd; Then, with a father's frown, at last Had sternly disapprov'd. In Edwin's gentle heart, a war Of differing passions strove: His heart, that durst not disobey. Yet could not cease to love. Denied her sight, be oft behind The spreading hawthorn crept, To Bnatch a glance, to mark the spot Where Emma walked and wept.

Oft, too, on Stamnore'a wintery waste Beneath the moonlight shade, In sigh« to pour bis «often'd soul. The midnight mourner itray'd. Hi« cheek, where health with beauty glowed, A deadly pale o'ercast; So fades the fresh roie in its prime, Before the northern blast. The parents now, with late remorse, Hung o'er his dying bed; And wearied Heaven with fhiitle«* vows And fruitless sorrow* shed. ''Tis past." he cried — 'but if your souls Sweet mercy yet can move, Let these dim eyes once more behold, What they must ever love!' She came; his cold band softly touch'd, And bath'd with many a tear: Fast-falling o'er the primrose pale, So morning dews appear. But oh! his sister's jealous care, A cruel sister she! Forbade what Emma came to say; 'My Edwin, live for me!' Now homeward as she hopeless wept The church-yard path along, The blast blew cold, the dark owl scream'd Her lover's funeral song. Amid the falling gloom of night, Her starting fancy found In every bush his hovering shade, His groan in every sound. Alone, appall'd, thus had she pass'd The visionary vale — When lo! the death-bell smote her ear. Sad sounding in the gale! Just then she reached, with trembling step, Her aged mother's door —

DAVID MALLBT. — JOHN DYER. ' He'i gone!' the cried, 'and I «hall see Tkat tngel-face no more. ' I fed, I feel this breaking heart Beat high against my tide' — From her white arm down sunk her head; She shivering sigh'd, and died.

3) THE BIRKS OF INVERNAY. The smiling mora, the breathing spring Invite the tuneful birds to sing:

XD.

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And, while they warble from each spray, Love melts the universal lay. Let us, Amanda, timely wise, Like them improve the hour that flies; And in soft raptures, waste the day, Among the shades of Invernay. For soon the winter of the year, And age, life's winter, will appear: At this, thy living bloom must fade; As that will strip the verdant shade. Our taste of pleasure then is o'er, The featber'd songsters love no more: And when they droop, and we decay, Adieu the shades of Invernay!

J0HNDYER,

geb. im Jahre 1700 zu Aberglasslyn, Carmarthenshire, gest. 24. Juli 1758, war der Sohn eines Prokurators, und von diesem dazu bestimmt, dieselbe Laufbahn zu ergreifen. Sein innerer Drang aber trieb ihn zu den schönen Künsten, namentlich zur Malerei, in welcher er sich durch seine vortrefflichen Skizzen auszeichnete. Sein dichterischer Ruf ist vorzüglich auf das wahrhaft schöne Gedicht 'Grongar Bill' gegründet, das meisterhaft entworfen und durchaus mit echt künstlerischem Geschmack ausgeführt ist. Im Jahre 1740 veröffentlichte er das Gedicht: ' T h e Ruins of Rome', die Frucht einer italienischen Reise, das indessem dem ersteren weit nachsteht; noch geringeres Interesse erweckte das 1757 piiblizirte Lehrgedicht ' T h e Fleece', welches zu den bittersten Kritiken Veranlassung gab. Dies, so wie der Umstand, dass es ihm in seiner künstlerischen Laufbahn nicht recht gelingen wollte, veranlasste Dyer sich dem geistlichen Stande zu widmen, in welchem er auch bis zu seinem Tode verharrte.

GRONGAR HILL. Sylent nymph, with curious eye, Who, the purple eve, does lie On the mountain's lonely van, Beyond the noise of busy man; Painting fair the form of things While tbe yellow linnet sings; Or the tuneful nightingale Charms the forest with her tale; Come, with all thy various hues Come and aid thy sister Muse;

Now, while Phoebus riding high, Gives lustre to the land and sky! Grongar Hill invites my song, Draw the landscape bright and strong! Grongar, in whose mossy cells Sweetly musing Quiet dwells; Grongar, in whose silent shade, For the modest Muses made; So oft I have, the evening still, At the fountain of a rill. Sate upon a flowery bed, With my band beneath my head;

214

J O H N DYKE.

While strayed my eye» o'er Towy's flood. Over mead and over wood, From house to bouse, fiom hill to hill, Till Contemplation had ber fill. About his chequered sides I wind, And leave his brooks and meads behind, And groves, and grottoes where I lay, And vistas shooting beams of day: Wide and wider spreads the vale, As circles on a smooth canal: The mountains round, unhappy fate! Sooner or later, of all height, Withdraw their summits from the skies, And lessen as the others rise: Still the prospect wider spreads. Adds a thousand woods and meads; Still it widens, widens still, And sinks the newly-risen hill. Now, I gain the mountain's brow, What a landscape lies below! No clouds, no vapours intervene; But the gay, the open scene Does the face of Nature show, In all the hues of Heaven's bow! And, swelling to embrace the light, Spreads around beneath the sight. Old castles on the cliffs arise, Proudly towering in the skies 1 Rushing from the woods, the spires Seem from hence ascending fires! Half his beams Apollo sheds On the yellow mountain-heads! Gilds the fleeces of the flocks, And glitters on the broken rocks! Below me trees unnumber'd rise. Beautiful in various dyes: Tbe gloomy pine, the poplar blue, The yellow beech, the sable yew, The slender fir that taper grows, The sturdy oak with broad-spread boughs. And beyond the purple grove. Haunt of Phyllis, queen of love! Gaudy as the opening dawn, Lies a long and level lawn, On which a dark hill, steep and high, Holds and charms the wandering eye!

Deep are bis feet in Towy's flood, His sides are clothed with waving wood, And ancient towers crown bis brow, That cast an aweful look below; Whose ragged walls tbe ivy creeps, And with ber arms from falling keeps; So both a safety from the wind On mutual dependence find. 'Tis now the raven's bleak abode; 'Tis now th' apartment of the t o a d ; And there the poisonous adder breeds, Conceal'd in ruins, moss, and weeds; While, ever and anon, there falls Huge heaps of hoary moulder'd walls. Yet Time has seen, that lifts the low. And level lays the lofty brow, Has seen this broken pile complete, Big with the vanity of state; But transient is the smile of Fate! A little rule, a little sway, A sun-beam in a winters' day Is all tbe proud and mighty have Between the cradle and tbe grave. And see the rivers how tbey run, Through woods and meads, in shade and sun — Sometimes swift, sometimes slow, Wave succeeding wave, tbey go A various journey to the deep, Like human life, to endless sleep! Thus is Nature's vesture wrought; To instruct our wandering thought; Thus she dresses green and gay, To disperse our cares away. Ever charming, ever new, When will the landscape tire the view! The fountain's fall, the river's flow, Tbe woody valleys warm and low; The windy summit, wild and high, Roughly rushing on the sky! The pleasant seat, the ruin'd tower, The naked rock, the shady bower; The town and village, dome and farm, Each give each a double charm, As pearls upon an Ethiop's arm. See on the mountain's southern tide, Where the prospect opens wide,

JOHN DYBR. — WILLIAH HAMILTON. Where the evening gild* the tide; How close and small the hedges lie! What streaks of meadows cross the eye! A step methinks may pass the stream, So little distant dangers seem; So we mistake the Future's face, Eyed through Hope's deluding glass; As yon summits soft and fair, Clad in colours of the air, Which to those who journey near, Barren, brown, and rough appear; Still we tread the same coarse way, The present's still a cloudy day. O may I with myself agree, And never covet what I see; Content me with an humble shade, My passions tamed, my wishes laid; For, while our wishes wildly roll, We banish quiet from the soul: 'Tis thus the busy beat the air, And misers gather wealth and care. Now, even now, my joys run high,

215

As on the mountain-turf I lie; While the wanton Zephyr rings, And in the vale perfumes his wings; While the waters murmur d e e p ; While the shepherd charms his sheep: While the birds unbounded fly, And with music fill the sky, Now, e'en now, my joys run high. Be full, ye courts; be great who will; Search for Peace with all your skill: Open wide the lofty door, Seek her on the marble floor. In vain you search, she is not there; In vain ye search the domes of Care! Grass and flowers Quiet treads, On the meads, and mountain-heads, Along with Pleasure, close allied, Ever by each other's side: And often, by the murmuring rill, Hears the thrush, while all is still, Within the groves of Grongar Hill.

XKL WILLIAM HAMILTON, geb. 1704 in Ayrshire, Schottland, gest. 1754 zu Lyon. Er war der Sohn vornehmer Eltern und das Entzücken der höhern Zirkel seines Geburtsortes. Sein Talent sprach sich besonders in lyrischen Ergüssen aus, die schon darum höchst hervortretender Art sind, dass sie im reinsten Englisch geschrieben sind und sich durch die vollendetste Diktion auszeichnen. Im Jahre 1 7 4 5 folgte er der Fahne des Prinzen Karl, mehr weil ihn das Romantische eines solchen Zuges ansprach, als aus politischen Gründen. Die Schlacht bei Gladsmuir gab seinem Talente die glänzendste Gelegenheit sich zu zeigen — er errang sich den Titel eines 'Volunteer laureate', inusste aber, nach der Niederlage seiner Partei, nach Frankreich fliehen, von wo er nur auf vieles Verwenden seiner mächtigen Freunde zurückberufen und in den Besitz seiner konfiscirten Güter gesetzt wurde, doch lebte er nicht mehr lange, sondern unterlag einer Lungenkrankheit, um deren Heilung willen er sich nach Süd-Frankreich begeben hatte. Als die beste seiner Dichtungen wird die Ballade ' T h e Braes of Yarrow' angesehen, die schon deshalb interessant ist, dass sie Wordsworth zu drei schönen Gedichten veranlasste, weliche wir seiner Zeit mittheilen werden. Von den übrigen tritt noch das ernste Gedicht ' C In welcome chains my wandering mind. j So thought I when I saw the face By happy portraiture revealed, Of one adorned with every grace, Her name and date from me concealed, But not her story; she had been The pride of many a splendid scene. She cast her glory round a court, And frolicked in the gayest ring, Where fashion's high-born minions sport Like sparkling fire-flies on the wing; But thence when love had touched her soul, To nature and to truth she stole. From din, and pageantry, and strife, 'Midst woods and mountains, vales and plains, She treads the paths of lowly life, Yet in a bosom-circle reigns, No fountain scattering diamond-showers, But the sweet streamlet watering flowers.

; | j j

7) A FIELD FLOWER. There is a flower, a little flower, With silver crest and golden eye, That welcome* every changing hour, And weathers every sky. The prouder beauties of the field In gay but quick succession shine, Race after race their honours yield, They flourish and decline. But this small flower, to Nature dear, While moons and stars their courses run, Wreathes the whole circle of the year, Companion of the sun. It smiles upon the lap of May, To sultry August spreads its charms. Lights pale October on his way. And twines December's arms. The purple heath and golden broom, On moory mountains catch the gale, O'er lawns the lily sheds perfume, The violet in the vale. But this bold floweret climbs the hill. Hides in the forest, haunts the glen, Plays on the margin of the rill, Peeps round the fox's den. Within the garden's cultured round It shares the sweet carnation's bed; And blooms on consecrated ground In honour of the dead. The lambkin crops its crimson gem, The wild-bee murmurs on its breast, The blue-fly bends its pensive stem, Light o'er the sky-lark's neat. 'Tis Flora's page: in every place, In every season fresh and fair. It opens with perennial grace, And blossom* every where.

318

JAMB8

MONTGOMERY.

On waste and woodland, rock and plain, Ita humble buds unheeded rise; The Rom has but • summer-reign, The Daisy never dies.

8) ASPIRATIONS OF YOUTH. Higher, higher, will we climb, Up to the mount of glory, That our names may live through time In our country's story; Happy, when ber welfare calls, He who conquers, he who falls. Deeper, deeper, let us toil In the mines of knowledge; Nature's wealth und learning's spoil, Win from school and college; Delve we there for richer gems Than the stars of diadems. Onward, onward, may we press Through the path of duty; Virtue is true happiness, Excellence true beauty. Minds are of celestial birth, Make we then a heaven of earth. Closer, closer, let us knit Hearts and bands together, Where our fireside comforts sit, In the wildest weather; O! they wander wide who roam For the joys of life from home.

— SIR WALTER SCOTT. 9) HOME. There is a land, of every land the pride, Beloved by heaven o'er all the world beside; Where brighter suns dispense serener light, And milder moons emparadise the night; A land of beauty, virtue, valour, truth, Time-tutored age, and love-exalted youth: The wandering mariner, whose eye explores The wealthiest isles, the most enchanting shores, Views not a realm so bountiful and fair, Nor breathes the spirit of a purer air; In every clime the magnet of his soul, Touched by remembrance, trembles to that pole; For in this land of heaven's peculiar grace. The heritage of nature's noblest race, There is a spot of earth supremely blest, A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest, Where maD, creation's tyrant, casts aside His sword and sceptre, pageantry and pride, While in his softened looks benignly blend The sire, the son, the husband, brother, friend; Here woman reigns; the mother, daughter, wife, Strew with fresh flowers the narrow way of life! In the clear heaven of her delightful eye, An angel-guard of loves and graces lie; Around her knees domestic duties meet, And fireside pleasures gambol at her feet. Where shall that land, that spot of earth be found? Art thou a man? — a patriot?—look around; O, thou sbalt find, howe'er thy footsteps roam, That land thy country, and that spot thy home!

V. SIR WALTER SCOTT, geb. zu Edinburgh, 15. August 1771, gest. zu Abbotsford, 21. Septbr. 1832. Die ersten poetischen Versuche Scotts waren Uebersetzungen aus dem Deutseben; Bürger's 'Leonore,' ' d e r wilde J&ger,' erschienen 1796, bald darauf 'Götz von Berlichingen'. Im Jahre 1802 veröffentlichte er seine: 'Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border ', mit vortrefflichen geschichtlichen Einleitungen, 2 Bde., und im folgenden Jahre einen dritten mit seinen eigenen Nachahmun-

SIR W A L T E R S C O T T . gen der alten Bulladen;

319

1 8 0 4 den altenglisehen R o m a n ' S i r T r i s t r e m ' ,

mas, the R h y m e r of E r c i l d o u n e ' (um 1 2 8 0 ) zuschrieb. ' T h e Lay of the Last M i n s t r e l ' , Zeitpunkt war g ü n s t i g ,

die

wodurch

Endlich

er die allgemeinste

grossen Dichter

den er d e m

'Tho-

erschien im J a n u a r

1805

Aufmerksamkeit erregte;

des 19. J a h r h u n d e r t s h a t t e n erst

der

begonnen

zu singen und, wie Scott selbst s a g t : ' T h e realms of P a r n a s s u s seemed to lie open to the first bold i n v a d e r ' . — D a r a u f

folgte 1 8 0 8 : ' M a v m i o n ' — the m o s t magnificent of his chivalrous

tales' — 1 8 1 0 : ' T h e L a d y of the L a k e ' — illustrating the scenery and chivalry of the H i g h lands in the reign of J a m e s V.' — 1 8 1 1 : ' T h e L o r d of the I s l e s ' — 1 8 1 5 ; ' T h e field of W a terloo' —

und

1817:

' H a r o l d the D a u n t l e s s ' .

welche a n o n y m e r s c h i e n e n , war erschienen —

und

überzeugte Scott,

die Verehrer

der Poesie

Scott wandte sich der P r o s a zu u n d bis an die Welt durch seine

D e r geringe E r f o l g der beiden Letzteren,

dass er — folgten

sein E n d e

prosaischen S c h ö p f u n g e n .

zu lange gesungen hatte. dem

neuen

entzückte

Byron

glänzenden

Gestirn!

der 'gewaltige

Zauberer'

'As the old m i n e ' — sagt Bulwer

— 'gave

symptoms of exhaustion, the new mine, ten times more affluent, at least in the p r e c i o u s metals, was discovered, and j u s t as in ' R o k e b y ' and ' T r i e r m a i t i ' the Genius of the R i n g seemed to flag in its powers, came the more p o t e n t Genius of the L a m p i n the s h a p e of ' W a v e r l e y ' . — Ueber S. als D i c h t e r creative.

sagt Scrymgeour:

' T h e character of his genius was m o r e constructive

T h e l a n g u a g e of his poetry is sometimes careless and even m e a n ,

than

b u t the vivid

splendour of historical and natural scenery, and the impetuosity of t h e action of the story, carry the mind above the language whose facile flow t h r o u g h various versifications never fatigues by its samenes, nor impedes by c u m b r o u s elaboration the interest of the t a l e ' . Vergl. T h . I. S. 3 0 8 .

1) FROM ' T H E LAY OF T H E

LAST

MINSTREL'. Address

to

Scotland.

Land of my sires! what mortal h a n d (Jan e'er untie the filial band T h a t knits me to thy rugged s t r a n d !

Breathes there a man with soul so dead,

Still as I view each well-known scene,

W h o never to himself hath said,

Think what is now, and what hath been,

T h i s is my own, my native l a n d !

Seems as to me, of all bereft,

Whose heart h a t h ne'er within him burned,

Sole friends thy woods and streams were l e f t ;

As home his f o o t s t e p s he hath turned

And thus I love them better still,

F r o m wandering on a foreign s t r a n d ?

Even in extremity of ill.

If such there breathe, go mark him well:

Bv Yarrow's stream still let me stray,

For him no minstrel r a p t u r e s swell;

T h o u g h none should guide my feeble w a y ;

Iligh t h o u g h his titles, p r o u d his name,

Still feel the breeze down Ettrick break,

Boundless his wealth as wish can c l a i m ;

Although it chill my withered c h e e k ;

Despite those titles, power, anil pelf,

Still lay my head b y Teviot stone,

The wretch, conccntrcd all in self,

T h o u g h there, forgotten and alone,

Living, shall forfeit fair renown,

T h e bard may draw his p a r t i n g g r o a n .

And, doubly dying, shall go down To the vile dust, f r o m whence he sprung, Unwept, u n h o n o u r e d , and u n s u n g . O Caledonia! stern and wild, Meet nurse for a poetic c h i l d !

2) FROM ' MARMION '. Battle of

Flodden.

Land of brown heath and shaggy wood,

' B u t see ! look u p — on F l o d d e n bent,

Land of the m o u n t a i n and the flood,

T h e S c o t t i s h foe has filed his tent.'

320

S B WALTER SCOTT.

And sodden m he «poke, From the sharp ridges of the hill, All downward to the banks of Till, Was wreathed in sable smoke; Volomed and vast, and rolling far, The cloud enveloped Scotland's war, As down the hill they broke; Nor martial shout, nor minstrel tone, Announced their march; their tread alone, At times one warning trumpet blown, At times a stifled bum, Told England, from his mountain-throne King James did rushing come. Scarce could they hear or see their foes, Until at weapon point they close. They close in clouds of smoke a n i dust, With sword-sway and with lance's thrust; And such a yell was there, Of sudden and portentous birth, As if men fought upon the earth, And fiends in upper air. Long looked the anxious squires; their eye Could in the darkness nought descry. At length the freshening western blast .^side the shroud of battle cast; And, first, the ridge of mingled spears Above the brightening cloud appears; And in the smoke the pennons flew, As in the storm the white sea-mew. Then marked they, dashing broad and far, The broken billows of the war, And plumed crests of chieftains brave, Floating like foam upon the wave: But nought distinct they see: Wide raged the battle of the plain; Spears shook, and falchions flashed amain; Fell England's arrow-flight like rain; Crests rose, and stooped, and rose again, Wild and disorderly. (Evening fell on the deadly struggle, and the spectators were forced from the agitating scene.) But as they left the darkening heath, More desperate grew the strife of death. The English shafts in volleys hailed, In headlong charge their horse assailed:

Front, flank, and rear, the squadrons sweep, To break the Scottish circle deep, That fought around their king. But vet, though thick the shafts as snow, Though charging knights like whirlwinds go, Though bill-men ply the ghastly blow, Unbroken was the ring; The stubborn spearmen still made good Their dark impenetrable wood. Each stepping where his comrade stood, The instant that he fell. No thought was there of dastard flight; Linked in the serried phalanx tight, Groom fought like noble, squire like knight, As fearlessly and well; Till utter darkness closed her wing O'er their thin host and wounded king. Then skilful Surrey's sage commands Led back from strife his shattered bands; And from the charge they drew, As mountain-waves from wasted lands Sweep back to ocean blue. Then did their loss his foemen know; Their king, their lords, their mightiest low, They melted from the field as snow, When streams are swoln and south winds blow, . Dissolves in silent dew. Tweed's echoes heard the ceaseless plash, While many a broken band, Disordered, through the currents dasb, To gain the Scottish land; To town and tower, to down and dale, To tell red Flodden's -dismal tale, And raise the universal wail. Tradition, legend, tune, and song, Shall many an age that wail prolong: Still from the sire the son shall hear Of the stem strife and carnage drear Of Flodden's fatal field, Where shivered was fair Scotland's spear, And broken was her shield!

Death of Marmion. When, doffed his casque, he felt free air, Around, 'gan Marmion wildly stare:

SIR WALTER 8COTT. 'Where* Harry Blount? Fitz Eaatace where? Linger ye here, ye heart* of hare! Redeem my pennon—charge again! Cry — ' Marmion to the rescue!' — Vain! Last of my race, on battle plain That ihout «ball ne'er be heard again! Yet my lait thought i* England'*:— fly; To Dacrc bear my signet-ring; Tell him his squadrons up to bring. Fitz-Eustace, to Lord Surrey hie: Tunstal lies dead upon the field; His life-blood stain* the apotles* shield: Edmund is down— my life is reft; The Admiral alone is left. Let Stanley charge with spur of fire — With Chester charge, and Lancashire, Full upon Scotland's central host, Or victory and England's lost Must I bid twice ? Hence, varlets! fly! Leave Marmion her alone—to die.' They parted, and alone be lay; Clare drew ber from the sight away. Till pain wrung forth a lowly moan, And half be murmered — ' Is there none, Of all my halls have nurst, Page, squire, or groom, one cup to bring Of blessed water from the spring, To slake my dying thirst!' O, woman! in our hours of ease, Uncertain, coy, and hard to please, And variable as the shade By the light quivering aspen made; When pain and anguish wring the brow, A ministering Angel tliou! Scarce were the piteous accents said, Wheu, with tbe baron's casque, the maid To the nigh streamlet ran: Forgot were haired, wrongs, and fears; The plaintive voice atone she hears, Sees but the dying man. She stopped her by the runni-l's side. But in abhorrence backward drew; For, oozing from the mountain wide, Where raged the war, a dark red tide Was curdling in tbe streamlet blue. H.

Where shall she turn! —behold her mark A little fountain-cell, Where water, clear a* diamond-spark, In a (tone bason fell. Above, some half-worn letters say: Crinf. rotary, pilgrim. i>rinf. an*, prav $or. fyt. fmfc. sonL of. 6ybiL «rty. tt>f>o. built. tf)i*. crotB. ant>. wcO. She filled tbe helm, and back *he hied, And with surprise and joy espied A monk supporting Marmion's head; A pious man, whom duty brought To dubious verge of battle fought, To shrieve tbe dying, bless tbe dead. Deep drank Lord Marmion of the wave. And as she stooped hi* brow to lave — 'Is it tbe hand of Clare,' he said, 'Or injured Constance, bathes my head?' Then, as remembrance rose — 'Speak not to me of shrift or prayer! I must redress her woes. Short space, few words, are mine to spare; Forgive and listen, gentle Clare!' 'Alas!' she said, 'the while — O think of your immortal weal! In vain for Constance is your zeal; She —died at Holy Isle.' Lord Marmion started from the ground, As light as if he felt no wound; Though in the action burst the tide, .In torrents, from his wounded side, ' Then it was truth!' — he said—' I knew That tbe dark presage must be true. I would the fiend, to whom belongs The vengeance due to all her wrongs, Would spare me but a day! For wasting fire, and dying groan, And priests slain on the altar stone, Might bribe bim for delay. It may not be! — this dizzy trance — Curse on yon base marauder's lance, And doubly cursed my failing brand! A sinful heart makes feeble hand.' Then, fainting, down on earth he sunk. Supported by the trembling monk. 21

SIR WALTER 8COTT.

322

With friritle«* labour Clara bound, And strove to stanch the gashing wound: The monk, with unavailing cares, Exhausted all the church's prayers; Ever, he said, that, close and near, A lady's voice was in his ear, And that the priest he could not hear,

He swam the Esk river where ford there was none — But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate, The bride had consented, the gallant came late: For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war, Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.

For that she ever sung, 'In the lost battle, borne down by the flying. Where mingles war's rattle with groans of the dying r

So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall, 'Mong bride's-men, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all! Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword — For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word — ' O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war? Or to dance at our bridal? young Lord Lochinvar !'

So the notes rung; 'Avoid thee, fiend! — with cruel hand, Shake not the dying sinner's sand! O look, my son, upon yon sign Of the Redeemer's grace divine; O think on faith and bliss! By many a death-bed I have been, And many a sinner's parting seen, But never aught like this.' The war, that for a space (lid fail, Now trebly thundering, swelled the gale, And — Stanley! was the cry; A light on Marmion's visage spread, And fired his glazing eve: With dying hand above his head He shook the fragment of his blade, And shouted ' Victory! Charge, Chester, charge! On, Stanley, on!' Were the last words of Marmion.

Young Lochinvar. Oh! young Lochinvar is come out of the west, Through all the wide Border his steed was the best; And save his good broad-sword he weapon had none, He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone! So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, There never was a knight like the young Lochinvar ! He stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for stone,

' I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied : I .ovc swells like the Solway, butebbs like its tide ! And nc.iv nm I come, with this lost love of mine, To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine! There be maidens in Scotland, more lovely by far, That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar! ' The bride kissed the goblet; the knight took it up, He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup! She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh, With a smile on her lips and a tear in her eve. He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar — ' Now tread we a measure!' said young Lochinvar. So stately his form, and so lovely her face, That never a hall such a galliard did grace! While her mother did fret, and her father did fume, And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume,

8IR WALTER SCOTT. And the bride-maiden* whispered, ' 'Twere better by far To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar!' One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, When they reached the ball door, and the charger stood near, So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung, So light to the saddle before her he sprung! 'She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur; They'll have fleet steeds that follow!' quoth young Lochinvar. There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the Netlierby clan; Fosters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran; There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lea, But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see! So daring in love, and ,so dauntless in war, Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?

4) FROM 'THE LADY OF THE LAKE'. The Lady of the Lake. But scarce again his horn he wound, When lo! forth starting at the sound, From underneath an aged oak, That slanted from the islet rock, A damsel guider of its way, A little skiff shot to the bay, That round the promontory steep, Led its deep line in graceful sweep, Eddying, in almost viewless wave, The weeping willow twig to lave, And kiss, with whispering sound and slow, The beach of pebbles bright as snow, The boat had touch'd this silver strand, Just as the Hunter left his stand, And stood 'concealed amid the brake,

323

To view this Lady of the Lake. The maiden paused, as if again She thought to catch the distant strain. With head up-raised, and look intent. And eye and ear attentive bent. And locks flung back, and lips apart, Like monument of Grecian art, In listening mood, she seemed to stand The Guardian Naiad of the strand. And ne'er did Grecian chisel trace A Nymph, a Naiad, or a Grace, Of finer form, or lovelier face! What though the sun, with ardent frown, Had slightly tinged her cheek with brown,— The sportive toil, which, short and light. Had dyed her glowing hue so bright, Served too in hastier swell to show Short glimpses of a breast of snow: What though no rnle of courtly grace To measured mood bad trained her pace,— A foot more light, a step more true, Ne'er from the heath-flower dashed the dew; E'en the slight hare-bell raised its head, Elastic from her airy tread: What though upon her speech there hung The accents of the mountain tongue, — Those silver sounds, so soft, so dear, The list'ner held his breath to hear. A Chieftain's daughter seemed the maid; Her satin snood, her silken plaid, Her golden brooch, such birth betray'd And seldom was a snood amid Such wild luxuriant ringlets hid, Whose glossy black to shame might bring The plumage of the raven's wing; And seldom o'er a breast so fair, Mantled a plaid with modest care, And never brooch the folds combined Above a heart uiore good and kind. Her kindness and her worth to spy, Tou need but gaze on Ellen's eye; Not Katrine, in her mirror blue, Gives back the shaggy banks more true, Than every free-born glance confessed The guileless movements of her breast; 21 *

324

8IR WALTER SCOTT.

Whether joy danced in her dark eye, Or woe or pity claimed a »igb, Or filial love was glowing there, Or meek devotion poured a prayer. Or tale of injury called forth The indignant spirit of the north. One only passion, unrevealed, With maiden pride the maid concealed, Yet not less purely felt the flame; — O need I tell that passion's name?

Coronach. He is gone on the mountain, He is lost to the forest, Like a summer-dried fountain, When our need was the sorest. Tbe font, re-appearing, From the rain-drops shall borrow, But to us comes no cheering, To Duncan no morrow! Tbe hand of the reaper Takes tbe ears that are hoary, But tbe voice of tbe weeper Wails manhood in glory; The autumn winds rushing Waft the leaves that are searest, But our flower was in flushing, When blighting was nearest. Fleet foot on the correi. Sage counsel in cumber, Red hand in the foray, How sound is thy slumber! Like the dew on the mountain, Like the foam on the river, Like the bubble on the fountain, Thou art gone, and for ever!

Song. Tbe heath this night must be my bed, The bracken — curtain for my head,

My lullaby — the warder's tread, Far, far, from love and thee, Mary; To-morrow eve, more stilly laid, My couch may be my bloody plaid, My vesper song, thy wail, sweet maid! It will not waken me, Maty! I may not, dare not, fancy now The grief that clouds thy lovely brow, I dare not think upon thy vow, And all it promised me, Mary; No fond regret must Norman know; When bursts Clan-Alpine on the foe, His heart must be like bended bow, His foot like arrow free, Mary. A time will come with feeling fraught! For, if I fall in battle fought, Thy hapless lover's dying thought Shall be a thought on thee, Mary. And if returned from conquered foes, IIow blithely will the evening close, How sweet the linnet sing repose, To my young bride and me, Mary!

Battle of Beat' and Dwne. ' T h e minstrel came once more to view The eastern ridge of Ben-venue, For, ere he parted, he would say Farewell to lovely Loch-Achray — Where shall he find, in foreign land. So lone a lake, so sweet a strand! There is no breeze upon the fern, No ripple on the lake, Upon her eyrie nods the erne, The deer has sought the brake; The small birds will not sing aloud, Tbe springing trout lies still, So darkly glooms yon thunder-cloud, That swathes, as with a purple shroud, Benledi's distant hill. Is it the thunder's solemn sound That mutters deep and dread. Or echoes from the groaning ground

SIR WALTKR SCOTT. The warrior'« measured tread? 1« it the lightning'a quivering glance That on the thicket stream«, Or do they flash on «pear and lance The sun'« retiring beam«? — I see the dagger-crest of Mar, I see the Moray's silver star, Wave o'er the cloud of Saxon war, That up the lake comes winding far! To hero bound for battle-strife, Or bard of martial lay, 'Twere worth ten year« of peaceful life, One glance at their array! Their light-armed archers far and near Surveyed the tangled ground, Their centre ranks, with pike and spear, A twilight forest frowned, Their barded horsemen, in the rear, The stern battalia crowned. No cymbal clashed, no clarion rang, Still were the pipe and drum; Save heavy tread, and armour's clang, The sullen march was dumb. There breathed no wind their crests to shake, Or wave their flag« abroad; Scarce the frail aspen seemed to quake, That shadowed o'er their road. Their vaward scouts no tidings bring, Can rouse no lurking foe, Nor spy a trace of living thing, Save when they stirred the roe; The host moves, like a deep-sea wave, Where rise no rocks its pride to brave, High-swelling, dark, and slow. The lake is passed, and now they gain A narrow and a broken plain. Before the Trosach's rugged jaws: And here the horse and spearmen pause, While to explore the dangerous glen, Dive through the pass the archer-men. At once there rose so wild a yell Within that dark and narrow dell, As all the fiends, from heaven that fell, Had pealed the banner-cry of hell!

325

Forth from the pass in tumult driven, Like chaff before the wind of heaven, The archery appear; For life! for life! their flight they ply— And «hriek, and «hont, and battle-cry, And plaid«, and bonnet* waving high, And broadswords flashing to the «ky. Are maddening in the rear. Onward they drive, in dreadful race; Pursuers and pursued; Before that tide of flight and cha«e, How «hall it keep its rooted place, The spearmen's twilight wood ? —'Down, down,' cried Mar, 'your lances down! Bear back both friend and foe!' Like reeds before the tempest's frown, That serried grove of lances brown At once lay levell'd low; And closely shouldering side to side, The bristling ranks the onset bide — — ' We'll quell the savage mountaineer, As their Tinchel cows the game! They come as fleet as forest deer, We'll drive them back as tame.' — Bearing before them, in their course, The relics of the archer force, Like wave with crest of sparkling foam, Right onward did Clan-Alpine come. Above the tide, each broadsword bright Was brandishing like beam of light, Each targe was dark below; And with the ocean's mighty swing, When heaving to the tempest's wing, They hurled them on the foe. I heard the lance's shivering crash, As when the whirlwind rends the ash; I heard the broadsword's deadly clang, As if a hundred anvils rang! But Moray wheeled bis rearward rank Of horsemen on Clan-Alpine's flank, — — ' My banner-man advance! •I see,' he cried, ' their column shake. — Now, gallants! for your ladies' sake, Upon them with the lance!' The horsemen dashed among the route,

326

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

As deer break through the broom; Their (teed* are itout, their swords are out, They soon make lightsome room. Clan-Alpine's best are backward borne— Where, where, was Roderick then! One blast upon his bugle-horn Were worth a thousand men. And refluent through the pass of fear The battle's tide was pour'd; Vanished the Saxon's struggling spear, Vanished the mountain sword. As Bracklinn's chasm, so black and steep, Receives her roaring linn, As the dark caverns of the deep Suck the wild whirlpool in, So did the deep and darksome pass Devour the battle's mingled mass; None linger now upon the plain, Save those who ne'er shall fight again. Now westward rolls the battle's din, That deep and doubling pass within. — Minstrel, away! the work of fate Is bearing on: its issue wait, Where the rude Trosach's dread defile Opens on Katrine's lake and isle.— Grey Ben-venue I soon repassed, Loch-Katrine lay beneath me cast. The sun is set; — the clouds are met, The lowering scowl of heaven An inky hue of livid blue To the deep lake has given; Strange gusts of wind from mountain glen, Swept o'er the lake, then sunk agen. I heeded not the eddying surge, Mine eye but saw the Trosach's gorge, Mine ear but heard that sullen sound, Which like an earthquake shook the ground, And spoke the stern and desperate strife That parts not but with parting life, Seeming, to minstrel-ear, to toll The dirge of many a passing soul. Nearer it comes—the dim-wood glen The martial flood disgorged agen, But not in mingled tide; The plaided warriors of the North

High on the mountain thunder forth, And overhang its side; While by the lake below appears The dark'ning cloud of Saxon spears. At weary bay each shattered band, Eyeing their formen, sternly stand; Their banners stream like tatter'd sail, That flings its fragments to the gale, And broken arms and disarray Marked the fell havoc of the day. Viewing the mountain's ridge askance, The Saxons stood in sullen trance, Till Moray pointed with his lance, And cried — ' Behold yon isle! — See! none are left to guard its strand, But women weak, that wring the hand: 'Tis there of yore the robber-band Their booty wont to pile; — My purse, with bonnet-pieces store, To him will swim n bow-shot o'er, And loose a shallop from the shore. Lightly we'll tame the war-wolf then, Lords of his mate, and brood, and den.' — Forth from the ranks a spearman sprung, On enrtb hit casque and corslet rung. He plunged him in the wave: — All saw the deed the purpose knew, And to their clamours Ben-venue A mingled echo gave; The Saxons shout, their mate to cheer, The helpless females scream for feaT, And yells for rage the mountaineer. 'Twas then, aa by the outcry riven, Poured down at once the lowering heaven; A whirlwind swept Loch-Katrine's breast, Her billows reared their snowy crest. Well for the swimmer swelled they high, To mar the Highland marksman's eye; For round him showered, 'mid rain and hail. The vengeful arrows of the Gael. — In vain,—He nears the isle — and lo! His hand is on a shallop's bow. — Just then a flash of lightning came, It tinged the waves and strand with flame; — I marked Duncraggan's widowed dame,

SIB WALTER 8COTT.

327

Behind an oak I law her stand, A naked dirk gleamed in her band; — It darkened,— but amid the moan Of waves I heard a dying groan; — Another flash! — the spearman floats — A weltering corse beside the boats, And the stern Matron o'er him stood, Her hand and dagger streaming blood.

Drive the fleet deer the forest through, And homeward wend with evening dew; A blithesome welcome blithely meet, And lay my trophies at her feet, While fled the eve on wing of glee,— That life is lost to love and me.

'Revenge! revenge!' the Saxons cried, The Gaels' exulting shout replied. Despite the elemental rage, Again they hurried to engage; But, ere they closed in desperate fight, Bloody with spurring came a knight, Sprung from his horse, and, from a crag, Waved 'twixt the hosts a milk-wbite flag. Clarion and trumpet by bis side Rung forth a truce-note high and wide, While, in the monarch's name, afar A herald's voice forbade the war, For Bothwell's Lord, and Roderick bold, Were both, he said, in captive hold.'

5) CADYOW CASTLE.*)

Lay of the imprisoned Hunhmm. My hawk is tired of perch and hood, My idle greyhound loathes his food, My horse is weary of his stall, And I am sick of captive thrall. I wish I were as I have been, Hunting the hart in forests green, With bended bow and blopd-hound free, For that's the life is meet for me. I hate to learn the ebb of time, From yon dull steeple's drowsy chime, Or mark it as the sunbeams crawl, Inch after inch, along tbe wall. The lark was wont my matins ring, Tbe sable rook my vespers siDg; These towers, although a king's they be, Have not a hall of joy for me. No more at dawning morn I rise, And sun myself in Ellen's eyes,

When princely Hamilton's abode Ennobled Cadyow's Gothic towers, The song went round, the goblet flowed, And revel sped the laughing hours. Then, thrilling to the harp's gay sound, So sweetly rung each vaulted wall, And echoed light the dancer's bound, As mirth and music cheered the hall. But Cadyow's towers, in ruins laid, And vaults by ivy mantled o'er, Thrill to the music of the shade, Or echo Evan's hoarser roar. Yet still of Cadyow's faded fame You **) bid me tell a ibinstrel tale, And tune my harp of border frame Of the wild banks of Evandale. For thou, from scenes of courtly pride, From pleasure's lighter scenes can turn, To draw oblivion's pall aside. And mark the long-forgotten urn. • Then, noble maid, at thy command Again the crumbled walls shall rise; Lo, as on Evan's banks we stand, The past returns — the present dies. Where, with the rock's wood-covered side, Were blended late the ruins green, *) The ancient baronial residence of the family of H a m i l t o n , in Lanarkshire, on the river Evan, near its junction with the Clyde. **) L a d y A n n e H a m i l t o n , eldest daughter of Archibald, ninth Duke of Hamilton.

328

SIR WALTER 8C0TT.

Rise turrets in fantastic pride, And feudal banners flaunt between: Where the rude torrent's brawling coarse Was shagged with thorn and tangling sloe, The ashlar buttress braves its force, And ramparts frown in battled row. 'Tis night — the shades of keep and spire Obscurely dance on Evan's stream; And on the wave the warder's fire Is chequering the moonlight beam. Fades slow their light; the east is grey; The weary warder leaves his tower; Steeds snort; uncoupled stag-hounds bay, And merry hunters quit the bower. The drawbridge falls — they hurry out — Clatters each plank and swinging chain, As, dashing o'er, the jovial rout Urge the shy steed and slack the rein. First of his troop the chief rode on ; His shouting merry-men shout behind; The steed of princely Hamilton Was fleeter than the mountain wind. From the thick copse the roebucks bound, The startled red deer scuds the plain, For the hoarse bugle's warrior-sound Has roused their mountain haunts again. Through the huge oaks of Evendale, Whose limbs a thousanC years have worn. What sullen roar comes down the gale, And drowns the hunter's pealing horn? Mightiest of all the beasts of chase That roam in woody Caledon, Crashing the forest in his race, The mountain hull comes thundering on. Fierce on the hunter's quivered hand He rolls his eyes of swarthy glow. Spurns, with black hoof and horn, the sand, And tosses high his mane of snow.

Aimed well, the chieftain's lance has flown, Struggling in blood the savage lies; His roar is sunk in hollow groan — Sound, merry huntsmen, sound the/>ryse*). 'Tis noon — against the knotted oak The hunters rest the idle spear; Curls through the trees the slender smoke, Where yeomen dight (prepared) the woodland cheer. Proudly the chieftain marked his clan, On greenwood lap all careless thrown, Yet missed his eye the boldest man, That bore the name of Hamilton. 'Why fills not Bothwellhaugh his place, Still wont our weal and woe to share? Why comes he not our sport to grace? Why shares he not our hunter's fare? Stern Claud replied, with darkening face (Grey Paisley's haughty lord was he) ' At merry feast or buxom chase No more the warrior wilt thou see. ' Few suns have set since Woodhouselee **) Saw Bothwellhaugh's bright goblets foam, When to his hearths, in social glee, The war-worn soldier turned him home. *) The note blowo at tbe death of the game, from the french: 'prit.' **) 'This barony, on the Esk, belonged to Bottwellhaugh in right of his wife.' Tbe Hamilton«, the devoted supporters of Queen Mary, had been defeated by the Regent Murray at Langside, near Glasgow, in tbe attempt to restore the queen to the throne, after her escape from Lochleven. Among the prisoners Bothwellhaugh had been condemned to death, but, at the intercession of Knox, was pardoned by the regent, though deprived of his estate. The property was conferred on one of Murray's adherents, who treated Hamilton's wife in the manner described in the ballad. Resentment for this injury impelled Bothwellhaugh to murder the regent as he passed through the street of Linlithgow. (1570)

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

329

' There, wan from her maternal throes, Hi* Margaret, beautiful and mild, Sat in her bower, a pallid roie,*& And peaceful nursed her new-horn child.

' Tour slaughtered quarry *) proudly trode At dawning morn o'er dale and down, But prouder base-born **) Murray rode Through old Linlithgow's crowded town.

' O h ! change accursed! passed are those days; False Murray's ruthless spoilers came, And, for the hearth's domestic blaze, Ascends destruction's volumed flame.

'From the wild Border's ***) humbled side In haughty triumph marched he; While Knox relaxed his bigot pride, And smiled the traitorous pomp to see.

'What sheeted phantom wanders wild, Where mountain Gsk through woodland flows, Her arms enfold a shadowy child, — Oh ! is it she, the pallid rose ?

But can stern power with all her vaunt; Or pomp, with all her courtly glare, The settled heart of Vengeance daunt, Or change the purpose of Despair?

' The 'wildered traveller sees her glide, And hears her feeble voice with awe, — ' Revenge,' she cries,' on Murray's pride, And woe for injured Bothwellhaugh!' He ceased — and cries of rage and grief Burst mingling from the kindred band, And half arose the kindling chief, And half unsbeated his Arran brand. But who, o'er bush, o'er stream, and rock, Rides headlong wiife resistless speed. Whose bloody poniard's frantic stroke Drives to the leap bis jaded steed? *) Whose cheek is pale, whose eyeballs glare, As one some visioned sight that saw; Whose hands are bloody, loose bis hair? — 'Tis he, 'tis he, 'tis Bothwellhaugh! From gory sclle and reeling steed Sprung the fierce horseman with a bound, And, reeking from the recent deed, He dashed his carbine on the ground. Sternly he spoke: 'Tis sweet to hear In good greenwood the bugle blown, But sweeter to Revenge's ear To drink a tyrant's dying groan. *) Historical.

' With hackbut bent, my secret stand, Dark as the purposed deed, I chose; And marked where, mingling in his band, Trooped Scottish pikes and Engliah bows-f). ' Dark Morton, girt with many a spear, Murder's foul minion f t ) , I'd the van; And clashed their broad-swords in the rear The wild Macfarlane's plaided clan. ' Glencairn and stout Parkhead were nigh, Obsequious at tbeir regent's rein, And haggard Lindsay's iron eye, That saw fair Mary weep in vain f t t ) > ' 'Mid pennon'd spears, a steely grove, Proud Murray's plumage floated high; *) The piled slaughter of a hunting-match. **) The illegitimate son of James V. ***) He had recently quelled the disorders of the south with such severity, that, in the Scottish phrase 'the rash-bush kept the kye (tine) on the Border.' f ) Elizabeth supported the regent with her troops: the pike and the bow were the national weapons of the respective countries. f f ) He was concerned in the murder of Rizzio and privy to that of Oarnley. t f f ) Alluding to Lindsay's conduct to Mary, at Lochleven, on the occasion of the forced signature of her abdication. (See: The Abbot.)

330

SIR WALTER SCOTT. — SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.

Scarce could his trampling charger move,

' T h e n speed thee, noble Chatlerault!

So close the minions crowded nigh.

Spread to the wind thy bannered tree! *) Each warrior bend his Clydesdale bow!

' F r o m the raised vizor's shade his eye,

Murray is fallen, and Scotland f r e e ! '

Dark rolling, glanced the ranks along; And his steel truncheon, waved on high,

Vaults every warrior to his steed;

Seemed marshalling the iron throng.

Loud bugles join their wild acclaim — 'Murray is fallen, and Scotland freed! Couch Arran, couch thy spear of

' B u t yet his saddened brow confessed

flame!'

A passing shade of doubt and awe; Some fiend was whispering in his breast —

But see, the minstrel vision fails —

Beware of injured Bothvvellhaugh.

The glimmering spears are seen no more! The shouts of war die on the gales,

' The death-shot parts — the charger springs —

Or sink in Evan's lonely roar.

Wild rises tumult's startling roar! And Murray's plumy helmet rings —

For the loud bugle, pealing high,

Rings on the ground — to rise no more.

The blackbird whistles down the vale, And sunk in ivied ruins lie

What joy the raptured youth can feel

The bannered towers of Evandale.

T o hear her love the loved one tell — Or he who broaches on his steel

For chiefs, intent on bloody deed,

The wolf by whom his infant fell!

And Vengeance shouting o'er the slain, L o ! high-born Beauty rules the steed,

' B u t dearer to my injured eye

Or graceful guides the silken rein.

T o see in dust proud Murray roll; And mine was ten times trebled joy

And long may peace and pleasure own

T o hear him groan his felon soul.

The maids who list the minstrel's tale; Nor e'er a ruder guest be known On the fair banks of Evandale.

' M y Margaret's spectre glided near, With pride her bleeding victim saw, And shrieked in his death-deafened ear, Remember injured Bothwellhaugh!

*) An oak, half sawn, with the motto: ' through,' is an ancient cognizance of the family of Hamilton.

VIII. SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE, geb. 2 0 . Octbr. 1 7 7 2 zu Ottery St. Mary, Devonshire, gest. zu Ilighgate, 2 5 . Juli 1 8 3 4 . S. T h . I. des Handb. S. 3 1 3 .

C., einer der Reformatoren der engl. Poesie, der Lake-

School angehörend, legte die reichen Schätze seines Wissens und seiner Philosophie mehr im mündlichen Verkehr, als in Schriften dar, welche meistentheils, die prosaischen sowohl, als die poetischen, unvollendet sind.

Die letztern bestehen aus: 'Juvenile Poems'; 'Sibylline

Leaves'; ' O d e s and Miscellaneous P o e m s ' ;

' T h e Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner', einem Bal-

ladencyklus; 'Christabel' einem romantischen, ' Z a p o l y a ' einem erzählenden Gedichte; m o r s e ' einem Trauerspiele; ' T h e Fall of Robespierre' Uebersetzung von Schiller's Wallenstein. —

'Re-

einem historischen Drama und einer

' T h e conspicuous features of his p o e t r y ' , sagt

SAMUEL TAYLOR Scrymgeour

COLERIDGE.

331

v o n i h m , ' a r e its e x q u i s i t e a n d o r i g i n a l m e l o d y of v e r s i f i c a t i o n , w h o s e very s o u n d

c h a i n s t h e e a r a n d s o u l ; t h e h a r m o n i o u s g r o u p i n g anil idealized c o l o u r i n g of its p i c t u r e s ; p u r i t y of t a s t e in its living

figures;

in its d e s c r i p t i o n s of n a t u r e .

a n d t r u t h , in f u x u r i a n c e or in simplicity, in m a j e s t y or in s m a l l n e s s , I n s e n t i m e n t , h e o p e n s with c h a r m i n g a r t l e s s n e s s his o w n b o s o m

i n s o r r o w a n d in j o y .

T h e r e exists in g e n e r a l a d e c i d e d c o n t r a s t b e t w e e n t h e simplicity a n d

l u c i d n e s s of Coleridge's

p o e t i c a l style of e x p r e s s i o n , a n d t h e i n v o l v e d c l o u d l i k e f a s h i o n of h i s

prose.

* * *

T h e b e s t t r i b u t e t o h i s g e n i u s c o n s i s t s in its a d m i r a t i o n , n a y , i m i t a t i o n , by t h e

h i g h e s t m i n d s a m o n g his c o n t e m p o r a r i e s , Byron

a n d Scott,

while it is e v i d e n t t h a t his p h r a -

s e o l o g y a n d h i s m e l o d y still m u r m u r in t h e finest s t r a i n s which e m a n a t e f r o m t h e p r e s e n t age.'

1) F R O M : Broken

'CHRISTABEL.'

Bloom,

0 ye a m a r a n t h s ! bloom for whom ye

Friendship.

may,

A l a s ! t h e y h a d b e e n f r i e n d s in y o u t h ;

F o r me ye bloom n o t !

G l i d e , rich s t r e a m s ,

W i t h lips u n b r i g h t e n e d ,

wreathless b r o w ,

B u t w h i s p e r i n g t o n g u e s can p o i s o n t r u t h ; A n d c o n s t a n c y lives in r e a l m s a b o v e ;

away!

A n d life is t h o r n y ; a n d y o u t h is v a i n : A n d t o b e w r o t h w i t h o n e vve love,

A n d w o u l d y o u l e a r n t h e spells t h a t d r o w s e m y soul?

D o t h w o r k like m a d n e s s in t h e b r a i n . A n d t h u s it c h a n c e d , a s I divine,

W o r k w i t h o u t h o p e d r a w s n e c t a r in a sieve,

W i t h R o l a n d a n d Sir L e o l i n e .

A n d h o p e w i t h o u t a n o b j e c t c a n n o t live.

E a c h s p a k e w o r d s of h i g h d i s d a i n A n d i n s u l t to h i s h e a r t ' s b e s t b r o t h e r : T h e y parted — ne'er to meet a g a i n ! But never either found another T o free the hollow heart from paining; T h e y stood aloof, the scars remaining, L i k e cliffs w h i c h b a d b e e n r e n t a s u n d e r : A d r e a r y s e a n o w flows b e t w e e n . But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder, S h a l l wholly d o a w a y , I ween,

3)

LOVE.

All t h o u g h t s , all p a s s i o n s , all d e l i g h t s , W h a t e v e r stirs t h i s m o r t a l f r a m e , A r e all b u t m i n i s t e r s of l o v e , And feed his sacred

flame.

T h e m a r k s of that which once hath been. O f t in m y w a k i n g d r e a m s d o I Live o'er again that h a p p y h o u r , 2)

WORK WITHOUT

All n a t u r e s e e m s a t w o r k .

HOPE.

S l u g s leave t h e i r

W h e n midway on the m o u n t 1 lay, Beside the ruined tower.

lair — T h e b e e s a r e s t i r r i n g — b i r d s a r e on t h e w i n g — A n d w i n t e r , s l u m b e r i n g in t h e o p e n air, W e a r s o n his s m i l i n g face a gleam of s p r i n g ! A n d I , t h e while, t h e sole u n b u s y t h i n g ,

T h e moonshine, stealing o'er the scene, H i l d b l e n d e d with t h e l i g h t s of e v e ; And she was there, my hope, my joy, My o w n d e a r G e n e v i e v e !

N o r h o n e y m a k e , n o r p a i r , n o r b u i l d , n o r sing, She leaned against the armed man, Y e t well I k e n t h e b a n k s w h e r e a m a r a n t h s b l o w ,

T h e s t a t u e of t h e a r m e d k n i g h t ;

H a v e t r a c e d t h e f o u n t w h e n c e s t r e a m s of n e c -

S h e s t o o d a n d l i s t e n e d t o m y lay

t a r flow.

I

stroll:

A m i d t h e l i n g e r i n g light.

332

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.

Few sorrows hath she of her own, My hope, my joy, my Genevieve !

And saved from outrage worse than death T h e lady of the l a n d ;

She loves me best whene'er I sing T h e songs that make her grieve.

And how she wept and clasped his knees, And how she tended him in vain —

I played so soft and doleful air, I sang an old and moving story —

And ever strove to expiate T h e scorn that crazed his brain.

An old rude song that suited well T h a t ruin wild and hoary.

And that she nursed him in a cave; And how his madness went away,

She listened with a flitting blush, W i t h downcast eyes and modest grace;

W h e n on the yellow forest leaves A dying man h e lay;

F o r well she knew I could not choose But gaze upon her face.

His dying words — b u t when I reached T h a t tenderest strain of all t h e ditty,

I told her of the knight that wore U p o n his shield a b u r n i n g b r a n d ;

My faltering voice and pausing h a r p Disturbed her soul with pity!

And that for ten long years he wooed T h e lady of the land.

All impulses of soul and sense H a d thrilled my guileless Genevieve —

I told her how he p i n e d ; and a h ! T h e deep, the low, the pleadiDg tone

T h e music and the doleful tale, T h e rich and balmy eve;

W i t h which I sang another's love, Interpreted my own.

And hopes, and fears that kindle hope, An undistinguishable t h r o n g ;

She listened with a flitting blush, W i t h downcast eyes and modest grace;

And gentle wishes long subdued, Subdued and cherished long!

And she forgave me that I gazed T o o fondly on her face.

She wept with pity and delight, She blushed with love and virgin shame;

B u t when I told the cruel scorn Which crazed this bold and lovely knight,

And like the m u r m u r of a dream I h e a r d her breathe my name.

And that he crossed the mountain-woods, N o r rested day nor n i g h t ;

Her bosom heaved, she stept aside; As conscious of my look she stept —

But sometimes from the savage den, And sometimes f r o m the darksome shade,

T h e n suddenly, with timorous eye, She fled to me and wept.

And sometimes starting up at once, In green and sunny glade,

She half enclosed me with her arms, She pressed me with a meek embrace,

There came and looked him in the face An angel beautiful and b r i g h t ;

And bending back her head, looked up And gazed upon my face.

And that he knew it was a fiend, This miserable k n i g h t !

'Twas partly love, and partly fear, And partly 'twas a bashful art,

And t h a t , u n k n o w i n g what he did, H e leaped amid a murderous b a n d ,

T h a t I might rather feel than see T h e swelling of her heart.

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. — ROBERT 80UTHEY. I calmed her fear*; and she was calm, And told her love with virgin pride; And so I won my Genevieve, My bright and beauteous bride!

4) CHILD'S EVENING PRAYER. Ere on my bed my limbs I lay, God grant me grace my prayers to say! O God, preserve my mother dear In health and strength for many a year, And oh! preserve my father too, And may I pay him reverence due; And may I my best thoughts employ To be my parents' hope and joy! My sisters and my brothers both From evil guard, and save from sloth, And may we always love each other, Our friends, our father, and our mother! And still, o Lord, to me impart A contrite, pure, and grateful heart, That after my last sleep I may Awake to tby eternal day.

5) LOVE, HOPE, AND PATIENCE IN EDUCATION. O'er wayward childhood would'st thou hold firm rule, And sun thee in the light of happy faces;

333

Love, Hope, and Patience, these mast be thy grace«, And in thine own heart let them first keep school. For, as old Atlas on his broad neck place« Heaven's starry globe, and there snstains it; — so Do these upbear the little world below Of Education,—Patience, Love, and Hope. Methinks, I see them grouped in seemly show, The straitened arms upraised, the palms aslope, And robes that touching, as adown they flow, Distinctly blend, like snow embossed in snow. O part them never! If Hope prostrate lie, Love too will sink and die. But Love is subtle, and doeth proof derive From her own life that Hope is yet alive; And, bending o'er with soul-transfusing eyes. And the soft murmurs of the mother dove, \ t o o s back the fleeting spirit, and half supplies: Thus Love repays to Hope what Hope first gave to Love. Yet haply there will come a weary day, When overtasked at length Both Love and Hope beneath the load give way. Then, with a statue's smile, a statue's strength. Stands the mute sister, Patience, nothing loath, And both supporting, does the work of both.

IX. ROBERT SOUTHEY, LL. D. geb. zu Bristol am 12. August 1774, bezog, nachdem er auf der Westminsterschule seine Vorbildung erhalten hatte, 1792 die Universität zu Oxford, um Theologie zu studiren. Politische sowohl, als religiöse Ansichten veranlassten ihn jedoch, diesen Plan aufzugeben und die Universität zu verlassen. Vergl. Coleridge, Th. I. des Handb., S. 313. Nach seiner Verheirathung, im J. 1 7 9 5 , ging er mit seinem Oheim, dem Dr. Herbert, nach Lissabon, studirte nach seiner Rückkehr die Rechte in Gray's Inn, und machte darauf eine Reise nach Spanien und Portugal. 1801 ging er auf eine kurze Zeit als Sekretair des Schatzkanxlen nach Irland und liess sieb dann an den Ufern der Greta in der Nähe von Keswick nieder, wo er bis an seinen Tod lebte, ausschliesslich mit literarischen Arbeiten beschäftigt. Seine

334

ROBERT 80ÜTHBY

Bibliothek war «eine Welt; jeder Tag, jede Stunde batten ihre bestimmte Aufgabe. In einem seiner Gedichte sagt er: My days among the dead are passed; Around me I behold, Where'er these casual eyes aie cast, The mighty minds of old, My never-failing friends are they With whom I converse night and day. Der übermässigen Anstrengung erlagen indessen die Kräfte; ein Schlagfluss lähmte im Jabre 1840 seine Glieder, und in völligen Stumpfsinn verfallen, so dass er selbst die Seinigen nicht mehr erkannte, sass er unter seinen 'treuen Freunden', bis ihn der Tod am 23. Mira 1843 erlöste. — S. war einer der fruchtbarsten Schriftsteller; zwischen dem 20. und 30. Lebensjahre soll er mehr Verse verbrannt haben, als er in seinem ganzen Leben drucken liess. Seine bedeutenderen poetischen Werke sind: 'Thalaba', eine arabische Erzählung; 'Madoc', ein episches Gedicht, gegründet auf die Entdeckung Amerika's durch einen wallisischen Prinzen; The Curse of Kohama', eine auf indischen Sagen beruhende, phantastische Erzählung, unstreitig sein bestes dichterisches Werk, voll der schönsten Beschreibungen und treuen Schilderungen indischer Sitten und Dcnkungsart. Nachdem er 1813 zum Poeta Laureatus ernannt worden war, veröffentlichte er noch 1814: 'Kotierte, the Last of the Goths', 1821 die von Byron nicht mit Unrecht so unbarmherzig gegeisselte 'Vision of Judgment' und 1823 sein letztes grösseres Gedicht: 'The j'ale of Paraguay'. Von seinen prosaischen Werken erwähnen wir nur das vortreffliche, allgemein beliebte: 'Life of Nelson'. Seine gesammten p o e t . W e r k e sind kilrzlich in 10 Bden. erschienen.

1) FROM: 'THALABA.' The Widowed Mother. How beautiful is night! A dewy freshness fills the silent air; No mist obscures, nor cloud, nor speck, nor stain, Breaks the serene of heaven: In full-orbed glory, yonder moon divine Rolls through the dark-blue depths. Beneath her steady ray The desert-circle spreads, Like the round ocean, girdled with the sky. How beautiful is night! Who, at this untimely hour, Wanders o'er the desert sands ? No station is in view, Nor palm-grove islanded amid the waste. The mother and her child, The widowed mother and the fatherless boy, They, at this untimely hour, Wander o'er the desert sands.

Alas! the setting sun Saw Zeinab in her bliss, Hodeirah's wife beloved, The fruitful mother late, Wbotn, when the daughters of Arabia named, They wished their lot like hers: She wanders o'er the desert sands A wretched widow now, The fruitful mother of so fair a race; With only one preserved, She wanders o'er the wilderness. No tear relieved the burden of her heart; Stunned with the heavy woe, she felt like one Half-wakened from a midnight dream of blood. But sometimes, when the boy Would wet her hand with tears, And, looking up to her fixed countenance, Sob out the name of Mother, then did she Utter a feeble groan. At length, collecting, Zeinab turned her eyea To Heaven, exclaiming, 'Praised be the Lord!

ROBERT 80UTHEY. He gave, He takes away! The Lord our God ii good!'

2) FROM: 'THE CURSE OF KEHAMA.' CANTO

vn.

Then in the ship of heaven Ereenia laid The waking, wondering maid; The ship of heaven, instinct with thought, displayed Its living sail, and glides along the sky. On either side, in wavy tide, The clouds of morn along its path divide; The winds who swept in wild career on high Before its presence cheek their charmed force; The winds that loitering lagged along their course, Around the living bark enamoured playj Swell underneath the sail, and sing before its way. That bark, in shape, was like the furrowed shell Wherein the sea-nymphs to their parent-king, On festal day, their duteous offerings bring. I u h u e ? — G o , watch the last green light Ere evening yields the western star to night; Or fix upon the sun thy strenuous sight Till thou hast reached its orb of chrysolite. The sail, from end to end displayed, Bent, like a rainbow, o'er the maid. An angel's head, with visual eye, Through trackless space directs its chosen way; Nor aid of wing, nor foot, nor fin, Requires the voyage o'er the obedient sky. Smooth aa the swan, when not a breeze at even Disturbs the surface of the silver stream, Through air and sunshine sails the ship of heaven. Recumbent there the maiden glides along On her aerial way, How swift she feels n o t , though the swiftest wind Had flagged in flight behind. Motionless as a sleeping babe she lay,

335

And all serene in mind, Feeling no fear; for that etherial air With such new life and joyance filled her heart Fear could not enter there; For sure she deemed her mortal part was o'er, And she was sailing to the heavenly shore; And that angelic form, who moved beside, Was some good spirit sent to be her guide. Daughter of earth! therein thou deem'st aright; And never yet did form more beautiful, In dreams of night jdescending from on high, Bless the religious Virgin's gifted sight, Nor like a vision of delight Rise on the raptured poet's inwafd eye. Of human form divine was he, The immortal youth of Heaven who floated by, Even such as that divintst form shall be In those blest stages of our onward race, When no infirmity, Low thought, nor base desire, nor wasting care, Deface the semblance of our heavenly sire. The wings of eagle or of cherubim Had seemed unworthy him; Angelic power, and dignity and grace Were in his glorious pennons; from the neck Down to the ankle reached their swelling web Richer than robes of Tyrian dye, that deck Imperial majesty: Their colour like the winter's moonleas sky, When all the stars of midnight's canopy Shine forth; or like the azure steep at noon, Reflecting back to heaven a brighter blue. Such -was their tint when closed; but, when outspread, The permeating light Shed through their substance thin a varying hue; Now bright as when the rose, Beauteous as fragrant, gives to scent and sight A like delight; now like the juice that flow« From Douro's generous vine; Or ruby, when with deepest red it glows; Or as the morning clouds refulgent shine,

396

HOBBBT 800THEY.

When, at forthconiing of the lord of day, The orient, like a shrine, Kindles aa it receives the rising ray. And, heralding his way, Proclaims the presence of the Power divine. Thus glorious were the wings Of that celestial spirit, as he went Disporting through his native element. Nor there alone The gorgeous beauties that they gave to view; Through the broad membrane branched a pliant bone; Spreading like fibres from their parent stem. Its veins like interwoven silver shone; Or as the chaster hue Of pearls that grace some Sultan's diadem. Now with slow stroke and strong behold him smite The buoyant air, and now, in gentler flight, On motionless wing expanded, shoot along. Through

air and sunshine sails the ship of

heaven; Far, far beneath them lies The gross and heavy atmosphere of earth; And with the Swerga gales The maid of mortal birth At every breath u new delight iuhales. And now toward its port the Ship of Heaven Swift as a falling meteor shupes its flight, Yet gently as the dews of night that gem And do not bend the hare-bell's slenderest stem. Daughter of earth, Ereenia cried, alight; This it thy place of rest, the Swerga this, Lo, here uiy bower of bliss! H$ furled his azure wings, which rouud biiu fold Graceful as robes of Grecian chief of old. The happy Kailyal knew uot where to gaze; Her eyes around in joyful wonder roam, Now turned upon the lovely Glendoveer, Now on his heavenly home.

3) MARY, THE MAID OF THE INN. Who is yonder poor Maniac, whose wildlyfix'd eyes Seeih a heart overcharged to express ? She weeps not, yet often and deeply she sighs: She never complains, but her silence implies The composure of settled distress. No pity she looks for, no alms does she seek; Nor for raiment nor food doth she care: Through her rags do the winds of the winter blow bleak On that wither'd breast, and her weatherworn cheek Hath the hue of a mortal despair. Yet eheerful and happy, nor distant the day, Poor Mary the Maniac hath been; The Traveller remembers wbo journey'd this way, No damsel so lovely, no damsel so gay, As Mary, the Maid of the Inn. Iler cheerful address fill'd the guests with delight, As she welcomed them iu 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. She loved, and young Richard had settled the day, And she hoped to be happy for life: But Richard was idle and worthless, and they Who kuew him, would pity poor Mary and say That she was too good for his wife. 'Twas in autumn, and stormy and dark was the night, And fast were the windows and door. Two guests sat enjoying the fire that burnt bright, And smoking in silence, with tranquil delight They listen'd to hear the wind roar.

337

ROBERT SOOTHBY. 'Til. pleasant; cried one, seated by the fire-side To hear the wind whistle,without. What a night for the Abbey! his comrade replied, Methinks a man's courage would now be well tried, Who should wander the ruins about. I myself, like a school-boy, should tremble to hear The hoarse ivy shake over my head; And could fancy I saw, half persuaded by fear, Some ugly old Abbot's grim spirit appear, For this wind might awaken the dead! I'll wager a dinner, the other one cried, That Mary would venture there now. Then wager and lose! with a sneer he replied, I'll warrant she'd fancy a ghost by her side, And faint if she saw a white cow. Will Mary this charge on her courage allow? His companion exclaim'd with a smile; I shall win, — for I know she will venture there now, And earn a new bonnet by bringing a bough From the elder that grows in the aisle. With fearless good-humour did Mary comply, And her way to the Abbey she bent; 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. O'er the path so well known still proceeded the Maid Where the Abbey rose dim on the sight; Through the gate-way she enter'd, she felt not afraid, Yet the ruins were lonely and wild, and their shade Seem'd to deepen the gloom of the night. All around her was silent, save when the rude blast Howl'd dismally round the old pile; I.

Over weed-*over'd fragmenta she fearipssly past, And arrived at the innermost ruin at last, Where the elder-tree grew in the' aisle. Well-pleased did she reach it, and quickly drew near, And hastily gather'd the bough ; When the sound of a voice seem'd to rise on " her ear, — She paused, and she listen'd all eager to hear, And her heart panted fearfully now. The wind blew, the hoarse ivy shook over her head, She listen'd — nought else could she hear; The wind fell, her heart sunk in her bosom with dread, For she heard in the ruins distinctly the tread Of footstep« approaching her near. Behind a wide column, half breathless with fear, She crept to conceal herself there: That instant the moon o'er a dark cloud shone clear. And she saw in the moon-light two rufBans appear, And between them a corpse did they bear. Then Mary could feel her heart-blood curdle cold! Again the rough wind hurried by, — It blew off the hat of the one, and, behold ! Even close to the feet of poor Mary it roll'd, — She felt, and expected to die. Curse the hat! he exclaims; nay come on, till we hide The dead body, his comrade replies. She beholds them in safety pass on by her side, She seizes the bat, fear her courage supplied, And fast through the Abbey she flies. She ran with wild speed, she rush'd in at the door. She gazed horribly eager around,

22

ROBERT S O U T H E Y .

338

T h e n her limbs could s u p p o r t their faint b u r t h e n

T h u s , t h o u g h a b r o a d , perchance, I m i g h t ap-

no more, And exhausted and breathless she s u n k o n t h e floor,

pear H a r s h and a u s t e r e ; T o those, who on m y leisure would intrude, Reserved and r u d e ; —

Unable to utter a sound.

Gentle at h o m e amid m y f r i e n d s I ' d be, E r e yet h e r pale lips could t h e story i m p a r t ,

Like the h i g h leaves u p o n t h e Holly Tree.

F o r a m o m e n t the h a t m e t her view; — I l e r eyes f r o m t h a t object convulsively s t a r t , F o r — w h a t a cold h o r r o r then thrill'd t h r o u g h her heart, W h e n the n a m e of her Richard she k n e w !

And should m y y o u t h , as y o u t h is a p t I know, S o m e h a r s h n e s s show, All vain asperities I day by. day W o u l d wear away, Till the s m o o t h temper of m y age should b e

W h e r e t h e old Abbey s t a n d s , o n t h e c o m m o n

L i k e the high leaves upon the Holly T r e e .

hard by, H i s g i b b e t is now to be s e e n ; H i s irons y o u still f r o m the r o a d may espy, T h e traveller b e h o l d s t h e m and t h i n k s with a sigh Of p o o r M a r y , t h e Maid of t h e I n n .

And as w h e n all t h e s u m m e r trees arc seen So b r i g h t and green. T h e I l o l l y leaves a sober hue display Less b r i g h t t h a n t h e y ; B u t when the bare and wintry woods we sec, W h a t then so cheerful as the Holly T r e e ? S o serious should my y o u t h appear a m o n g

4) THE HOLLY TREE. 0 R e a d e r ! h a s t t h o u ever stood to see

T h e thoughtless t h r o n g ; So would I seem a m o n g t h e y o u n g and gay More grave than tliey;

T h e Ilolly T r e e ? T h e eye t h a t c o n t e m p l a t e s it well perceives

T h a t in m y age as cheerful I m i g h t b e As the green winter of the Ilolly T r e e !

I t s glossy leaves, O r d e r ' d b y an Intelligence so wise, As m i g h t c o n f o u n d the Atheist's sophistries. Below, a circling fence, its leaves are seen

5)

REMEMBRANCE.

Man h a t h a weary pilgrimage

W r i n k l e d and k e e n ; N o grazing cattle t h r o u g h their prickly r o u n d

As t h r o u g h the world he wends, O n every s t a g e f r o m y o u t h to age

Can r e a c h to w o u n d ; B u t , as they grow where n o t h i n g is to fear, S m o o t h and u n a r m ' d the pointless leaves appear.

Still d i s c o n t e n t a t t e n d s ; W i t h heaviness he casts his eye U p o n t h e r o a d before, Aud still r e m e m b e r s with a sigh

1 love to view those t h i n g s with curious eyes, And in t h i s wisdom of the Holly T r e e perchance,

T o r n f r o m his m o t h e r s a r m ' s , — W h a t t h e n shall s o o t h e his earliest woes,

C a n e m b l e m s see, Wherewith,

T h e days t h a t arc n o m o r e . T o school the little exile goes,

A n d moralize,

to m a k e a pleasant rhyme,

O n e which m a y profit in the after-time.

W h e n novelty h a t h l o s t its c h a r m s ? C o n d e m n ' d to suffer t h r o u g h the d a y R e s t r a i n t s , which no rewards r e p a y ,

ROBERT SOUTHEY. — THOMAS CAMPBELL. Anil cares where love has 110 concern:

And old Experience learns too late T h a t all is vanity below.

H o p e lengthens as she counts t h e hours Before his wish'd return.

Life's vain delusions are gone by,

F r o m hard control and tyrant rules, T h e unfeeling discipline of schools,

339

Its idle hopes are o'er, Yet Age remembers with a sigh T h e days that are no more.

In t h o u g h t he loves to roam, And tears will struggle in his eye, While he remembers with a sigh T h e comforts of his h o m e .

6) Youth conies; the toils and cares of life T o r m e n t the restless mind ; W h e r e shall the tired and harrass'd heart Its consolation find? T h e n is n o t youth, as Fancy tells, Life's summer prime of joy?

STANZAS.

My days a m o n g the dead are pass'd, Around m e I behold, Where'er these casual eyes are cast, T h e mighty minds of o l d ; My never-failing friends are they, W i t h whom I converse day b y day.

Ah n o ! for hopes too long delay'd, And feelings blasted or betray'd, T h e fabled bliss d e s t r o y ; And Y o u t h remembers with a sigh T h e carclcss days of Infancy.

W i t h them I take delight in weal, And seek relief in w o e ; And while I understand and feel H o w much to t h e m I owe, My cheeks have often been bedew'd

Maturer Manhood now arrives,

W i t h tears of t h o u g h t f u l gratitude.

And other thoughts come on, B u t with the baseless hopes of Y o u t h Its generous warmth is g o n e : Cold calculating cares succeed, T h e timid thought, the wary deed, T h e dull realities of t r u t h ;

My t h o u g h t s are with the d e a d ; with t h e m I live in long-past y e a r s ; Their virtues love, their faults condemn, P a r t a k e their hopes and fears, And f r o m their lessons seek and find

Back on the past he turns his eye;

Instruction with an humble mind.

Remembering with an envious sigh T h e happy dreams of Youth.

My hopes are with the d e a d ; anon

So reaches he the latter stage

And I with t h e m shall travel on

My place with them will be, Of this our mortal pilgrimage, W i t h feeble step and slow; New ills that latter stage await,

T h r o u g h all f u t u r i t y : Yet leaving here a n a m e , 1 trust, T h a t will not perish in the dust.

X. THOMAS CAMPBELL, LL. D. geb. am 2 7 . Juli 1 7 7 7 ,

war

der j ü n g s t e S o h n eines K a u f m a n n s in Glasgow.

13. J a h r e bezog er die Universität seiner V a t e r s t a d t ,

wo er sich rühmlichst

Nachdem er sich ein J a h r in Argylesliire aufgehalten h a t t e ,

Bereits im auszeichnete.

wo sich namentlich seine Nei22*

340

THOMAS CAMPBBLL.

gung rar Poetie entwickelte, begab er aich nach Edinburgh, um daselbat die Rechte zu atodiren. Der gUiisende Erfolg indessen, welchen die Veröffentlichung seiner ' Pleaaures of Hope' hatte, liesa ihn diesen Plan aufgeben und er widmete sich nun gänzlich der Dichtkunst. Der Ertrag seines Werkes gab ihm die Mittel zu einer Reise nach Deutschland; in Hamburg achrieb er die beiden herrlichen Gedichte: 'Ye Mariners of England' und ' T h e Exile of E n a ' , er war Augenzeuge der Schlacht bei H o h e n l i n d e n , die er so schön beschrieben h a t , machte die Bekanntschaft der vorzQglichsten deutschen Dichter und kehrte dann nach England zurfick, wo er sich in der Nähe von London niederliess. Sein häusliches Leben — er verheirathete sich mit einer Cousine — war ein glückliches, bis der Tod des einen Sohnes und der Wahnsinn eines andern einen dunkeln Schatten darilber warf; dabei hatte er später gegen ungünstige Verhältnisse anzukämpfen, die grösstenteils durch seine wahrhaft grossmQthige Unterstützung seiner armen Mutter, seiner Schwestern und anderer Verwandten veranlasst wurden. Von 1820—1831 gab er das 'New Montbly Magazine' heraus. Nach dem Tode seiner Frau ging er noch einmal auf Reisen und besuchte, 1834, Algier. Dreimal bekleidete er das ehrenvolle Amt eines Lord-Rektors der Universität Glasgow. Er erhielt später von der Regierung eine wohlverdiente Pension, und wohnte hauptsächlich in London, wo er sich mit literarischen Arbeiten beschäftigte und des Umganges seiner zahlreichen Freunde genoss. Um seine Gesundheit zu stärken, ging er 1844 nach Boulogne, starb aber daselbst am 15. Juni, und wurde in der Westminster-Abtei zu London beigesetzt. — Seine poetischen Werke bestehen aus: ' T h e Pleasures of Hope'; 'Gertrude of Wyoming', einer rllbrenden Erzählung aus d( ui amerikanischen Kriege, welche Hazlit/ ' a histoncal paraphrase of Wordsworth's Ruth' neuni; 'Theodoric', einer Schweizer-Erzählung, von einem Kritiker als ' t b e purest in literature of ins pieces' bezeichnet; 'Lochiel and the Wizard'; ' O ' Connor's Child', u. s. w. Sie zeichnen sich sämmtlich durch edlen, wahrhaft klassischen Geschmack, Kraft, bei aller Zartheit, reine Sprache und äusserst wohllautenden Versbau aus und sichern ihm einen ehrenvollen Rang unter den Dichtern aller Zeiten. Ausser mehren andern prosaischen Schriften gab er 'Sperimens of British Poets', (von Chaucer bis Anstey), heraus, in 7 Bden., London 1819.

1) FROM: 'THEODORIC.' GertrudeLetter

to

her Absent Husband.

' Theodoric, this is destiny above Our power to baffle; bear it then, my love! Rave not to learn the usage 1 have borne, For one true sister left me not forlorn; And, though you're absent in another land, Sent from me by my own well-meant command, Your soul, I know, as firm is knit to mine As these clasped hands in blessing you now join: Shape not imagined horrors in my fate — Even now my sufferings are not very great; And, when your griefs first transports shall subside,

I call upon your strength of soul and pride To pay my memory, if 'tis wortirthe debt, Love's glorying tribute — not forlorn regret: I charge myfaamc with power to conjure up Reflection's balmy, not its bitter, cup. My pardoning angel, at the gates of heaven, Shall look not more regard than you have given To me; and our life's union has been clad In smiles of bliss as sweet as life e'er had. Shall gloom be from such bright remembrance cast? Shall bitterness outflow from sweetness past? No! imaged in the sanctuary of your breast, There let me smile, amidst high thoughts at rest; And let contentment on your spirit shine.

THOMAS CAMPBELL. As if it* pi ace were still a part of mine: For, if you war not proudly with your pain, For you I shall have worse t | p n lived in vain. But I conjure your manliness to bear My loss with noble spirit — not despair; I ask you by our love to promise this, And kiss these words, where I have left a kiss, — The latest from my living lips for yours.' Words that will solace him while life endures:

341

| There, sad spectatress of her country's woe! | The lovely Gertrude, safe tela present barm, ' Had laid her cheek, and clasped her hands of snow On Waldegrave's shoulder, half within bis arm Enclosed, that felt her heart, and hashed its ! wild alarm! J 1

But short that contemplation — sad and short The pause to bid each muob-loved scene adien! Beneath the very ahadow of the fort, Where friendly swords were drawn, and ban»

For, though his spirit from affliction's surge Could ne'er to life, as life had been, emerge, Yet still that mind, whose harmony elate ners flew, Rang sweetness even beneath the crush of fate,— Ah! who could deem that foot of Indian crew That mind in whose regard all things were Was near? — yet there, with last of murderous placed deeds, In views that softened them, or light that ' Gleamed like a basilisk, from woods in view, graced, — j The ambushed foeman's eye — his volley speeds, That soul's example could not but dispense { And Albert, Albert falls.' the dear old father A portion of its own blest influence; bleeds! Invoking him to peace and that self-sway j Which fortune cannot give, nor take away: And tranced in giddy horror, Gertrude swooned; And, though be mourned her long, 'twas with 1 Yet, while she clasps him lifeless to her zone, * Say, burst they, borrowed from her father's such woe As if her spirit watched him still below. wound, These drops? Oh God! the life-blood is her own! And faltering, on her Waldegrave's bosom 2) FROM: 'GERTRUDE OF WYOMING'. thrown — Gertrude'« Death. 'Weep not, O love!' she cries, 'to see me bleed; Past was the flight, and welcome seemed the Tbee, Gertrude's sad survivor, thee alone Heaven's peace commiserate; for scarce I heed tower, These wounds; yet thee to leave is death, is That like a giant standard-bearer frowned Defiance on the roving Indian power. Beneath, each bold and promontory mound With embrasure embossed and armour crowned, And arrowy frize, and wedged ravelin. Wove like a diadem its tracery round The lofty summit of that mountain green; Here stood secure the group, and eyed a distant scene, A scene of dealh! where fires beneath the sun, And blended arms, and white pavilions glow; And for the business of destruction done, Its requiem the war-horn seemed to blow:

death indeed! Clasp me a little longer on the brink Of fate! while I can feel thy dear caress; And when this heart hath ceased to beat— oh! think, And let it mitigate thy woe's excess, That tbou hast been to me all tenderness, And friend to more than human friendship just. Oh! by that retrospect of happiness, And by the hope* of an immortal trust, God shall assuage thy pangs — when I am laid in dust!

342

ibomu

Go, Henry, go not back, when I depart, The acene thy bnrsttDg tear« too deep will move, Where my dear father took thee to hi* heart, And Gertrude thought it ecstacy to rove With thee, as with an angel, through the grove Of peace, imagining her lot was east In heaven; for ours was not like earthly love. And must this parting be our very last ? No! I shall love tbee still, when death itself is past. Half could I bear, methinks, to leave this earth, And thee, more loved than aught beneath the sun. If I had lived to smile but on the birth Of one dear pledge. But shall there then be none, In future times — no gentle little one To clasp tby neck, and look, resembling me? Yet seems it, even while life's last pulses run, A sweetness in the cup of death to be, Lord of my bosom's love! to die beholding thee! Hushed were his Gertrude's lips! but still their bland And beautiful expression seemed to melt With love that could not die! and still his band She presses to the heart no more that felt. Ab, heart! where once each fond affection dwelt, And features yet that spoke a soul more fair. Mute, gazing, agonizing as he knelt — Of them that stood encircling his despair He beard some friendly words; but knew not what they were. Eor now to mourn their judge and child arrives A faithful band. With aolemn rites between, 'Twas sung how tbey were lovely in their lives, And in their deaths had not divided been. Touched by the music and the melting scene, Was scarce one tearless eye amidst the crowd— Stern warriors, resting on their swords, were seen

cAimtu. To veil their eyes, as paaaed each much-loved shroud— While woman'«$softer soul in woe dissolved aloud. Then mournfully the parting bugle bid Its farewell o'er the grave of worth and trnth; Prone to the dust afflicted Waldegrave hid His face on earth; him watched, in gloomy ruth, His woodland guide: but words bad none to soothe The grief that knew not consolation's name; Casting his Indian mantle o'er the youth, He watched, beneath its folds, each burst that came, Convulsive, ague-like, across his shuddering frame!

3) YE MARINERS O F ENGLAND.

Ye mariners of England! That guard our native seas; Whose flag has braved a thousand years, The battle and the breeze! Your glorious standard launch again To match another foe! And sweep through the deep While the stormy tempests blow; While the battle rages loud and long, Aod the stormy tempests blow. The spirits of your father Shall start from every wave! For the deck it was their field of fame, And ocean was their grave; Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell, Your maBly hearts Shall glow, As ye sweep through the deep While the stormy tempests blow; While the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy tempests blow. Britannia needs no bulwark, No towers along the steep;

THOMAS CAMPBELL. — THOMAS MOORB. Her march is o'er the moontain-waves, Her borne ia on the deep. With thundera from her native oak She quell* the flood« below, As they roar on the shore When the stormy tempests blow; When the battle rages loud and long. And the stormy tempests blow. The meteor flag of England Shall yet terrific burn; Till dagger's troubled night depart, And the star of peace return. Then, then, ye ocean-warrior«! Our song and feast shall flow To the fame of your name, When the storm has ceased to blow; When the fiery fight is heard no more, And the storm has ceased to blow!

4) HOHEN LINDEN. On Linden, when the sun was low, All bloodless lay the untrodden snow, And dark as winter was the flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly. But Linden saw another sight, When the drum beat at dead of night,

343

Commanding Area of death to light The darkness of her scenery. By torch and trumpet faat arrayed, Each horseman drew his battle-blade, And furious every charger neighed To join the dreadful revelry. Then shook the hills with thunder riven, Then rushed the steed to battle driven, And louder than tbe bolts of heaven Far flashed the red artillery. But redder yet that light shall glow On Linden's hills of stained snow, And bloodier yet the torrent flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling don, Where furious Frank and fiery Hun Shout in their sulphurous canopy. The combat deepens. On, ye brave, Who rush to glory, or the grave! Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave, And charge with all thy chivalry. Few, few shall part where many meet! The snow shall be their winding-sheet; And every turf beneath their feet Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.

XI. THOMAS MOORE, geb. am 28. Mai 1780, zu Dublin, wo sein Vater einen kleinen Handel hatte. Noch «ihr jung bezog er die Univrraitüt seiner Vaterstadt und begann kurz darauf eine metrische Uebersetzung des Anakreon. Im Jahre 1799 ging er nach London, um im 'Midde Temple' die Rechte zu studiren und jene Utbersetzung' herauszugeben, die er dem Prinzen von Wales, nachmaligem Georg IV., widmete. Im Jahre 1803 erhielt er von der Regierung eine Anstellung als Sekretair bei dem Admiralitätsgerichte auf der Ids^I Bermuda; er ging jedoch nicht selbst dahin, sondern Hess, wie dies in solchen F&llen gewöhnlich ist, sein Amt durch einen Stellvertreter verwalten. Nach einer Tour durch die Vereinigten Staaten, von welcher er indessen nicht befriedigt zurückkehrte, machte er 1817 mit Roger* eine Reise nach Frankreich und Italien, und 1819 eine zweite ebendahin mit Lord John Ruttel, auf welcher

344

THOMAS MOOBK.

er B$ro», den er achon im Jahre 1812 kennen gelernt hatte, einen Besuch in Venedig abstattete. Sein Stellvertreter hatte ihn unterdessen durch Veruntreuung in eine Schuldenlast gestürzt und M. musste, als er von der letzten Reise zurQckkehrte, in Paris bleiben, da in England ein Verhaftsbefehl gegen ihn erlassen war. Obschon seine zahlreichen Freunde ihm ihre Vermittelung anboten, so deckte M. doch selbst die fehlende Summe durch den Ertrag seiner Schriften, und konnte im Juhre 1823 nach England zurückkehren. Seine politischen Freunde bedachten ihn, als sie bald darauf an's Ruder kamen, mit einer Pension von l. 300, die er in ländlicher Zurückgezogenheit in Sloperton Cottage bei Devizes in Wiltahire genoss. Er starb daselbst am 26. Februar 1852, und wurde auf dem Kirchhofe zu Bronham, einem kleinen Dorfe in der Nähe, zwischen zweien seiner Kinder, beigesetzt. — Nach seiner Uebersetzung des Anakreon erschienen im Jahre 1806 'Odes and Epistles,' die Ergebnisse seiner Reise in den Vereinigten Staaten. Vielleicht findet sich in allen seinen späteren Dichtungen keine schönere Stelle, als die herrliche Epistel an Lord Strangford, die er am Bord des Schiffes bei Mondschein schrieb. Zwei Jahre später gab er unter dem Namen Thomas Lüde (M. war kleiner Statur) eine Sammlung i_,iebesgedichte heraus, die, obschon zuweilen gegen die Schicklichkeit verstossend, durch ihre Lieblichkeit und Wärme grossen Beifall fanden. M. wandte sich hierauf der Satire zu — ' Corruption and Intolerance' 1808, «TheSceptic* 1809, 'A Letter to the Roman Catliolics of Dublin' 1810, ' T h e Fudge Family in Paris' 1818, und 'Fables for the Holy Alliancc' 1^23 — lebendige, treffende, witzige Leistungen, voll des heitersten Humors. — Seine 'Irish Melodies,' welche 1813 erschienen, — Texte zu Stephensona irischen Nationalmelodicn — gehören zu den schönsten Erzeugnissen der englischen Lyrik. Sein grösstes poetisches Werk: 'Lalla R o o k h ' , eine orientalische Dichtung, erschien 1817: die Diktion ist glänzend und prächtig, und morgenländische Natur und Sitten sind darin mit solcher Treue geschildert, dass das Gedicht selbst in's Persische Ubersetzt worden ist. Ihm folgten 1823: ' T h e Loves of the Angels' und 1827 seine morgenläudische Erzählung in Prosa: ' T h e Epicurean'. Ausserdem besitzen wir von ihm: ' T h e Life of R. B. Sheridan', 1825; 'Letters and Journals of Lord Byron with notices o f h i s l i f e ' , 1830; 'Memoirs of Lord Edw. Fitzgerald', ein schätzbarer Beitrag zur irischen Geschichte. Eine ' H i s t o r y of Ireland' gab er in Lardner'» Encyklopädie. Afoore's Eigentümlichkeiten als Dichter sind: glänzende Phantasie, ungemeine Schärfe des Verstandes, Tiefe des Gefühls, Anmuth des Ausdrucks und eine überaus reiche Bildersprache.

1) FROM: 'LALLA ROOKH'. Paradue and the Peri. One morn a Peri at the gate Of Eden stood, disconsolate; And as she Iisten'd to the springs Of Life within, like music flowing. And caught the light upon her wings Through the half-open portal glowing, She wept to think her recreant race Should e'er have lost that glorious place! 'How happy,' exclaim'd this child of air, 'Are the holy Spirits who wander there,

'Mid flowers that never shall fade or fall; Though mine are the gardens of earth and sea, And the stars themselves have flowers for me, One blossom of Heaven out-blooms them all! Though sunny the Lake of cool Cashmere, With its plane-tree Isle reflected clear, And sweetly the founts of that Valley fall; Though bright are the waters of Sing-su-hay, And the golden floods that thitherward stray, Yet — ob, 'tis only the Blest can say How the waters of Heaven outshine them all!

THOMAS M O O R E .

345

Go, wing thy flight f r o m star to star,

W i t h Life's elixir sparkling high —

F r o m world to luminous world, as far

But gifts like these are n o t for the sky.

As the universe spreads its flaming wall: Take all the pleasures of all the spheres,

Where was there ever a gem that shone Like the steps of Alla's wonderful T h r o n e ?

And multiply each t h r o u g h endless years,

And the Drops of Life — o h ! what would they be

One minute of Heaven is worth them a l l ! ' T h e glorious Angel, who was keeping

In the boundless Deep of E t e r n i t y ? ' While thus she inus'd, her pinions fann'd

T h e gates of Light, beheld her weeping;

T h e air of that sweet Indian land,

And, as he nearer drew and listen'd

W h o s e air is b a l m ; whose ocean spreads

T o her sad song, a tear-drop glisten'd

O'er coral rocks, and amber b e d s ;

W i t h i n his eyelids, like the spray

W h o s e mountains, pregnant by the beam

F r o m E d e n ' s fountain, when it lies

Of the warm sun, with diamonds t e e m ;

On the blue flow'r, which — Bramins say —

Whose rivulets are like rich brides,

Blooms no where but in Paradise.

Lovely, with gold beneath their t i d e s ; W h o s e sandal groves and bowers of spice

' N y m p h of a fair b u t erring line !'

Might be a Peri's Paradise!

Gently he s a i d — ' O n e hope is thine.

But crimson now her rivers ran

'Tis written in the Book of Fate,

W i t h h u m a n blood — the smell of death

The Peri yet may be forgiven IVho brings to this Eternal

Came reeking from those spicy bowers,

gate

The Gift that is most dear to

And m a n , the sacrifice of m a n , Mingled liis taint with every breath

Heaven!

Upvvafted f r o m the innocent

Go, seek it, and redeem thy sin —

flowers.

L a n d of the S u n ! what foot invades

' T i s sweet to let the P a r d o n ' d in.'

T h y P a g o d s and thy pillar'd s h a d e s — Rapidly as comets run

T h y cavern shrines, and Idol stones,

T o th'embraces of the S u n ; —

T h y Monarchs and their t h o u s a n d T h r o n e s ?

Fleeter t h a n the starry brands

'Tis H e of Gazna — fierce in wrath

F l u n g at n i g h t f r o m angel hands

H e comes, and India's diadems

At those dark and daring sprites,

Lie scatter'd in his ruinous path. —

W h o would climb th'empyreal heights,

His b l o o d h o u n d s he adorns with gems,

Down the blue vault the Peri flies,

T o r n from the violated necks

And, lighted earthward by a glance

Of many a y o u n g and lov'd S u l t a n a ;

T h a t just then broke from morning's eyes, H u n g hovering o'er our world's expanse.

Maidens, within their pure Zenana, Priests in the very fane he slaughters, And choaks u p with the glittering wrecks

B u t whither shall the Spirit go

Of golden shrines the sacred waters!

T o find this gift for H e a v ' n ? — ' I know T h e wealth,' she cries, ' of every urn,

Downward the Peri turns her gaze,

I n which u n n u m b e r ' d rubies burn,

And, t h r o u g h the war-field's bloody haze

Beneath the pillars of C h i l m i n a r ;

Beholds a youthful warrior stand,

I know where the Isles of P e r f u m e are

Alone beside his native r i v e r , —

Many a f a t h o m down in the sea.

T h e red blade broken in his hand,

T o the s o u t h of sun-bright A r a b y ; I know, too, where the Genii hid T h e jewell'd cup of their King Jamshid,

And the last arrow in his quiver. v

' L i v e , ' said the Conqueror, 'live to share T h e trophies and the crowns I b e a r ! '

THOMAS MOORE.

346 Silent that youthful warrior stood — Silent he pointed to the flood

Thence over Egypt's palmy groves, Her grots, and sepulchres of Kings,

All crimson with his country's blood,

The exil'd Spirit sighing roves;

Then sent his last remaining dart,

And now hangs listening to the doves

For answer, to th' Invaders heart.

In warm Rosetta's vale — now loves

False flew the shaft, though pointed well;

Of the white pelicans that break

To watch the moonlight on the wings The Tyrant Iiv'd, the Hero fell! —

The azure calm of Moeris' Lake.

Yet mark'd the Peri where he lay,

'Twas a fair scene — a Land more bright

And, when the rush of war was past, Swiftly descending on a ray

Never did mortal eye behold! Who could have thought, that saw this night

Of morning light, she caught the last —

Those valleys and their fruits of gold

Last glorious drop his heart had shed,

Basking in Ileav'n's serenest light; —

Before its free-born spirit fled!

Those groups of lovely date-trees bending

' Be this,' she cried, as she wing'd her flight, ' My welcome gift at the Gates of Light. Though foul are the drops that oft distil On the field of warfare, blood like this, For Liberty shed, so holy is, It would net stain the purest rill, T h a t sparkles among the Bowers of Bliss! Oh, if there be, on this earthly sphere, A boon, an offering Heaven holds dear, 'Tis the last libation Liberty draws From the heart that bleeds and breaks in her cause!' ' Sweet,' said the Angel, as she gave The gift into his radiant hand, ' S w e e t is our welcome of the Brave W h o die thus for their native L a n d . — But see — alas! — the crystal bar Of Eden moves not — holier far Than ev'n this drop the boon must be,

Languidly their Ieaf-crown'd heads, Like youthful maids, when sleep descending Warns them to their silken b e d s ; — Those virgin lilies, all the night Bathing their beauties in the lake, T h a t they may rise more fresh and bright, When their beloved S u n ' s awake; — Those ruin'd shrines and towers that seem The relics of a splendid d r e a m ; Amid whose fairy loneliness Nought but the lapwing's cry is heard, Nought seen but (when the shadows, flitting Fast from the moon, unsheath its gleam,) Some purple-wing'd Sultana sitting Upon a column, motionless And glittering like an Idol bird! — W h o could have thought, that there, ev'n there, Amid those scenes so still and fair, The Demon of the Plague hath cast From his hot wing a deadlier blast,

T h a t opes the Gates of Heav'n for thee!'

More mortal far than ever came

Her first fond hope of Eden blighted,

So quick, that every living thing

Now among Afric's lunar Mountains, Far to the South, the Peri lighted; And sleek'd her plumage at the fountains Of that Egyptian tide — whose birth Is hidden from the sons of earth Deep in those solitary woods, Where oft the Genii of the Floods

From the red Desert's sands of flame! Of human shape, touch'd by his wing, Like plants, where the Simoom hath past, At once falls black and withering! The sun went down on many a brow, Which, full of bloom and freshness then, Is rankling in the pest-house now, And ne'er will feel that sun again.

Dance round the cradle of their Nile,

And, o h ! to see th'unburied heaps

And hail the new-born Giant's smile.

On which the lonely moonlight sleeps —

THOMAS MOORE. T h e very vultures turn away, And sicken at so foul a prey!

W a s safe from this foul midnight's breath,— Safe in her father's princely halls,

Only the fierce liysena stalks

Where the cool airs from fountain falls,

Throughout the city's desolate walks

Freshly perfum'd by many a brand

At midnight, and his carnage plies: — Woe to the half-dead wretch, who meets

347

Of the sweet wood from India's land, Were pure as she whose brow they fann'd.

The glaring of those large blue eyes Amid the darkness of the streets !

But see — who yonder comes by stealth, This melancholy bower to seek,

' Poor race of m e n ! ' said the pitying Spirit, 'Dearly ye pay for your primal Fall — Some flow'rets of Eden ye still inherit, But the trail of the Serpent is over them all!' She wept — the air grew pure and clear Around her, as the bright drops r a n ; For there's a magic in each tear, Such kindly Spirits weep for m a n ! Just then beneath some orange trees, Whose fruit and blossoms in the breeze

Like a young envoy, sent by Health, With rosy gifts upon her cheek? 'Tis she — f a r off, through moonlight dim He knew his own betrothed bride, She, who would rather die with him. Than live to gain the world beside! — Her arms arc round her lover now, His livid cheek to hers she presses, And dips, to bind his burning brow, In the cool lake her loosen'd tresses.

Were wantoning together, free,

A h ! once, how little did he think

Like age at play with infancy —

An hour would come, when he should shrink

Beneath that fresh and springing bower,

With horror from that dear embrace,

Close by the Lake, she heard the moan Of one who, at this silent hour, Had thither stol'n to die alone. One who in life where'er he mov'd, Drew after him the hearts of m a n y ; Yet now, as though he ne'er were lov'd, Dies here unseen, unwept by any! None to watch near him — none to slake That fire that in his bosom lies, With ev'n a sprinkle from that lake, Which shines so cool before his eyes. No voice, well known through many a day, T o speak the last, the parting word, Which, when all other sounds decay, Is still like distant music heard; — T h a t tender farewell on the shore Of this rude world, when all is o'er, Which cheers the spirit, ere its bark Puts off into the unknown Dark.

Those gentle arms, that were to him Holy as is the cradling place Of Eden's infant cherubim! And now he yields — now turns away, Shuddering as if the venom lay All in those proffer'd lips alone — Those lips that, then so fearless grown, Never until that instant came Near his unask'd, or without shame. ' O h ! let me only breathe the air, The blessed air, that's breath'd by thee, And, whether on its wings it bear Healing or death, 'tis sweet to m e ! There — drink my tears, while yet they fall — Would that my bosom's blood were balm, And, well thou know'st, I'd shed it all, T o give thy brow one minute's calm. Nay, turn not from me that dear face — Am I not thine — thy own lov'd bride — The one, the chosen one, whose place

Deserted youth! one thought alone Shed joy around his soul in death — T h a t she, whom he for years had known, And lov'd, and might have call'd his own

In life or death is by thy side? Think'st thou that she, whose only light, In this dim world, from thee hath shone, Could bear the long, the cheerless night,

348

THOMAS M O O R E .

T h a t m u s t b e h e r s when thou a r t g o n e ? T h a t I can live, and let thee go, W h o art my life itself? — N o , no — W h e n the stem dies, t h e leaf t h a t grew O u t of its h e a r t m u s t perish t o o ! T h e n t u r n to me, m y own love, t u r n , Before, like thee, I fade and b u r n ; Cling to these yet cool lips, and s h a r e

And she already h e a r s the trees Of E d e n , with their crystal bells R i n g i n g in t h a t ambrosial breeze T h a t f r o m the t h r o n e of Alia swells; And she can see the starry bowls T h a t lie a r o u n d t h a t lucid lake, U p o n whose b a n k s a d m i t t e d Souls T h e i r first sweet d r a u g h t of glory t a k e !

T h e last p u r e life t h a t lingers t h e r e ! '

But, a h ! even Peris' h o p e s are vain —

She fails — she sinks — as dies the l a m p

Again the F a t e s f o r b a d e , again

I n charnel airs, or cavern-damp,

T h ' i m m o r t a l barrier clos'd — ' N o t yet,'

So q u i c k l y do his baleful sighs

T h e Angel said as, with r e g r e t ,

Q u e n c h all the sweet light of her eyes.

H e s h u t f r o m her t h a t glimpse of glory —

O n e struggle — and his p a i n is p a s t — H e r lover is n o longer living! O n e kiss t h e maiden gives, one last L o n g kiss, which she expires in g i v i n g !

' T r u e was t h e m a i d e n , and her story, W r i t t e n in light o'er Alla's h e a d , By seraph eyes shall long b e read. B u t , P e r i , see — the crystal b a r Of E d e n moves n o t — h o l i e r far

' Sleep,' said t h e Peri, as softly she stole

T h a n ev'n this sigh t h e b o o n m u s t b e

T h e farewell sigh of that vanishing soul,

T h a t opes t h e Gates of H e a v ' n for thee.'

As t r u e as e'er warin'd a w o m a n ' s b r e a s t — ' Sleep o n , in visions of o d o u r rest,

Now, u p o n Syria's land of roses

I n balmier airs t h a n ever yet stirr'd

Softly the light of Eve reposes,

T l i ' e n c h a n t e d pile of t h a t lonely b i r d ,

A n d , like a glory, the b r o a d sun

W h o sings at t h e last his own death-lay,

H a n g s over sainted L e b a n o n ;

And in m u s i c and p e r f u m e dies away !'

W T hose h e a d in wintry g r a n d e u r towers,

T h u s saying, f r o m her lips she spread

W h i l e s u m m e r , in a vale of

And whitens with eternal sleet, U n e a r t h l y b r e a t h i n g s t h r o u g h t h e place,

flowers,

Is sleeping rosy at his feet.

And s h o o k her sparkling wreath, and shed S u c h lustre o'er each paly face, T h a t like two lovely saints they seem'd, U p o n t h e eve of d o o m s d a y t a k e n F r o m their dim graves, in o d o u r s l e e p i n g ; While that benevolent Peri beam'd L i k e their g o o d angel, calmly k e e p i n g W a t c h o'er t h e m till their souls would waken.

T o one, w h o Iook'd f r o m u p p e r air O ' e r all t h ' e n c h a n t c d regions t h e r e , IIow b e a u t e o u s m u s t have been t h e glow, T h e life, t h e sparkling f r o m b e l o w ! F a i r gardens, s h i n i n g streams, with r a n k s Of golden melons on their b a n k s , More golderi where the sun-light f a l l s ; — G a y lizards, glittering on t h e walls

B u t m o r n is b l u s h i n g in t h e s k y ; Again t h e Peri soars above, B e a r i n g t o H e a v ' n t h a t p r e c i o u s sigh Of p u r e , self-sacrificing love. H i g h t h r o b b ' d h e r heart, with h o p e elate, T h e Elysian p a l m she s o o n shall win, F o r t h e b r i g h t Spirit at t h e gate Smil'd as she gave t h a t offering i n ;

Of r u i n ' d shrines, busy and b r i g h t As they were all alive with l i g h t ; And, yet m o r e splendid, n u m e r o u s

flocks

Of pigeons, settling on the rocks, W i t h their rich restless wings, t h a t gleam Variously in t h e crimson beam Of the warm W e s t , — as if inlaid W i t h brilliants f r o m the mine, or m a d e

THOMAS MOORE. O f tearless rainbows, such as span Th'unclouded skies of Peristan. And then the mingling sounds that come, Of shepherd's ancient reed, with hum Of the wild bees of Palestine, Banquetting through the flowery .»•ales; And, Jordan, those sweet banks of thine, And woods, so full of nightingales !

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Impatient fling him down to drink. Then swift his haggard brow he turn'd T o the fair child, who fearless sat, Though never yet liath day-beam burn'd Upon a brow more fierce than t h a t , — Sullenly fierce — a mixture dire, Like thunder-clouds, of gloom and fire; In which the Peri's eye could read Dark tales of many a ruthless deed;

But nought can charm the luckless P e r i ;

The ruin'd maid — the shrine profan'd —

Her soul is sad — her wings are weary —

Oaths broken — and the threshold stain'd

Joyless she sees the Sun look down

With blood of guests! — there written, all,

On that great Temple, once his own,

Black as the damning drops that fall

Whose lonely columns stand sublime,

From the denouncing Angel's pen,

Flinging their shadows from on high, Like dials, which the wizard, Time, Had rais'd to count his ages b y ! Yet haply there may lie conceal'd Beneath those Chambers of the Situ, Some amulet of gems, anneal'd In upper fires, some tablet seal'd With the great name of Solomon, Which, spell'd by her illumin'd eyes, May teach her where, beneath the moon, In earth or ocean, lies the boon, The charm, that can restore so soon An erring Spirit to the skies. Cheer'd by this hope she bends her t h i t h e r ; — Still laughs the radiant eye of Heaven, Nor have the golden bowers of Even In the rich West begun to wither; — When, o'er the vale of Balbec winging Slowly, she sees a child at play, Among the rosy wild flowers singing, As rosy and as wild as they; Chasing, with eager hands and eyes,

Ere Mercy weeps them out again. Yet tranquil now that man of crime ( A s if the balmy evening time Soften'd his spirit) look'd and lay, Watching the rosy infant's play; — Though still, whene'er his eye by chance Fell on the boy's, its lurid glance Met that unclouded, joyous gaze, As torches, that have burnt all night Through some impure and godless rite, Encounter morning's glorious rays. But, hark! the vesper calls to prayer, As slow the orb of daylight sets, In rising sweetly on the air From Syria's thousand minarets! The boy has started from the bed O f flowers, where he had laid his head, And down upon the fragrant sod Kneels, with his forehead to the south, Lisping th'eternal name of God From Purity's own cherub mouth, And looking, while his hands and eyes Are lifted to the glowing skies,

The beautiful blue damsel-flies,

Like a stray babe of Paradise,

That flutter'd round the jasmine stems,

Just lighted on that flowery plain,

Like winged flowers or flying gems: —

And seeking for its home again.

And, near the boy, who tir'd with play Now nestling 'mid the roses lay,

O h ! 'twas a sight—that H e a v ' n — t h a t c h i l d —

She saw a wearied man dismount

A scene, which might have well beguil'd

From his hot steed, and on the brink O f a small imaret's rustic fount

Ev'n haughty Eblis of a sigh F o r glories lost and peace gone b y !

THOMAS MOORE.

350 And how felt he, the wretched Man,

A northern flash or meteor beam —

Reclining there — while memory ran

But well th'enraptur'd Peri knew

O'er many a year of guilt and strife,

'Twas a bright smile the Angel threw

Flew o'er the dark flood of his life,

From Heaven's gate, to hail that tear

Nor found one sunny resting-place,

Her harbinger of glory near!

Nor brought liim back one branch of grace. ' T h e r e was a time,' he said, in mild,

•Joy, joy for ever! my task is done —

Heart-humbled tones — ' t h o u blessed child!

The Gates are pass'd, and Heaven is won!

When, young and haply pure as thou,

O h ! am I not happy? I am, I am —

I look'd and pray'd like thee — but n o w — ' He hung his h e a d — each nobler aim,

T o thee, sweet E d e n ! how dark and sad Are the diamond turrets of Shadukiam,

And hope, and feeling, which had slept

And the fragrant bowers of Amberabad!'

From boyhood's hour, that instant came Fresh o'er him, and he wept — he wept!

'Farewell, ye odours of Earth, that die Passing away like a lover's sigh; — My feast is now of the Tooba Tree,

Blest tears of soul-felt penitence!

Whose scent is the breath of E t e r n i t y ! '

In whose benign, redeeming flow Is felt the .first, the only sense

*

Of guiltless joy that guilt can know.

'Farewell, ye vanishing flowers, that shone In my fairy wreath, so bright and brief; —

'There's a drop,' said the Peri, that down from the moon Falls through the withering airs of June Upon Egypt's land, of so healing a power, So balmy a virtue, that ev'n in the hour T h a t drop descends, contagion dies,

Oh!

what are the brightest that e'er have blown,

T o the Iote-trce, springing by Alla's throne, Whose flowers have a soul in every leaf! Joy, joy for ever! — my task is done — The Gates are pass'd, and Ileav'n is w o n ! '

And health re-animates earth and skies! — O h ! is it not thus, thou man of sin, The precious tears of repentance fall? T h o u g h foul thy fiery plagues within, One heavenly drop hath dispell'd them all!' And now — behold him kneeling there

2) FROM: 'LALLA ROOKH'. — THE FIREWORSHIPPERS. Calm after a Storm. How calm, how beautiful comes on

By the child's side, in humble prayer,

The stilly hour, when storms are gone;

While the same sunbeam shines upon

AVhen warring winds have died away,

The guilty and the guiltless one,

And clouds, beneath the glancing ray,

And hymns of joy proclaim through Heaven

Melt off, and leave the land and sea

The triumph of a Soul Forgiven!

Sleeping in bright tranquillity, — Fresh as if Day again were born,

'Twas when the golden orb had set,

Again upon the lap of Morn ! —

While on their knees they linger'd yet,

AVhen the light blossoms, rudely torn

There fell a light more lovely far

And scattcr'd at the whirlwind's will,

Than ever came from sun or star,

Hang floating in the pure air still,

Upon the tear that, warm and meek,

Filling it all with precious balm,

Dew'd that repentant sinner's cheek.

In gratitude for this sweet calm; —

T o mortal eye this light might seem

And every drop the thunder-showers

THOMAS MOORE. Have left upon the grass and flowers Sparkless, as 'twere that lightning-gem Whose liquid flame is born of them! When, 'stead of one unchanging breeze, There blow a thousand gentle airs, And each a different perfume bears, — As if the loveliest plants and trees Had vassal breezes of their own To watch and wait on them alone, And waft no other breath than theirs: When the blue waters rise and fall, In sleepy sunshine mantling all; And ev'n that swell the tempest Ieavfs Is like the full and silent heaves Of lovers' hearts, when newly blest, Too newly to be quite at rest. Such was the golden hour that broke Upon the world, when Iliuda woke From her long trance, and heard around No motion but the water's sound Rippling against the vessel's side, As slow is mounted o'er the tide. — But where is s h e ? — her eyes are dark, Are wilder'd s t i l l — i s this the bark, The same, that from Ilarmozia's bay Bore her at morn — whose bloody way The sea-dog t r a c k ' d ? — n o — strange and new Is all that meets her wondering view. Upon a galliot's deck she lies. Beneath no rich pavilion's shade, — No plumes to fan her sleeping eyes, Nor jasmine on her pillow laid. But the rude litter, roughly spread With war-cloaks, is her homely bed, And shawl and sasli, on javelius hung, For awning o'er her head are flung. Shuddering she look'd around — there lay A group of warriors in the sun, Resting their limbs, as for that day Their ministry of death were done. Some gazing on the drowsy sea, Lost in unconscious reverie; And some, who secmd' but ill to brook That sluggish calm, with many a look

To the slack sail impatient cast,

351 :

As loose it flagg'd around the mast.

3) LET 'S TAKE THIS WORLD AS SOME WIDE SCENE. L e t ' s take this world as some wide scene, Through which, in frail, but buoyant boat With skies now dark and now serene, Together thou and I must float; Beholding oft, on either shore, Bright spots where wc should love to stay; But Time plies swift his flying oar, And away we speed, away, away! Should chilling winds and rains come on, We'll raise our awning 'gainst the show'r; Sit closer till the storm is gone, And, smiling, wait a sunnier hour. And if that sunnier hour should shine, We'll know its brightness cannot stay, But happy, while 'tis thine and mine, Complain not when it fades away. So shall we reach at last that Fall Down which life's currents all must go, — The dark, the brilliant, destined all To sink into the void below. Nor ev'n that hour shall want its charms If, side bv side, still fond we keep, And calmly, in each other's arms Together link'd, go down the steep.

4) WHEN 'MIDST THE GAY I MEET. When 'midst the gay I meet That blessed smile of thine, Though still on me it turns most sweet, I scarce can call it mine: But when to me alone Your secret tears you show, O h ! then I feel those tears my own, And claim them as they flow.

TBOH&S MOOBE.

892

Then stity with bright look* bled The gay, the cold, the free; Give smiles to those who love you leu, But keep your tears for me. The «QOW on Jura'« iteep Can «mile with many a beam, Tet «till in chain* of colduess sleep. How bright soe'er it seem. But, when some deep-felt ray, Whose touch is fire, appears, O h ! then the smile is warm'd away, And, melting, turns to tears. Then still with bright looks bless The gay, the cold, the free; Give smiles to those who love you less, But keep your tears for me.

5) THOSE EVENING BELLS. Those evening bells! those evening bells! How many a tale their music tells Of youth, and home, and that sweet time, When last I heard their soothing chime. Those joyous hours are past away, And many a heart, that then was gay. Within the tomb now darkly dwells, And hears no more those evening bells. And s o ' t will be when I am gone; That tuneful peal will still ring on, While other bards shall walk these dells, And sing your praise, sweet evening bells!

6) T1S THE LA8T ROSE OF SUMMER. 'Tis the last rose of summer, Left blooming alone; All ber lovely companions Are faded and gone: No flower of her kindred, No rose-bud is nigh, To reflect back her blushes, Or give sigh for sigh.

I'll not leave thee, thon lone one! To pine on the stem; Since the lovely are sleeping, Go, sleep thou with them. Thus kindly I scatter Thy leaves o'er the bed, Where thy mates of the garden Lie scentless and dead. So soon may I follow, When friendships decay, And from Love's shining circle .The gems drop away! When true hearts lie wither'd, And fond ones are flown, O h ! who would inhabit This bleak world alone?

7) GO, LET ME WEEP. Go, let me weep! there's bliss in tears, When he who sheds them, inly feels Some lingering stain of early years Effac'd by every drop that steals. The fruitless showers of worldly woe Fall dark to earth and never rise; While tears that from repentance flow, In bright exhalement reach the skies. Go, let me weep! there's bliss in tears. When he who sheds them, inly feels Some lingering stain of early years Effac'd by every drop that steals. Leave me to sigh o'er hours that flew More idly than the summer's wind, And, while they pass'd, a fragrance threw, But left no trace of sweets behind, — The warmest sigh that pleasure heaves, Is cold, is faint, to those that swell The heart, where pure repentance grieves O'er hours of pleasure lov'd too well! Leave me to sigh o'er hours that flew More idly than the summer's wind, And, while they pass'd, a fragrance threw, But left no trace of sweets behind.

THOMAS MOORE. — LORD BYRON. 8) THOU ART, O GOD. Thou art, o God, the life and light Of all tbi* wondrous world we w e ; It« glow by day, it« «mile by night, Are but reflections caught from Thee. Where'er we turn, tby glories shine, And all things fair and bright are Thine! When Day, with farewell beam, delays Among the opening clouds of Even, And we can almost think we gaze Through golden vistas into Heaven — Those hues, that make the Sun's decline So soft, so radiant, L o r d ! are Tbine. When Night, with wings of starry gloom, O'ershadows all the earth and skies, Like some dark, beauteous bird, whose plume Is sparkling with unnumber'd eyes — That sacred gloom, those fires divine, So grand, so countless, L o r d ! are Thine. When youthful Spring around us breathes, Tby Spirit warms her fragrant sigh,

353

And every flower the Summer wreathe* It bora beneath that kindling eje: Where'er we turn, thy glories shine, And all thing* fair and bright are Thine.

9) HARK! TIS THE BREEZE. Hark! 'tis the Jbreese of twilight calling Earth's weary children to repose; While, round the conch of Nature falling, Gently the night's soft curtains close. Soon o'er a world, in sleep reclining, Numberless stars, through yonder dark, Shall look, like eyes of Cherubs shining From out the veils that hid the Ark. Guard us, oh Thou, who never sleepest, Thou who, in silence throned above, Throughout all time, unwearied, keepest Tby watch of Glory, Pow'r, and Love. Grant that, beneath thine eye, securely, • Our souls, awhile from life withdrawn, May, in their darkness, stilly, purely, Like ' sealed fountains', rest till dawn.

XIL GEORGE GORDON BYRON, geb. am 22. Januar 1788 in London, gest. 19. April 1824 zu Missolunghi. Er war der Enkel des berühmten Admirals gleichen Namens und ward 1798 der Erbe des Ranges und der Guter seines Grosionkels Lord Byron. Seine Mutter trennte sich von ihrem Gatten und erzog ihn bis zu seinem zehnten Jahre in Schottland. Später erhielt er seine Bildung auf der Schule zu Harrow und studirte dann in Cambridge. Nach einem längeren abwechselnden Aufenthalte auf seinem Familiensilze und in London, besuchte er während der Jahre 1809—1811 Portugal, Spanien und Griechenland. Nach England zurückgekehrt gab er die ersten Gesänge seines Childe Harold, so wie mehre seiner kleinen poetischen Erzählungen heraus, die ihm ausserordentlichen Ruhm erwarben. Im Jahre 181-5 vermählte er sich mit Miss Noel, doch war diese Ehe eine unglückliche und es erfolgte sehr bald die Scheidung. B. verliess sein Vaterland von Neuem, lebte erst eine Zeit lang am Genfer See, dann in Venedig, Ravenna, Pisa und Genua; ging 1823 nach Griechenland, um den Hellenen in ihrem Befreiungskampfe beizustehen und starb daselbst i. J. 1824 an einer Gehirnentzündung. Seine gesammelten Werke sind in mehren Auflagen erschienen und vielfach nachgedruckt wurden. Eine der schönsten Ausgaben derselben ist die Murray'sche, in einem Ii. 23

LORD BYRON.

354

Bande, London 1 8 3 7 . Was «eine Leistungen anbetrifft, so beschränken wir um darauf, folgende Aussprüche seines eben so geistreichen als wohlwollenden Landsmannes Allan Cunningkam Uber ihn zusammenzustellen: 'Die edelsten Fähigkeiten waren ihm angeboren. Seine Einbildungskraft kannte keine Grenze, sein Verstand war hell und kräftig, seine ThStigkeit unermüdlich; ein leidenschaftlich reizbarea GemUth und reges Gefühl, kurz alle jene kostbaren Eigenschaften waren sein, welche den kühnsten Aufschwung des Dichters begünstigen. Wie und wann Vieles davon verdorben und beschädigt wurde, kommt vielleicht nie an den Tag. * * * Byron's Poesie hat einen ausserordentlich kühnen Charakter; seine Ideen sind im Allgemeinen neu und überraschend, die Sprache gewaltig und fliessend. Nur mit den eigenen Augen betrachtet er die Natur und verschmäht es mit Anderen zu fühlen. * * * Am Meisten zeichnet er sich in ruhiger Zergliederung des menschlichen Herzens und im Ausdrucke düsterer, entsetzlicher Gefühle aus. Er fesselt nicht durch Liebeszauber, sondern durch den Bannspruch der Furcht. Während wir in unserem Herzen nicht ftlr den dritten Theil der entsetzlichen Dinge ein Echo finden, die er vorbringt, können wir doch nicht von ihm lassen.'

1) FROM: 'THE GIAOUR'. Greece. He who hath bent him o'er the dead Ere the first day of death is fled, The first dark day of nothingness,

*

The last of danger and distress, (Before Decay's effacing fingers Have swept the lines where beauty lingers,) And mark'd the mild angelic air, The rapture of repose that's there, The fix'd yet tender traits that streak The languor of the placid cheek, And — but for that sad shrouded eye, That fires not, wins not, weeps not, now, And but for that chill changeless brow, Where cold Obstruction's apathy Appals the gazing mourner's heart, As if to him it could impart The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon; Yes, but for these and these alone, Some moments, ay, one treacherous hour, He still might doubt the tyrant's power; So fair, so calm, so softly seal'd, The first, last look by death reveal'd! Such is the aspect of this shore: 'Tis Greece, but living Greece no more! So coldly sweet, so deadly fair, We start, for soul is wanting there.

Hers is the loveliness in death, That parts not quite with parting breath; But beauty with that fearful bloom, That hue which haunts it to the tomb, Expression's last receding ray, A gilded halo hoveriDg round decay, The faiTWrll beam of feeling past away! Spark of that flame, perchance of heavenly birth, Which gleams, but warms no more its cherish'«! earth! Clime of the unforgotten brave! Whose land from plain to mountain-cave Was Freedom's home or Glory's grave; Shrine of the mighty! can it be, That this is all remains of thee? Approach thou craven crouching slave: Say, is not this Thermopila:? These waters blue that round you lave, Oh servile offspring of the free — Pronounce what sea, what shore is this? The gulf, the rock of Salamis! These scenes, their story not unknown, Arise, and make again your own; Snatch from the ashes of your sires The embers of their former fires; And he who in the strife expires Will add to theirs a name of fear

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LORD BYRON. That Tyranny «hall quake to bear, And leave his sons a hope, a fame, They too will rather die than shame: For Freedom's battle once begun, Bequeathed by bleeding Sire to Son, Though baffled oft, is ever won. Bear witness, Greece, tby living page, Attest it many a deathless age! While kings, in dusty darkness hid, Have left a nameless pyramid, Thy heroes, though the general doom Hath swept the column from their tomb, A mightier monument command, The mountains of their native land! There points thy Muse to stranger's eye The graves of those that cannot die! 'Twere long to tell, and sad to trace Each step from splendour to disgrace; Enough — no foreign foe could quell Thy soul, till from itself it fell; Yes! Self-abasement pav'd tbe way To villain-bonds and despot-sway.

2) FROM: 'DON JUAN', CANTO I. Julia'» Letter to Don Juan. They tell me 'tis decided; you depart; 'Tis wise — 'tis well, but not the less a pain; I have no further claim on your young heart; Mine is the victim, and would be again; To love too much has been the only art I used; — I write in baste, and, if a stain Be on this sheet, 'tis not what it appears; My eyeballs burn and throb, but have no tears. I loved, I love you, for this love have lost State, station, heaven, mankind's, my own esteem, And yet cannot regret what it bath cost, So dear is still the memory of that dream; Yet, if I name my guilt, 'tis not to boast; None can deem harshlier of me than I deem; I trace this scrawl because I cannot rest— I ' v e nothing to reproach, or to request.

Man's lore is of man's life a thing apart; 'Tis woman'« whole existence; — Man may range The court, camp, church, tbe vessel, and the mart, Sword, gown, gain, glory offer in exchange Pride, fame, ambition, to fill up hit heart, And few there are whom these cannot estrange; Men have all these resources, we but one, — To love again, and be again undone. You will proceed in pleasure and in pride, Beloved, and loving many; all is o'er For me on earth, except some year* to hide My shivne and sorrow deep in my heart'« core; These I could bear, but cannot cast aside The passion which still rages as before; And so farewell — forgive me, love me — No, That word is idle now, but let it go. My breast has been all weakness, is so yet; But still I think I can collect my mind; My blood still rushes where my spirits set, As roll the waves before the settled wind; My heart is feminine, nor can forget— To all, except one image, madly blind; So shakes the needle, and so stands tbe pole. As vibrates my fond heart to my fixed soul. I have no more to say, but linger still. And dare not set my seal upon this sheet; And yet I may as well the task fulfil, My misery can scarce be more complete; I had not lived till now could sorrow kill: Death shuns tbe wretch who fain the blow would meet, And I must e'en survive this last adieu, And bear with life, to love and pray for you!

3) THE DEATH OF HAinijB. (From the tame.) Afric is all the sun's, and as her earth. Her human clay is kindled; full of power

23*

356

LORD BYRON.

For good or evil, burning from it« birth, The Moorish blood partake* the planet'« hour, And, like the toil beneath it, will bring forth: Beauty and love were Haidee's mother'« dower; But ber large dark eye showed deep Passion's force, Though sleeping like a lion near a source. Her daughter, tempered with a milder ray, Like summer clouds all silvery, smooth, and fair, Till slowly charged with thunder, they display Terror to earth and tempest to the air, Had held till now her soft and milky way; But, overwrought with passion and despair, The fire burst forth from her Numidian veins, Even as the simoom sweeps the blasted plains. The last sight which she saw was Juan's gore, And he himself o'ermasted and cut down; His blood was running on the very floor Where late he trod her beautiful, her own; Thus much she viewed an instant and no more— Iler struggles ceased with one convulsive groan; On her sire's arm, which until now scarce held Her writhing, fell she like a cedar felled. A vein had burst, and her sweet lips' pure dyes Were dabbled with the deep blood which ran o'er, And her head drooped as when the lily lies O'ercharged with rain: her summoned handmaids bore Their lady to her couch with gushing eyes; Of herbs and cordials tbey produced their store: But she defied all means they could employ, Like one life could not hold, nor death destroy. Days lay she in that state unchanged, though chill— With nothing livid, still her lips were red;

She had no pulse, but death seemed absent still; No hideous sign proclaimed her surely dead; Corruption came not, in each mind to kill All hope: to look upon her sweet face bred New thoughts of life, for it seem'd full of soul— She had so much, earth could not claim the whole. The ruling passion, such as marble shows When exquisitely chiselled, still lay there, But fixed as marble's unchanged aspect throws O'er the fair Venus, but for ever fair; O'er the Laokoon's all eternal throes. And ever-dying gladiator's air, Their energy like life forms all their fame, Tet looks not life, for they are still the same. She woke at length, but not as sleepers wake, Rather the dead, for life seemed something new; A >lrange sensation which she must partake 1'erfonv, since whatsoever met her view Struck not on memory, though a heavy ache Lay at her heart, whose earliest beat still true Brought back the sense of pain without the cause — For, for a while, the furies made a pause. She luoked on many a face with vacant eye, On many a token, without knowing what; She saw them watch her without asking why, And recked not who around her pillow sat: Not specchless, though she spoke not; not a sigh Relieved her thoughts; dull silence and quick chat Were tried in vain by those who served; she gave No sign, save breath, of having left the grave. Her handmaids tended, but she heeded not; Her father watched, she turned her eye* away; She recognised no being, and no spot, However dear or cherished in their day;

LORD BYRON.

357

They changed from room to room, but all forgot; Gentle, but without memory, she lay: At length those eyes, which they would fain be weaning Back to old thoughts, waked full of fearful meaning.

A parting pang, the spirit from her passed: And they who watched her nearest eould not know The very instant, till the change that cast Her sweet face into shadow, dull and slow, Glared o'er her eyes —the beautiful, the black— Oh, to possess such lustre, and then lack!

And then a slave bethought her of a harp: The harper came and touched his instrument: At the first notes, irregular and sharp, On him her flashing eyes a moment bent; Then to the wall she turned, as if to warp Her thoughts from sorrow through her heart re-sent; And be began a long low island song Of ancient days, ere tyranny grew strong.

Thus lived—thus died she; never more on her Shall sorrow light or shame. She was not made Through years or moons the inner weight to bear, Which colder hearts endure till they are laid By age in earth: her days and pleasures were Brief, but delightful —• such as had not stayed

Anon her thin wan fingers beat the wall In time of bis old tune; he changed the theme, And sung of Love; the fierce name struck through all Her recollection; on her flashed the dream Of wbat she was, and is, if ye could call To be so being: in a gushing stream The tears rushed forth from her o'erclouded brain, Like mountain mists at length dissolved in rain. Short solace, vain relief! thought came too quick, And whirled her brain to madness; she arose As one who ne'er had dwelt among the sick, And flew at all she met, as on her foes; But no one ever heard her speak or shriek, Although her paroxysm drew towards its close; Hers was a frenzy which disdained to rave, Even when they sinoothe her, in the hope to save.

Twelve days and nights she withered thus; at last. Without a groan, or sigh, or glance, to show

Long with her destiny; but she sleeps well By the sea-shore whereon she loved to dwell. That isle is now all desolate and bare, Its dwellings down, its tenants passed away; None but her own and father's grave is there. And nothing outward tells of human clay; Ye could not know where lies a thing so fair; No one is there to show, no tongue to say What was; no dirge, except the hollow sea's, Mourns o'er the beauties of the Cyclades.

4) FROM: 'CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE'. Th* Bvt of Waterloo. There was a sound of revelry by night, And Belgium's capital had gathered then Her Beauty and her Chivalry, and bright The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men; A thousand hearts beat happily: and when Music arose with its voluptuous swell, Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again, And all went merry as a marriage-bell; But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell.'

398

LORD BYRON.

Did ye not beari t ? — N o ; 'twM but the wind, Or the ear rattling o'er the stony street; On with the dance! let joy be nnconfined; No deep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet — But, hark! — that heavy sound breaks in once more, As if the clouds its echo would repeat; And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before! Arm! Arm! it is — it is — the cannon's opening roar. Within a windowed niche of that high ball Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain; he did hear That sound the first amid the festival, And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear; And when they smiled because he deemed it near, His heart more truly knew that peel too well Which stretched his father on a bloody bier, And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell; He rushed into the field, and, foremost, fighting, fell. Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro. And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress. And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness; And there were sudden partings, such as press The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs Which ne'er might be repeated; who could guess If never more should meet those mutual eyes, Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise ? And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed, The mustering squadron, and the clattering car,

Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, And swiftly forming in the ranks of war; And the deep thunder peal on peal afar; And near, the beat of the alarming drum Roused up the soldier ere the morning star; While thronged- the citizens with terror dumb, Or whispering, with white lips—"The foe! They come! they come!' And wild and high t h e ' Cameron's gathering' rose! The war-note of Lochiel, which Albin's bills Have heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon foes: — How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills, Savage and shrill! But with the breath which fills Their mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineers With the fierce native daring which instils The stirring memory of a thousand years, Aod Evan's, Donald's fame riogs in each clansman's ears. And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves, Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pass, Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, Over the unreturning brave, — alas! Ere evening to be trodden like the grass Which, now beneath them, but above shall grow In its next verdure, when this fiery mass Of living valour, rolling on the foe Aud burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low. Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay, The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife, The morn the marshalling in arms — the day Battle's magnificently-stern array ! The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent, The earth is covered thick with other clay,

LOHD BYRON. Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent, Rider and horte, —friend, foe, — i n one red burial blent!

5) THE LAKE OF GENEVA. (Prom the tame.) Clear, placid Leman! thy contrasted lake, With the wild world I dwelt in, is a thing Which warns me, with its stillness, to forsake Garth's troubled waters for a purer spring. This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing To waft me from distraction; once I loved Torn ocean's roar, but thy soft murmuring Sounds sweet as if a sister's voice reproved, That I with stern delights should e'er have been so moved. It is the hush of night, and all between Thy margin and the mountains, dusk, yet clear, Mellowed and mingling, yet distinctly seen, Save darkened Jura, whose capt heights appear Precipitously steep: and drawing near, There breathes a living fragrance from the shore, Of flowers yet fresh with childhood; on the ear Drops tbe light drip of the suspended oar, Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night carol more; He is an evening reveller, who makes His life an infancy, and sings his fill; At intervals, some bird from out the brakes Starts into voice a moment, then is still. There seems a floating whisper on tbe hill, But that is fancy, for the starlight dews All silently their tears of love instil, Weeping themselves away, till they infuse Deep into Nature's breast the spirit of her hues.

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Te atari! which are the poetry of heaven! If in your bright leaves we would read the fate Of men and empires, — 'tis to be forgiven, That in onr aspirations to be great, Our destinies o'erleap their mortal state, And claim a kindred with you; for ye are A beauty and a mystery, and create In us such love and reverence from afar, That fortune, fame, power, life, have named themselves a star. All heaven and earth are still — though not in sleep, , But breathless, as we grow ^ i e n feeling most; And silent, as we stand in thoughts too deep; — All heaven and earth are still: From the high host Of stars, to the lulled lake and mountaincoast, All is concenter'd in a life intense, Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost, But hath a part of being, and a sense Of that which is of all Creator and defence. The sky is changed! — and such a change! Oh night, And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong, Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light Of a dark eye in woman! Far along, From peak to peak, the rattling crags among Leaps the live thunder! Not from one lone cloud, But every mountain now hath found a tongue, And Jura answers, through her misty shroud, Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud. And this is in the night: — most glorious night Thou wert not sent for slumber! let me be A sharer in thy fierce and far delight, — A portion of the tempest and of thee! How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea, And the big rain conies dancing to the earth!

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LOBD BIBON.

And now again 'tia black, — and now, the glee On the load hills shake* with it* mountainmirth, Aa if they did rejoice o'er a young earthquake'« birth.

6) FROM THE: 'HEBREW MELODIES'. She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudleas climes and starry skies; And all that's best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes; Thus mellow'd £> that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies. One shade the more, one ray the less, Had half impair'd the nameless grace Which waves in every raven tress, Or softly lightens o'er her face; Where thoughts serenely sweet express How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, The smiles that win, the tints that glow, But tell of days in goodness spent, A mind at peace with all below, A heart whose love is innocent! *

*

•

If that high world, which lies beyond Our own, surviving love endears; If there the cherish'd heart be found, The eye the same, except in tears — How welcome those untrodden spheres! How sweet this very hour to die! To soar from earth, and find all fears Lost in thy light — Eternity! It must be so: 'tis not for self That we so tremble on the brink; And striving to o'erleap the gulph, Yet cling to being's severing link. O h ! in that future let us think To hold each heart the heart that shares,

With them the immortal waters drink, And soul in soul grow deathless theirs! • * *

Oh! snatch'd away in beauty's bloom, On thee shall press no ponderous tomb; But on thy turf shall roses rear Their leaves, the earliest of the year; And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom : And oft by yon blue gushing stream Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head, And feed deep thought with many a dream, And lingering pause and lightly tread; Fond wretch! as if her step disturb'd the dead! Away; we know that tears are vain, That death nor heeds uor hears distress: Will this unteach us to complain? Or make one mourner weep the less 1 And thou — who tell'st me to forget, Thy looks are wun, thine eyes are wet. * * *

I My soul is dark. — Oh! quickly string | Tbe harp I yet can brook to hear; And let thy gentle fingers fling Its melting murmurs o'er mine ear. { If in this heart a hope be dear. That sound shall charm it forth again; If in these eyes there lurk a tear, 'Twill flow, and cease to burn my brain. ; But bid the strain be wild and deep, Nor let thy notes of joy be first: I tell thee, Minstrel, I must weep, Or else this heavy heart will burst; For it hath been by sorrow nurst, And ached in sleepless silence long; And now 'tis doom'd to know the worst, And break at once — or yield to song. * * *

I saw thee weep — tbe big bright tear Came o'er that eye of blue;

LORD BYRON. And then methought it did appear A violet dropping dew: I taw thee smile — the sapphire'» blaze Betide thee ceaaed to thine; It could not match the living rays That fill'd that glance of thine. As clouds from yonder sun receive A deep and mellow die, Which scarce the shade of coming eve Can banish from the sky« Those smiles unto the moodiest mind Their own pure joy impart; Their sunshine leaves a glow behind That lightens o'er the heart. •

*

*

When coldness wraps this suffering clay, Ah, whither strays the immortal mind? It cannot die, it cannot stay, But leaves its darken'd dust behind. Then, unembodied, doth it trace By steps each planet's heavenly way? Or fill at once the realms of space, A thing of eyes, that all survey? Eternal, boundless, undecay'd, A thought unseen, but seeing all. All, all in earth, or skies display'd, Shall it survey, shall it recal: Each fainter trace that memory holds, So darkly of departed years, In one broad glance the soul beholds, And all, that was, at once appears. Before Creation peopled earth, Its eye shall roll through chaos back; And where the furthest heaven had birth, The spirit trace its rising track. And where the future mars or makes, Its glance dilate o'er all to be, While sun is quench'd or system breaks, Fiz'd in its own eternity. Above our love, hope, hate, or fear, It lives all passionless and pure:

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An age shall fleet like earthly year; Its years as moments shall endure. Away, away, without a wing, O'er all, through all, its thought shall fly; A nameless and eternal thing, Forgetting what it was to die.

7) FARE THEE WELL. Fare thee well! and if for ever, Still for ever, fare thee mU: Even though unforgiving, never 'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel. Would that breast were bared before thee Where thy head so oft hath lain, While that placid sleep came o'er thee Which tbou ne'er canst know again: Would that breast, by thee glanced over, Every inmost thought could show! Then thou wouldst at last discover 'Twas not well to spurn it so. Though the world for this commend thee — Though it smile upon the blow, Even its praises must offend thee, Founded on another's woe — Though my many faults defaced me, Could no other arm be found Than the one which once embraced me, To inflict a cureless wound? Yet, oh yet, thyself deceive n o t ; Love may sink by slow decay, But by sudden wrench, believe not Hearts can thus be torn away: Still thine own its life retaineth — Still must mine, though bleeding, beat; And the undying thought which paineth I s — t h a t we no more may meet These are words of deeper sorrow Than the wail above the dead; Both shall live, but every morrow Wake us from a widow*d bed. And when thou wouldst solace gather, When our child's first accents flow, Wilt thou teach her to say ' F a t h e r ! ' Though his care she must forego?

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LORD BYRON. — PERCY BY8SHE SHELLEY.

When her little hands «hall press thee, When her lip to thine is prest, Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee, Think of him thy love had bless'd? Should her lineaments resemble Those thou never more mayst see, Then thy heart will softly tremble With a pulse yet true to me. All my faults perchance thou knowest, All my msdness none can know; All my hopes, where'er thou goest. Wither—yet with thee they go.

Every feeling hath been shaken; Pride, which not a world could bow, Bows to thee—by thee forsaken, Even my soul forsakes me now: But 'tis done — all words are idle— Words from me are vainer still; But the thoughts we cannot bridle, Force their way without the will. — Fare thee well! — thus disunited, Torn from every nearer tie, Sear'd in heart, apd lone, and blightedMore than this I scarce can die.

xm. PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY, geb. am 4. August 1792 zu Field-Place in Sussex, gest. am 8. Juli 1822 zu Spezzia. Er studirte zu Eton und Oxford und mu98te in Folge einer Schrift Uber die Notwendigkeit des Atheismus, weshalb ihn auch sein Vater verstiess, die Universität verlassen. Er liess sich nun zu Marlow nieder, und vermählte sich; der Kampf mit den Verhältnissen und eine unglückliche Ehe trieben ihn aber aus England fort. Seine Gattin starb 1817 vor Gram. Nach einem kurzen Aufentbalte in Italien, kehrte er in sein Vaterland zurück und verheirathete sich zum zweiten Male, nahm seinen Aufenthalt abermals in Italien (unweit Livorno) und lebte literarischen Beschäftigungen. Eine freundlichere Zukunft lächelte ihm, da ertrank er auf einer Fahrt im Golf von Spezzia, am 8. Juli 1822. Lord Byron liess seine aufgefischte Leiche am Meergestade verbrennen und die Asche in Rom neben der Pyramide des Cestius beisetzen. S. erschienene Werke bestehen aus: ' T h e Revolt of Islam', ein episches Gedicht, ' T b e C e n c i ' , eine Tragödie, 'Prometheus Unbound', ein lyrisches Drama, 'Queen Mab', ein didaktisches Gedicht, gegen dessen nochmalige Veröffentlichung er sieb später erklärte, 'Alastor', ein didaktisches Gedicht, 'AdonBis', eine Elegie auf Keals, 'Hellas', ein lyrisches Drama und Poesieen gemischten Inhaltes. Ausführlicheres über sein Leben findet sich in: 'The Shelley Papers etc.' by T.Medwin; London 1833. 8. besass ungemeine Kenntnisse, tiefen Scharfsinn und viel Geschmack, sowie das glühendste Gefühl für alles Edle und Grosse; aber der Wunsch, seinen pantheistischen Ansichten Bahn zu brechen, liess ihn oft zu weit gehen und so musste er der Menge bald unzugänglich und unverständlich werden, da er selber nicht klar und abgeschlossen in sich war.

1) FROM: 'MONT BLANC.' (Lmtt written in the Vale qf Chanunmi.) The fields, the lakes, the forest, and the streams, Ocean, and all the living things that dwell

Within the daedal earth; lightning, and tain, Earthquake, and fiery flood, and hurricane. The torpor of the year, when feeble dreams Visit the hidden buds, or dreamless sleep Holds every future leaf and flower; — the bound

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.

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With which f r o m i l i a t detested trance they leap;

Upon that mountain; none beholds them there,

The works and ways of man, their death and birth,

Nor when the flakes burn in the sinking sun,

And that of him and all that his may b e ;

Or the star-beams dart through them — winds

All things that move and breathe, with toil and sound, Are born and die, revolve, subside, and swell.

contend Silently there, and heap the snow with breath Rapid and strong, but silently! Its home

Power dwells apart in its tranquillity,

The voiceless lightning in these solitudes

Remote, serene, and inaccessible:

Keeps innocently, and like vapour broods

And this, the naked countenance of earth,

Over the snow. The secret strength of things

On which I gaze, even those primrcval mountains,

Which governs t h o u g h t , and to the infinite

Teach the adverting mind. The glaciers creep, Like snakes, that watch their prey, from their far fountains,

dome Of heaven is as a law, inhabits thee! And what wert t h o u , and e a r t h , and stars, and sea,

Slow rolling o n ; there, many a precipice Frost and the sun, in scorn of mortal power,

If to the human mind's imaginings

Have piled-dome, pyramid, and pinnacle.

Silence and solitude were vacancy?

A city of death, distinct with many a tower And wall impregnable of beaming icc. Yet not ,1 city, but a flood of ruin Is there, t h a t , from the boundaries of the sky, Rolls its perpetual stream; vast pines are strewing Its destined path, or in the mangled soil Branchless and shattered stand; the rocks drawn down From yon remotest waste, have overthrown The limits of the dead and living world, Never to be reclaimed. The dwelling place Of insects, beasts, and birds, becomes its spoil; Their flood and their retreat for ever gone, So much of life and joy is lost. The race Of man flies far in dread: his work and dwelling

2) STANZAS WRITTEN IN DEJECTION, NEAR NAPLES. The sun is warm, the sky is clear, ^ The waves are dancing fast and bright, J31ue isles and snowy mountains wear The purple noon's transparent light. The breath of the moist earth is light. Around its unexpanded b u d s ; Like many a voice of one delight, The winds, the birds, the ocean floods, The city's voice itself is soft, like Solitude's.

Vanish, like smoke, before the tempest's stream, And their place is not known. Below, vast caves Shine in the rushing torrent's restless gleam, Which, from those secret chasms in tumult swelling, Meet in the vale, and one majestic river, The breath aud blood of distant lands, for ever Rolls its loud waters to the ocean waves, Breathes its swift vapours to the circling air. Mont Blanc yet gleams on h i g h : — the power is there,

I see the deep's untrampled floor With green and purple sea-weeds strown; I sec the waves upon the shore, Like light dissolved|in star-showers, thrown; I sit upon the sands alone, The lightning of the noontide ocean Is flashing round me, and a tone Arises from its measured m o t i o n ; IIovv sweet, did any heart now share in my emotion!

The still and solemn power of many sights And many sounds, and much of life and death. In the calm darkness of the moonless nights, In the lone glare of day, the snows descend

Alas! I have nor hope, nor health, Nor peace within, nor calm around, Nor that content, surpassing wealth,

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PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. The sage in meditation found,

And walked with inward glory crowned; Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure. Others I see whom these surround — Smiling they live, and call life pleasure; To me that cup has been dealt in another measure.,

And all the night 'tis my pillow white, While I sleep in the arms of the blast. Sublime on the towers of my skiey bowers Lightning, my pilot, sits; In a cavern under is fettered the thunder, It struggles and howls at fits; Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion,

Yet now despair itself is mild, Even as the winds and waters a r e ; I could lie down like a tired child, And weep away the life of care, Which I have borne, and yet must bear, Till death like sleep might steal on me, And I might feel in the warm air My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony. Some might lament that I were cold, As I, when this sweet day is gone, Which my lost heart, too soon grown old, Insults with this untimely m o a n ; They might lament — for I am one Whom men love n o t ; and yet regret, Unlike this day, which, when the sun Shall on its stainless glory set, Will linger, though enjoyed, like joy in memory yet.

This pilot is guiding me, Lured by the love of the genii that move In the depths of the purple sea; Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills, Over the lakes and the plains, Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream, The Spirit he loves, remains; And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile, Whilst he is dissolving in rains. The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes, And his burning plumes outspread, Leaps on the back of my sailing rack, When the morning star shines dead, As on the jag of a mountain crag, Which an earthquake rocks and swings, An eagle alit, one moment may sit In the light of its golden wings; And when sunset may breathe from the lit sea beneath, Its ardours of rest and of love, And the crimson pall of eve may fall From the depth of heaven above,

3) THE CLOUD. I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers,

With wings folded I rest on mine airy nest, As still as a brooding dove.

From the seas and the streams; I bear light shade for the leaves when laid In their noonday dreams. From my wings are shaken the dews that waken The sweet birds every one, When rocked to rest on their mother's breast, As she dances about the sun. I wield the flail of the lashing hail, And whiten the green plains u n d e r ; And then again I dissolve it in rain, And laugh as I pass in thunder.

That orbed maiden with white fire laden, Whom mortals call the moon, Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor, By the midnight breezes strewn; And wherever the beat of her unseen feet, Which only the angels hear, May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof, The stars peep behind her and peer; And I laugh to see them whirl and flee, Like a swarm of golden bees,

I sift the snow on the mountains below. And their great pines groan a g h a s t ;

When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent, Till the calm river, lakes, and seas,

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high, Are each paved with the moon and these. I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone, And the moon's with a girdle of pearl; The volcanoes are dim, and the star* reel and swim, When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl. From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape, Over to torrent sea, Sunbeam proof, I hang like a roof, The mountains its columns be. The triumphal arch through which I march, With hurricane, fire, and snow, When the powers of the air are chained to my chair, Is the million-coloured bow; The sphere-fire above, its soft colours wove, While the moist earth was laughing below. I am the daughter of the earth and water, And the nursling of the sky; I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores; I change, but I cannot die. For after the rain, when, with never a stain, The pavilion of heaven is bare, And the winds and sunbeams, with their convex gleams, Build up the blue dome of air, I silently laugh at my own cenotaph, And out of the caverns of rain, Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb, I rise and upbuild it again.

4) TO A SKYLARK. Hail to thee, blithe spirit! Bird thou never wert, That from heaven, or near it, Pourest thy full heart In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. Higher still, and higher, From the earth thou springest

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Like a cloud of fire; The blue deep thou wingest, And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever, •ingest. In the golden lightening Of the sunken sun, O'er which clouds are brightening, Thou dost float and run, Like an unbodied joy whose race is jnat begun. The pale purple even Melts around thy flight; Like a star of heaven. In the broad daylight Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight Keen as are the arrows Of that silver sphere, Whose intense lamp narrows In the white dawn clear, Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there. All the earth and air With thy voice is loud, As, when night is bare, From one lonely cloud The moon rains out her beams, and-heaven is overflowed. What thou art we know not; What is most like thee? From rainbow clouds there flow not Drops so bright to see, As from thy presence showers a rain of melody. Like a poet hidden In the light of thought. Singing hymns unbidden, Till the world is wrought To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not: Like a high-born maiden In a palace tower, Soothing her love-laden

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PERCY BY8SHB SHELLEY.

Soul in secret hour With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower:

What shapes of sky or plain? What love of thine own kind ? what ignorance of pain?

Like a glow-worm golden In a dell of dew. Scattering nnbeholden Its aerial hue Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view:

With thy clear keen joyance Languor cannot be: Shadow of annoyance Never came near thee: Thou lovest; but ne'er knew love's sad satiety.

Like a rose embowered In its own green leaves, By warm winds deflowered, Till the scent it gives Makes faint with too much sweet these heavywinged thieves. Sound of vernal showers On the twinkling grass, Rain-awakened flower«, All that ever was Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass. Teach us, sprite or bird, What sweet thoughts are thine; I hive never heard Ptaise of love or wine That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine. Chorus hymeneal, Or triumphal chant, Matched with thine would be all But an empty vaunt— A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want. What objects are the fountains Of thy happy strain? What fields, or waves, or mountains?

Waking or asleep, Thou of death must deem Things more true and deep Than we mortals dream, Or bow could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream? We look before and after, And pine for what is not: Our sincerest laughter With some pain is fraught: Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought. Yet if we could scorn Hate, and pride, and fear; If we were things born Not to shed a tear, I know not how thy joy we ever could come near. Better than all measures Of delight and sound, Better than all treasures That in books are found, Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground! Teach me half the gladness That thy brain must know, Such harmonious madness From my lips would flow, The world should listen then, as I am listening now.

Mrs. FELICIA HEMANS.

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IV. MHS FELICIA HEMANS, die Tochter eines Kaufmannns irischer Abkunft, Nament Browne, wurde zu Liverpool am 21. September 1793 geboren. Der Bankerott ihres Vater« veranlasste die Familie, sieh nach Wales zurückzuziehen, wo sie jene Liebe zur Natur einsog, die sich in allen ihren Werken ausspricht. Von Kindheit an schricb sie Verse und schon im 15. Jahre gab sie einen Band Gedichte heraus. Im 18. Jahre verheirathete sie sich mit dem Capitftn Hemmu; ihre Ehe war aber eine unglückliche. Sechs Jahre splter ging ihr Gemahl aas Gesundheitsrücksichten nach Italien, und — obschon nicht förmlich geschieden — iahen sie sich doch niemals wieder. Sie widmete sich in St. Asaph in Nord-Wale» der Erziehung ihrer fünf Kinder, sowie der Literatur. Wahrend eines Besuches bei ihrem Bruder, dem Major Browne, in Dublin, starb sie am 16. Mai 1835. Ihre Todesstunde war ein rOhrendes Bild christlicher Ergebung und Hoflnung. — Scott sagte von ihr, sie habe zu viele Blilthen im Verb'altniss zu den Früchten; doch ist Mrs. H. jedenfalls die Bedeutendste unter den neuem englischen Dichterinnen: zarte Empfindung, wahre Frömmigkeit, reiche Phantasie und treffliche, wohllautende Sprache zeichnen ihre Gedichte aus. Ausser vielen vermischten Gedichten ' Domestic affections'; ' The Lays of many L a n d s ' Hymns for Childhood', veröffentlichte sie mehre grössere Dichtungen: 'The Sceptic'; ' T h e Vespers of Palermo', a Tragedy; ' T h e Forest Sanctuary'; 'Records of Woman'; ihr 'Restoration of the Works of Art in Italy' und ihr 'Modern Greece' erwarben sich den ungetheilten Beifall Byron's; in 'Wallace' und 'Dartmoor' trug sie den von der Royal Society of Literature im J. 1821 ausgesetzten Preis davon.

1) THE VOICE OF SPRING. I come, I come! ye have called me long, I come o'er the mountains with light and song; Ye may trace my step o'er the wakening earth, By the winds which tell of the violefs birth. By the primrose stars in the shadowy grass. By the green leaves opeuiug as I pass. 1 have breathed ou the South, and the chestnut-flowers By thousands have burst from the forest-bowers: And the ancient graves, and the fallen fanes, Are veiled with wreaths on Italian plains. But it is not for me, in my hour of bloom, To speak of the ruin or the tomb! I have passed o'er the hills of the stormy North, And the larch has hung all his tassels forth, The fisher is out on the suniiy sea, And the reindeer bounds through the pasture free,

And the pine has a fringe of softer green, And the moss looks bright where my step ha* been. I have sent through the wood-paths a gentle sigh, And called out each voice of the deep-blue sky, From the night bird's lay through the starry time. In the groves of the soft Hesperian clime, To the swan's wild note by the Iceland lakes, When the dark fir-bough info verdure breaks. From the streams and founts I have loosed the chain; They are sweeping on to the silvery main, They are flashing down from the mountainbrows, They are flinging spray on the forest boughs, They are bursting fresh from their sparry caves, And the earth resounds with the joy of wave«. Come forth, O ye children of gladness, come! Where the violet* lie may now be your home.

MM. IBL1CIA HEMANS.

968

T e o f the row-cheek and dew-bright eye,

Solemn, yet sweet, the church-bell's chime Floats through their woods at morn;

And the bounding footstep, to meet me fly; With the lyre, and the wreath, and the joyous

All other sounds, in that still time, O f breeze and leaf are born.

i»y. Come forth to the sunshine, I may not stay.

The cottage Home« of England! By thousands on her plains.

Away from the dwellings o f careworn men, T h e waters are sparkling in wood and glen;

They are smiling o'er the silvery brooks, And round the hamlet-fanes.

Away from the chamber and dusky hearth, The young leaves are dancing in breezy mirth;

Through glowing orchards forth they peep,

Their light stems thrill to the wild-wood strains, And Youth is abroad in my green domains.

Each from its nook of leaves, And fearless there the lowly sleep. And the bird beneath their eaves.

The summer is hastening, on soft winds borne, Y e may press the grape, ye may bind the corn;

The free, fair Homes of England! Long, long, in hut and hall,

For me I depart to a brighter shore — Y e are marked by care, ye are mine no more.

May hearts of native proof be reared

I go where the loved who have left you dwell,

T o guard each hallowed wall!

And the flowers are not Death's — fare ye well,

And green for ever be the groves, And bright the flowery sod.

farewell!

Where first the child's glad spirit loves Its country and its God! 2)

THE HOMES OF ENGLAND.

The stately Homes of England,

3 ) A FATHER READING THE BIBLE.

How beautiful they stand!

'Twas early day, and sunlight streamed

Amidst their tall ancestral trees,

Soft through a quiet room,

O'er all the pleasant land.

That hush'd, but not forsaken, seem'd,

The deer across their greensward bound Through shade and sunny gleam, And the swan glides past them with the sound O f some rejoicing stream.

'

Still but with nought of gloom. For there, serene in happy age, Whose hope is from above, A father communed with the page

The merry Homes of England!

O f Heaven's recorded love.

Around their hearths by night, What gladsome looks of household love Ueet in the ruddy light! There woman's voice flows forth in song, Or childhood's tale is told, Or lips move tunefully along Some glorious page o f old.

Pure fell the beam, and meekly bright, On bis grey holy hair, And touched the page with tenderest light, As if its shrine were there! And oh! that patriarch's aspect shone With something lovelier far — A radiance all the spirit's own,

The blessed Homes of England!

Caught not from sun or star.

How softly on their bowers Is laid the holy quietness T h a t breathes from Sabbath-hours!

Some word of life e'en then had met His calm benignant eye;

Mm. FELICIA HEMANS. Some ancient promise, breathing yet Of immortality! Some martyr's prayer, wherein the glow Of quenchless faith survives: While every feature said: — ' I know That my redeemer lives!'

And, through the long, long summer-hours, Will he not come again V ' And by the brook, and in the glade. Are all our wanderings o'er? O h ! while my Brother with me play*d,

Would I had heed him more!' And silent stood his children by, Hushing their very breath. Before the solemn sanctity Of thoughts o'ersweeping death. Silent — yet did not each young breast With love and reverence melt? Oh! blest be tbese fair girls, and blest That home where God is felt!

4) THE CHILD'S FIRST GRIEF. ' Ob! call my Brother back to me! ] cannot play alone: The summer comes with flower and bee — Where is my Brother gone ?' ' The butterfly is glancing bright Across the sunbeam's track; I care not now lo cbase its flight — Oh! call my Brother back!' ' The flowers run wild — the flowers wc sovv'd Around our garden tree; Our vine is drooping with its load — Oil! call him back to uie!' " H e could not hear thy voice, fair child, He may not come to thee; The face that once like spring-time smiled Od earth no more thou'lt see." " A rose's brief bright life of joy, Such unto him was given; Go — tbou must play alone, my boy, Thy Brother is in Heaven !" 'And bas be left his birds and flowers, And must I call in vain ? IL

369

5) THE HOUR OF PRATER. Child, amidst the flowers at play, While the red light fades away; Mother, with thy earnest eye, Ever following silently; Father, by the breeze of eve, Called thy harvest-work to leave; Pray! — ere yet the dark hours be, Lift the heart and bend the knee. Traveller, in the stranger's land, Far from thine own household band; Mourner, haunted by the tone Of a voice from this world gone: Captive, in whose narrow cell Sunshine hath not leave to dwell; Sailor, on the darkening sea, Lift the heart and bend the knee. Warrior, that from battle won, Breathest now at set of sun; Woman, o'er the lowly slain, Weeping on his burial plain! Ye that triumph, ye that sigh, Kindred by one holy tie: Heaven's first star alike ye see — Lift the heart and bend the knee.

6) THE HOME OF THE SPIRIT. Answer me, burning stars of night, Where is the spirit gone, That past the reach of human sight, As a swift breeze hath flown? 24

Bin. FELICIA HEMANS.

370

And the «tan answer'd me: 'We roll In light and power on high; But of the never-dying soul A»k that which cannot die.' O many-toned and chainlet* wind, Thou art a wanderer free; Tell me if thou it* place canst find, Far over mount and sea? And the wind murmur'd in reply: ' The blue deep I have cross'd, And met its barks and billows high, But not what thou bast lost.' Ye clouds that gorgeously repose Around the setting sun, Answer: Have ye a home for those Whose earthly race is run ? The bright clouds answer'd: ' We depart, We vanish from the sky; Ask what is deathless in thy heart, For that which cannot die.' Speak, then, thou voice of God within, Thou of the deep low tone; Answer me through life's restless din — Where is the spirit flown ? And the voice answer'd: ' Be thou still, Enough to know is given, Clouds, winds, and stars their part fulfil; Thine is to trust in Heaven.'

Bring flower* to strew in the conqueror's path, He hath shaken throne* in hi* stormy wrath! He comes with the spoil* of nations back, The vines lie crushed in hi* chariot'* track, The turf looks red, where he won the day — Bring flowers — to die in the conqueror's way. Bring flowers to the captive's lonely cell; They have tales of the joyous woods to tell. Of the free blue streams, and the glowing sky, And the bright world shut from his languid eye, They will bear him a thought of the sunny hours, And a dream of his youth — bring flowers, wild flowers. Bring flowers , fresh flowers, for the bride to wear, They were born to blush in her shiniiig bair; She is leaving the house of her childhood's mirth, She hath bid farewell to her father's hearth, Her jilacc is now by another's side — Bring flowers for the locks of the fair young bride.

7) BRING FLOWERS.

Bring flowers, pale flowers o'er the bier to shed; A crown for the brow of the early dead ! For this through its leaves hath the white rose burst, For this in the woods was the violet nurs'd! Though they smile in vain for what once was ours, They are love's last gift — bring ye flowers, pale flowers.

Bring flowers, young flowers, for the festal board, To wreathe the cup, where the wine is pour'd, Bring flowers! They are springing in wood and vale, Tin ir breath floats out on the silent gale, Anil the touch of the sunbeam bath waked the rose, T.. .Ink the hall, where the bright wine flows.

Bring flower* to the shrine where we kneel in prayer, They are nature's offering, their place is there ! They speak of hope to the fainting heart, With a voice of promise they come and part, They sleep in dust through the wintry hours, They break forth in glory — bring flowers, bright flowers!

371

JOHN KEATS.

XV. JOHN KEATS, geb. am 29. October 1796 zu London, war der Sohn eine« Lohnkutscber», erhielt aber eine gute Erziehung und kam zu einem Wnndarate in die Lehre. Er blieb jedoch nicht lange bei ihm: eine kleine Erbschaft setzte ihn in den Stand, (ich einer literarischen Thltigkeit zu widmen. Durch seine Jugendgedichte, welche 1817 erschienen, wurde er mit Leigh Hunt bekannt und befreundet. Sein im folgenden Jahre herausgegebener 'Endymion, a Poetic Romance' wurde aber im Quarterly Review von Gifford auf so ungerechte und selbst böswillige Weise beurtbeilt, dass der kränkliche Dichter dadurch aufs Heftigste erschüttert wurde. Er ging nach Italien, um seinem Brustleiden Einhalt tu thun, starb aber zu Rom am 27. December 1820, in den Armen seines treuen Freundes Severn, eines jungen Malers, der durch die unermüdlichste Pflege des Dichters s6in eignes Leben in die grOsste Gefahr brachte. Ausser dem 'Endymion' besitzen wir von K, noch ein Fragment: 'Hyperion 1 ; ferner 'Lamia'; 'Isabella'; ' T h e Eve of St. Agnes' und vermischte Gedichte, welche alle viel günstiger aufgenommen wurden. Byron sagt vom 'Hyperion' — 'that it seems actually inspired by the Titans.' Shelley beklagt den Verlust seines Freundes in der Elegie 'Adonais.' Als Shelley's Leichnam im Meerbusen von Spezzia gefunden wurde, war ein Band von Keats' Gedichten aufgeschlagen in seiner Tasche. — ' His writings' — sagt ein Kritiker von K. — 'are fervid but untrained, full of luxuriant descriptions of nature, and bright with noble pictures of classical mythology.'

1) FROM: 'HYPERION'. Saturn and Thea. Deep in the shady sadness of a vale Far sunken from the healthy breath of morn, Far from the fiery noon, and eve's one star, Sat gray-haired Saturn, quiet as a stone, Still as the silence round about his lair; Forest on forest hung about his head Like cloud on cloud. No stir of air was there. Not so much life as on a summer's day Robs one light seed from the feathered grass, But where the dead leaf fell, there did it rest. A stream went voiceless by, still deadened more By reason of his fallen divinity Spreading a shade: the Naiad 'mid her reeds Pressed her cold finger closer to her lips. Along the margin sand large footmarks went No further than to where his feet had strayed, And slept there since. Upon the sodden ground His old right hand lay nerveless, listless, dead, Unsccptered; and his realmless eyea were closed;

While his bowed head seemed listening to the earth. His ancient mother, for some comfort yet. It seemed no force could wake him from his place; But there came one, who with a kindred hand Touched his wide shoulders, after bending low With reverence, though to one who knew it not. She was a goddess of the infant world; By her a stature the tall Amazon Had stood a pigmy's height: she would have ta'en Achilles by the hair, and bend his neck; Or with a finger stayed Ixion's wheel. Her face was large as that of Memphian sphinx, Pedestaled haply in a palace court, When sages looked to Egypt for their lore. But oh! bow unlike marble was that face! How beautiful, if sorrow had not made Sorrow more beautiful than Beauty's self! There was a listening fear in her regard, As if calamity had but begun; As if the vonward clouds of evil days

24»

372

JOHN KBAT8.

Had spent their malice, and the sullen rear Was, with its stored thunder, labouring up. One hand she pressed upon that aching spot Where beats the human heart, as if just there, Though an immortal, she felt cruel pain; The other upon Saturn's bended neck She laid, and to the level of his ear Leaning with parted lips, some words she spake In solemn tenor and deep organ tone; Some mourning words, which in our feeble tongue Would come in these like accents — O ! how frail, To that large utterance of the early gods! — ' Saturn, look up! though wherefore, poor old king! I cannot say, " O wherefore sleepest thou?" For heaven is parted from thee, and the earth Knows thee not thus afflicted for a god; And ocean, too, with all its solemn noise, Has from thy sceptre passed, and all the air Is emptied of thine hoary majesty. Tby thunder, conscious of the new command, Tumbles reluctant o'er our fallen house; And thy sharp lightning in unpractised hands Scorches and burns our once serene domain. O aching time! O moments big asyears! All, as ye pass, swell out the monstrous truth, Anil press it so upon our weary griefs That unbelief has not a space to breathe. Saturn, sleep on! O, thoughtless, why did I Thus violate thy slumbrous solitude? Why should I ope tby melancholy eyes? Saturn, sleep on! while at thy feet I weep.' At when, upon a tranced summer night, Those green-robed senators of mighty woods, Tall oaks branch-charmed by the earnest stars, Dream, and so dream all night without a stir, Sa\e from one gradual solitary gust Which comes upon the silence, and dies off. As if the ebbing air hsd but one wave; So came these words and went.

2) ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE. My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains One minute past, and Lethe-wards bad sunk: 'Tis not through envy of tby happy lot But being too happy in thy happiness, That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees, In some melodious plot Of beecben green, and shadows numberless, Singest of summer in full-throated ease. O for a draught of vintage, that hath been Cooled a long age in the deep-delved earth, Tasting of Flora and the country green, Dancc and Provencal song and sun-burnt mirth! O for a beaker full of the warm south, Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, With beaded bubbles winking at the brim* And purple-stained mouth; That I might ilrink and leave the world unseen, And with tbee fade away into the forest dim: Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget What tbou among the leaves hast never known, The weariness, the fever, and the fret Here, where men sit and bear each other groan; Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs, Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies; Where but to think is to be full of sorrow And leaden-eyed despairs; Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow. Away! away! for I will fly to thee Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, But on the viewless wings of Poesy, Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:

JOHN KEATS. — THOMAS HOOD. Already with t h e e ! tender is the night, And haply the queen-moon is on her throne

373

P e r h a p s the self-same s o n g that found a path T h r o u g h the sad heart o f R u t h , when, sick for h o m e ,

Clustered around by all her starry f a y s ;

She stood in tears amid the alien c o r n ;

B u t here there is no light,

T h e same that ofttimes hath

Save what from heaven is with the breezes

Charmed mflgic c a s e m e n t s ,

blown m o s s y ways. I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, Nor what soft incense hangs upon the b o u g h s , B u t , in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet

opening on the foam

T h r o u g h verdurous b l o o m s and winding

O f perilous s e a s , in fairy lands forlorn. F o r l o r n ! the very word is like a bell T o toll me back from thee to my sole self! A d i e u ! the fancy cannot cheat so well

Wherewith the seasonable m o n t h endows

As she is famed to do, deceiving elf.

T h e grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;

Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades

W h i t e hawthorn, and the pastoral e g l a n t i n e ; Fast-fading violets covered up in l e a v e s :

P a s t the near meadows, over the hill-stream, Up the h i l l - s i d e ; and now 'tis buried deep In the next valley's g l a d e s :

And mid-May's eldest child, T h e coming musk-rose, full o f dewy-wine, T h e murmurous haunt o f flies on summer

W a s it a vision or a waking d r e a m ? F l e d is that m u s i c : — do I wake or sleep?

eves. Darkling I l i s t e n ; and for many a time

3)

I have been half in love with easeful D e a t h , Called him soft names in many a mused rhyme, T o take into the air my quiet b r e a t h ; Now more than ever seems it rich to die, T o cease upon the midnight with no pain, While thou

art pouring forth

thy soul

abroad

T H E HUMAN S E A S O N S .

F o u r seasons fill the measure o f the y e a r ; T h e r e are four seasons in the mind o f m a n : He has his lusty Spring, when fancy clear T a k e s in all beauty with an easy s p a n : H e has his S u m m e r , when luxuriously Spring's

honied

cud

o f youthful thought he loves

I n such an e c s t a c y ! S t i l l wouldst thou s i n g , and I have ears in vain — T o thy high requiem b e c o m e a sod.

T o ruminate, and by such dreaming nigh Is nearest unto h e a v e n : quiet coves His soul has in its Autumn, when his wings He furleth c l o s e ; contented so to look

T h o u wast n o t born for death, immortal b i r d !

O n mists in idleness — to let fair things

N o hungry generations tread thee d o w n ;

P a s s b y unheeded as a treshold b r o o k .

T h e voice I hear this passing night was heard In ancient days by emperor and c l o w n :

H e has his W i n t e r too o f pale misfeature, O r else he would forego his mortal nature.

XVI. THOMAS H00D, der S o h n eines Buchhändlers, wurde 1 7 9 8 zu L o n d o n geboren.

E r erhielt eine vortreffliche

Erziehung, erlernte die Kupferstecherkunst, widmete sich a b e r bald ausschliesslich der S c h r i f t stellerei, als er sah, welch' günstige Aufnahme die E r z e u g n i s s e seiner Muse beim

Publikum

THOMAS HOOD.

374 fanden.

E r schrieb anfangs f ü r Zeitschriften, gab aber dann Almanache, Sammlungen von

Gedichten, u. s. w. heraus, welche sämmtlich mit dem grössten Beifall aufgenommen wurden, u. A. ' W h i m s and Oddities', «The Comic Annual', ' I l o o d ' s Own'.

E r starb i m ( J . 1 8 4 4 :

seine letzten Stunden wurden durch die Nachricht erheitert, dass die Königin seiner Wittwe eine Pension aussetzen werde. sagt ein Kritiker von ihm.

' W h o has not laughed with laughter-loving T h . H o o d ? ' —

' B u t wit was not his only quality: he possessed sterling bene-

volence and genial philanthropy.

H e could twist our language into every comical shape of pun

and quibble; but he could also move the best feelings of our nature by genuine tenderness and compassion. The flesh creeps as his reader follows him step by step over his ' H a u n t e d H o u s e ' or through the windings of remorse in the mind of " E u g e n e Aram." The " E l m T r e e " is full of pregnant feeling, and numbers of his smaller pieces are stamped with the purest characters of poetry: all must remember the excitement produced by his " S o n g of the Shirt".

1) THE DREAM OF EUGENE AUAM. 'Twas in the prime of summer tide, An evening calm and cool,

For the peace of his soul he read that book In the golden eventide: Much study had made him very lean, And pale and Ieaden-ey'd.

And four and twenty happy boys Came bounding out of school: There were some that ran, and some that leapt, Like troutlets in a pool.

At last he shut the ponderous tome, With a fast and fervent grasp He strained the dusty covers close, And fix'd the brazen h a s p :

Away they sped with gamesome minds, And souls untouched by sin,

' Oh, God! could I so close my mind, And clasp it with a clasp!'

T o a level mead they came, and there They drave the wickets in: Pleasantly shone the setting sun Over the town of Lynn.

Then leaping on his feet upright, Some moody turns he took, — Now up the mead, then down the mead, And past a shady nook, —

Like sportive deer they couvs'd about, And shouted as they r a n , —

And lo! he saw a little boy T h a t pored upon a book!

Turning to mirth all things of earth As only boyhood can: But the Usher sat remote from all, A melancholy m a n !

' My gentle lad, what i s ' t you read — Romance or fairy fable? Or is it some historic page, Of kings and crowns u n s t a b l e ? '

His hat was off, his vest apart, T o catch heaven's blessed breeze;

The young boy gave an upward glance,— ' It is the death of Abel.'

For a burning thought was in his brow, And his bosom ill at ease: So he lean'd his head on his hands, and read The book between his knees!

The Usher took six hasty strides, As smit with sudden pain, — Six hasty strides beyond the place, Then slowly back again:

Leaf after leaf, he turn'd it o.'er, Nor ever glanc'd aside,

And down he sat beside the lad, And talk'd with him of Cain;

THOMAS HOODAnd, long since then, of bloody men, Wbote deeds tradition » v e x ; Of lonely folk cat off unseen, And hid in sadden graves; Of horrid stabs, in graves forlorn, And murders done in caves;

375

There was a manhood in bis look That murder could not kill!' 'And l o ! the universal air Seemed lit with ghastly flame, Ten thousand thousand dreadful eyes Were looking down in blame;

And how the sprites of injured men

I took the dead man by his hand,

Shriek upward from the sod, — Ay, how the ghostly band will point,

And call'd upon his name!'

To shew the burial clod; And unknown facts of guilty acts Are seen in dreams from God!

' Oh, God! it made me quake to see Such sense within the slain! But when I touch'd the lifeless clay. The blood gush'd out amain!

He told how murderers walk the earth Beneath the curse of Cain, — With crimson clouds before their eyes

For every clot, a burning spot

And flames about their brain: For blood has left upon their souls Its everlasting stain.

' My head was like an ardent co%l,

'And well,' quoth he, ' I know for truth,

A dozen times I groan'd; the dead

Was scorching in my brain!'

My heart as solid ice; My wretched, wretched soul I knew Was at the Devil's price;

Their pangs must be extreme,— Woe, woe, unutterable woe, — Who spill life's sacred stream ! For why ? Methought last night, I wrought A murder, in a dream!' ' One that had never done me wrong, A feeble man and old; I led him to a lonely field, The moon shone clear and cold; Now here, said I, this man shall die, And I will have his gold!' 'Two sudden blows with a rugged stick, And one with a heavy stone, One hurried gash with a basty knife, And then the deed was doue: There was nothing lying at my foot « But lifeless flesh and bone!' ' Nothing but lifeless That could not do And yet I feared him For lying there so

flesh and bone, me ill! all the more, still;

Had never groan'd but twice.' 'And now from forth the frowning sky, From the Heaven's topmost height, I heard a voice—the awful voice Of the blood-avenging sprite: — " Thou guilty man! take up the dead, And hide it from my sight! " ' I took the dreary body up, And cast it in a stream, — A sluggish water, black as ink, The depth was so extreme: — My gentle Boy, remember, this Is nothing but a dream!' 'Down went the corse with a hollow plunge, And vanish'd in the pool; Anon I cleans'd my bloody hands, And wash'd my forehead cool, And sat among the urchins young That evening in the School.' Oh, Heaven! to think of their white souls, And mine so black and grim!

376

THOMAS HOOD.

I could not «bare in childish prayer. Nor join in evening hymn: Like a Devil of the Fit I seem'd 'Mid holy Cherubim!' 'And peace went with them, one and all, And each calm pillow spread; But Guilt waa my grim Chamberlain, That lighted me to bed, And drew my midnight curtains round, With fingers bloody-red!' 'All night I lay in agony, In anguish dark and deep; My fever'd eyes I dared not close, But stared aghast at Sleep: For Sin had render'd unto her The keys Of Hell to keep!' 'All night I lay in agony From weary chime to chime, With one besetting horrid hint That rack'd me all the time: A mighty yearning, like the first Fierce impulse unto crime!' ' One stern tyrannic thought, that made All other thoughts its slave; Stronger and stronger every pulse Did that temptation crave, — Still urging me to go and see The Dead Man in his grave!'

'With breathless speed, like a soul in chaer, I took him np and ran; — There was no time to dig a grave Before the day began; In a lonesome wood, with heaps of leaves, I hid the murderM man.' 'And all that day I read in school, But my thought was otber-wbere; As soon as the mid-day task was done, In secret I was there; And a mighty wind had swept the leavei, And still the corse was bare!' ! ' Then down I cast me on my face, | And first began to weep; | For I knew my secret then was one That earth refused to keep; Or land or sea, thought he should be Ten thousand fathoms deep.' 'So wills the fierce avenging Sprite, Till blood for blood atones! j Ay, though he's buried in a cave, | And trodden down with stones, And years have rotted off his flesh, — The world shall see bis bones!' j ' Oh, God! that horrid, horrid dream ' Besets me now awake! Again—again, with dizzy brain, The human life I take; ! And my red right hand grows raging ho: j Like Cranmer's at the stake.'

' Heavily I rose up, as soon As light was in the sky, And sought the black accursed pool With a wild misgiving eye; And I saw the Dead in the river-bed For the faithless stream was dry!'

I 'And still no peace for the restless clay ! Will wave or mould allow; | The horrid thing pursues my soul — It stands before me now!' : The fearful Boy look'd up, and saw j Huge drops upon his brow.

' Merrily rose the lark, and shook The dew-drop from its wing; But I never mark'd its morning flight, I never heard it sing: For I was stooping once again Under the horrid thing.'

| That very night, while gentle sleep The urthin eyelids kiss'd, Two stern-faced men set out from Lynn, Through the cold and heavy mist; And Eugene Aram walked between, With gyves upon his wrist.

THOMAS HOOD. — MARY HOW1TT.

3W

Thy father's pride and hope! 2) A PARENTAL ODE TO MY SON, AGED (He'll break the mirror with that skipping-rope!) THREE YEARS AND FIVE MONTHS. I With pure heart newly stamped from nature's Thou happy, happy elf!

mint,

(But atop — first let me kiss away that tear) Thou tiny image of myself! (My love, he's poking peas into his ear!) Thou merry, laughing sprite! With spirits feather light, Untouched by sorrow, and unsoiled by sin, (Good heavens! the child is swallowing a pin!) Thou little tricksy Puck! With antic toys so funnily bestuck, Light as the singing bird that wings the air, (The door! the door! he'll tumble down the stair!) Thou darling of thy sire! (Why, Jane, he'll set his pinafore afire!)

(Where did he learn that squint?) Thou young domestic dove! (He'll have that jug off with another shove!) Little epitome of m a n ! (He'll climb upon the table, that's hi* plan!) Touched with the beauteous tints of dawning life, (He's got a knife!) Thou enviable being! No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky foreseeing, Play on, play on, My elfin J o h n !

Thou imp of mirth and j o y ! In love's dear chain so strong and bright a link,

Toss the light ball — bestride the stick, (I knew so many cakes would make bim sick!) With fancies buoyant as the thistle-down, Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk

Thou idol of thy parents (Drat the boy! There goes my ink!)

With many a lamb-like frisk, (He's got the scissors, snipping at your gown!)

Thou cherub — but of earth; Fit playfellow for Fays by moonlight pale, In harmless sport and mirth, (That dog will bite him if be pulls its tail!) Thou human humming-bee, extracting honey From every blossom in the world that blows, Singing in youth's Elysium ever sunny, (Another tumble — that's his precious nose!)

XVII.

MARY

Thou pretty opening rose! (Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose!) Balmy, and breathing music like the south, (He really brings my heart into my mouth!) Fresh as the morn, and brilliant as its star, (I wish that window had an iron bar!) Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove, (I'll tell you what, my love, I cannot write, unless he's sent above!)

H0W1TT,

aus einer Qu&kerfamilie stammeud, wurde im J. 1806 zu Coleford in Gloucestershire geboren. Im 21. Jahre vermählte sie sich mit dem ebenfalls als Schriftsteller bekannten William Howitt und lebte mit ihrem Gemahle in den letztern Jahren längere Zeit in Deutschland, namentlich in Heidelberg. Sie ist besonders durch ihre äusserst glückliche Nachahmung altenglischer Balladen bekannt. ' T h e Forest Minstrel' erschien 1 8 2 3 ; ' T h e Seven Temptations, a Series of Dramatic Poems' 1 8 3 4 ; ferner: 'Sketches of Natural History', ' T a l e s in Verses' (Jugendschriften), u. s. w. Die reiche Phantasie„ die wahre Frömmigkeit und die Anmuth der Darstellung, welche in ihren Gedichten herrschen, werden ihr stets eine ehrenvolle Stelle unter den Dichterinnen Englands sichern.

378

MABY HOWITT. 1) AN OLD MAM'S STORY.

There * u an old and quiet man, And by the fire sat be: 'And now,' he said, ' t o you I'll tell A ditmal thing, which once befell In a ship upon the sea. 'Tit five-and-fifty years gone by, Since, from the river Plate, A young man, in a home-bound ship, I sailed as second mate. She was a trim, stout-timbered ship, And built for stormy seas, A lovely thing on the wave was she, With her canvass set so gallantly Before a steady breeze. For forty days, like a winged wind, She went before the gale, Nor all that time we slackened speed, Turn'd helm, or alter'd sail. She was a laden argosy Of wealth from the Spanish main. And the treasure boards of a Portuguese Returning home again. An old and silent man was he, And bis face was yellow and lean; In the golden land of Mexico A miner he bad been. His body was wasted, bent, aud bowed And amid his gold he lay; Amid iron chests that were bound with brass. And he watched them night and day. No word he spoke to any on board, And his step was heavy and slow; And all men deemed that an evil life He had led in Mexico. But list ye me — on the lone high seas, As the ship went smoothly on,

It chanced, in the silent, second watch, I sat on the deck alone; And I heard, from among those iron chests, A sound like a dying groan. I started to my feet, and, lo! The captain stood by m e ; And he bore a body in his arms, And dropped it in the sea. I beard it drop into the sea, With a heavy, plashing sound, And I saw the captain's bloody hands. As he quickly turned him round; And he drew in his breath when me he saw, Like one convulsed, whom the withering awe Of a spectre doth astound. But I saw his white and palsied lips, And the stare of his ghastly eye, When he turned in hurried baste away,— Yet he had no power to fly; He was chained to the deck with his heavy guilt. And the blood that was not dry. ' 'Twas a cursed thing,' said I, ' t o kill That old man in bis sleep! And the plagues of the storm will come from him, Ten thousand fathoms deep! And the plagues of the storm will follow us, For Heaven his groans hath heard!' Still the captain's eye was fixed on me, — But he answer'd never a word. And he slowly lifted his bloody hand, His aching eyes to shade; But the blood that was wet did freeze his soul, And he shrinked like one afraid. And even then — that very hour The wind dropped, and a spell Was on the ship, — was on the sea; And we lay for weeks, how wearily, Where the old man's body fell.

HART HOWITT. I told no one within the ship That horrid deed of tin; For I saw the hand of Ood at work, And punishment begin. And when they spoke of the murdered man, And the El Dorado hoard, They all surmised he had walked in dreams, And had fallen over board. But I, alone, and the murderer, That dreadful thing did know, How he lay in his sin — a murdered man, A thousand fathom low. And many days, and many more Came on, and lagging sped; And the heavy waves of that sleeping sea Were dark, like molten lead. And not a breeze came, east or west, And burning was the sky; And stifling was each breath we drew Of the air so hot and dry. Oh me! there was a smell of death Hung round us night and day; And I dared not look in the sea below Where the old man's body lay. In his cabin, alone, the captain kept, And he bolted fast the door; And up and down the sailors walked, And wish'd that the calm was o'er. The captain's son was on board with us, — A fair child, seven years old, With a merry look, that all men loved, And a spirit kind and bold. I loved the child, — and I took his band, And made him kneel, and pray That the crime, for which the calm was sent, Might be purged clean away. For I thought that God would bear his prayer, And set the vessel free;

379

For a dreadful thing it was to lie Upon that charnel sea. Yet I told him not wherefore he prayed, — Nor why the calm was sent; I would not give that knowledge dark To a soul, so innocent. At length I saw a little clond Arise in that sky of flame; A little cloud, — but it grew, and grew, And blackened as it came. And we saw the sea beneath its track Grow dark as the frowning sky; And water-spouts, with a rushing sound, Like giants, passed us by. And all around, 'twixt sky and sea, A hollow wind did blow; And the waves were heaved from the ocean's depths, And the ship rocked to and fro. I knew it was that fierce death calm Its horrid hold undoing; And I saw the plagues of wind and »torm Their missioned work pursuing. There was a yell in the gathering winds, A groan in the heaving sea; And the captain rushed from the hold below» But he durst not look on me. He seized each rope with a madman's haste, And he set the helm to go; And every sail he crowded on As the furious winds did blow. And away they went, like autumn leaves Before the tempest's rout; And the naked masts with a crash came down, And the wild ship tossed about The men to spars and splintered boards Clung, till their strength was gone; And I saw them from their feeble hold Washed over, one by one.

380

MART HOWITT.

And 'mid the creaking timber's dio, And tbe roaring of the tea, I heard the dismal, drowning criei Of their Iatt agony. There was a curie in the wind that blew, — A curse in the boiling wave; And the captain kuew that vengeance came From the old man's ocean grave.

A steady wind from the west did blow, And drove us gently on. And on we drove, and on we drove. That fair young child and I ; But bis heart was as a man's in strength, And be uttered not a cry.

And I heard him say, as be sat apart, In a hollow voice and low, " T i s a cry of blood doth follow us, And still doth plague us so!'

There was no bread within the wreck, And water we bad none; Yet be murmured not, and cheered me When my last hopes were gone: But I saw him waste, and waste away, And his rosy cheek grow wan.

And then those heavy iron chests, With desperate strength took he, And ten of tbe strongest mariners Did cast them into the sea.

Still on we drove, I knew not where, For many nights and days; We were too weak to raise a sail, Had there been one to raise.

And out from the bottom of the sra, There came a hollow groan; Tbe captain by the gunwale stood, And he looked like icy stone, — And he drew in his breath with a gasping sob, And a spasm of death came on.

Still on we went, as tbe west wind drove, On, on, o'er the pathless tide; And I lay in a sleep, 'twixt life and death, And the child was at my side.

And a furious boiling wave rose up, With a rushing, thundering roar; I saw the captain fall to the deck, — But I never saw him more.

And it chanced, as we were drifting on Amid the great South Sea, An English vessel passed us by, That was sailing cheerily; Unheard by me, that vessel bailed And asked what we migbt be.

Two days before, when the storm began, We were forty men and five; But ere tbe middle of that night Tbere were but two alive.

The young child at the cheer rose up, And gave an answering word, — And they drew him from the drifting wreck As light as is a bird.

The child and 1, we were but two, And be clung to me in fear; O b ! It was pitiful to see That meek child in bis misery, And bis little prayers to hear!

They took bim gently in their arms, And put again to sea: ' Not yet! not yet!' he feebly cried, 'There was a man with me.'

At length, as if his prayers were heard, 'T was calmer, — and anon The clear sun shone, and warm and low,

Again unto the wreck they came, Where, like one dead, I lay, And a ship-boy small had strength enough To carry me away.

MART

Howrrr.

381

Oh, joy it was when sense returned. That fair, warm ship to see; . And to hear the child within his bed Speak pleasant words to me!

'And what did you hear, my Mary, All up on the Caldon-Hill?' ' I heard the drop* of the water made, And the green corn ears to fill.'

I thought at first that we bad died, And all our pains were o'er, And in a blessed ship of Heaven Were sailing to its shore.

' Oh, tell me all, my Mary — All, all that ever you know; For you must have seen the fairies, Last night on the Caldon-Low.'

But they were human forms that knelt Beside our bed to pray; And rfen, with hearts most merciful, Did watch us night and day.

'Then take me on your knee, mother, And listen, mother of mine: A hundred fairies danced last night, And the harpers they were nine.

'Twas a dismal tale I bad to tell, Of wreck and wild distress; But, even then, I told to none The captain's wickedness. For I loved the boy, and 1 could not cloud His soul with a sense of sbame; 'Twere an evil thing, thought I, to blast A sinless orphan's name! So he grew to be a man of wealth, And of honourable fame. And in after years when be had ships, I sailed with him the sea, And in all the sorrows of mv life He was a son to me; And God hath blessed him every where With a great prosperity.'

2) THE FAIRIES OF THE CALDON-LOW. 'And where have you been, my Mary, And where have you been from me?' ' I've been to the top of the Caldon-Low, The Midsummer night to see!' 'And what did you see, my Mary, All up ou the Caldon-Low?' ' I saw the blithe sunshine come down, And I saw the merry winds blow.'

1

And merry was the glee of the harp-strings, And their dancing feet so small; But, oh, the sound of their talking Was merrier far than all!'

| 'And what were the words, my Mary, That you did hear tbem say ?' ; 'I'll tell you all, my mother— i But let me have my way! | And some they played with the water, And rolled it down the hill; "And this," tbey said, "shall speedily turn : j Tbe poor old miller's mill; For there has been no water Ever since the first of May; And a busy man shall tbe miller be By the dawning of tbe day! Oh, the miller, how be will laugh, When he sees tbe mill-dam rise! The jolly old miller, bow he will laugh, | Till tbe tears fill both his eyes!" I J And some they seized the That sounded over tbe And each put a hom into And blew so sharp and

little winds hill. his mouth, shrill: —

"And there," said they, " the merry wiada go, Away from every horn;

382

BUKT HOWITT.

And those «ball dear the mildew dank From the blind old widow'« corn: Ob, the poor, blind old widow — Though »he baa been blind so long, She'll be merry enougb when the mildew's gone, And the corn stands stiff and strong 1" And some they brought the brown lintseed, And flung it down from the Low — "And this," said they, " by the sunrise, In the weaver's croft shall grow! Ob, the poor, lame weaver, How will he laugh outright, When he sees his dwindling flax-field AU full of flowers by n i g h t ! " And then upspoke a brownie, With a long beard on his chin— " I have spun up all the tow," said he, "And I want some more to spin. I've spun a piece of hempen cloth, And I want to spin another — A little sheet for Mary's bed, And an apron for her mother! And with that I could not help but laugh, And 1 laughed out loud and free; And then on the top of the Caldon-Low There was no one left but me.

And down by the weaver's croft I stole. To see if the flax were high; But I saw the weaver at his gate With the good news in his eye! Now, this is all I heard, mother, And all that I did see; So, prithee, make my bed, mother, For I'm tired as I can b e ! '

3) MOUNTAIN CHILDREN. Dwellers by lake and hill! Merry companions of the bird and bee! Go gladly forth and drink of joy your fill, With unconstrained step and spirits free! No crowd impedes your way, No city wall impedes your further bounds; Where the wild flock can wander, ye may stray The long day through, 'mid summer sights and sounds. The sunshine and the flowers, And the old trees that cast a solemn shade; The pleasant evening, the fresh dewy hours, And the green hills whereon your fathers played.

And all, on the top of the Caldon-Low, The mists were cold and gray, And nothing I saw but the mossy stones That round about me lay.

The gray and ancient peaks Round which the silent clouds hang dny and night; And the low voice of water as it makes, Like a glad creature, murmuriugs of delight.

But, as I came down from the hill-top, I heard, afar below, How busy the jolly miller was, And how merry the wheel did go!

These are your joys! Go forth — Give your hearts up unto their mighty power; For in his spirit God has clothed the earth, And speaketh solemnly from tree and flower.

And I peeped into the widow's field; And, sure enough, was seen The yellow ears of the mildewed com All standing stiff and green.

The voice of bidden rills Its quiet way into your spirits finds; And awfully the everlasting hills Address you in their many-toned winds.

MARY HOWITT. — Ye sit upon the earth Twining it* flower*, and shouting full of glee; And a pure mighty influence, 'mid your mirth, Moulds your unconscious spirit silently. Hence is it that the lands Of storm and mountain have the noblest sons; Whom the world reverences. The patriot bands Were of the hills like you, ye little ones! Children of pleasant song Are taught within the mountain solitudes; For hoary legends to your wilds belong, And yours are haunts where inspiration broods. Then go forth — earth and sky To you are tributary; joys are spread Profusely, like the summer flowers that lie In the green path, beneath your gamesome tread!

4) THE MONKEY. (From Sketch«» of Natural History J Monkey, little merry fellow, Thou art Nature's Punchinello; Full of fun as Puck could be — Harlequin might learn of tbec! In the very ark, no doubt, You went frolicking about;

SD TENNYSON.

383

Never keeping in your mind Drowned monkeys left behind! Have you no traditions — none, Of the court of Solomon? No memorial how ye went With Prince Hiram's armament? Look now at him! — slyly peep; He pretends he is asleep; Fast asleep upon bis bed, With bis arm beneath his head. Now that posture is not right, And he is not settled quite; There! that's better than before — And the knave pretends to snore! Ha.' he is not half asleep; See, he slyly takes a peep. Monkey, though your eyes were shut, You could see this little nut. You shall have it, pigmy brother! What, another! and another! Nay, your cheeks are like a sack — Sit down, and begin to crack. There the little aucient man Cracks as fast as crack he can! Now good-by, you merry fellow, Nature's primest Punchinello.

XVIII. ALFRED TEMYSON, gegen Anfang dieses Jahrhunderts geboren, ist der Sohn eines Geistlichen in Lincolnshire, studirte zu Cambridge, bat aber seitdem zurOckgezogeu gelebt. 1830 veröffentlichte er einen Band Gedichte, die jedoch ungünstig aufgenommen wurden: dennoch liess er 1832 einen z w e i t e n — 'Poems chiefly lyrical' — folgen, welche dasselbe Schicksal theilten. Erst 1843 erschien eine neue Sammlung seiner Gedichte, welche jetzt entschiedenen Beifall fanden, so dass sie bereits durch mehre Auflagen gegangen sind. Später gab er ' The Princess, a Medley' und 1850 anonym Gedichte heraus unter dem Titel: ' I n Memoriam.' — T. ist ohnstreitig der erste unter den jetzt lebenden Lyrikern. Wenn ihm auch Gesucht-

38«

ALPRKD TENNYSON.

hcit in B i l d e n und Unsicherheit in der Zeichnung seiner Charaktere vorgeworfen werden, so zeichnet er aich doch wieder durch Oberaus reiche Phantasie und höchst wohltönenden Vers aus.

Ein neuerer Kritiker sagt von ihm:

1

His mind is richly stored with objects which

he invests sometimes with the sunny mists of Coleridge , sometimes with the amiable simplicity of Wordsworth, or the palpable distinctness of Hood.' — Mehre seiner besten Gedichte hat FreXgratk

in den 'Englischen Gedichten aus der neuern Zeit', Stuttgart 1 8 4 6 ,

vortrefflich

übertragen.

1) FROM: ' T H E LADY GODIVA.' She sought her lord, and found him where he stood About the hall, among his dogs, alone. * * * * She told him of their tears, And prayed h i m , ' If they pay this t a x , they starve.' Whereat he stared, replying, half-amazed, ' You would not let your little finger ache For such as these!" ' B u t I would die,' said she. He laughed, and swore by Peter and by Paul, Then fillipped at the diamond in her ear: ' Oh ay, oh ay, you t a l k ! ' ' A l a s ' ' she said, ' B u t prove me what it is I would not do.' And from a heart as rough as Esau's hand, He answered, ' Ride you naked through the town, And I repeal i t ; ' and nodding, as id scorn, He parted. * * So, left alone, the passions of her mind — As winds from all the compass shift and blow — Made war upon each other for an hour, Till pity won. She sent a herald forth, And bade him cry, with sound of trumpet, all The hard condition; but that she would loose The people. Therefore, as they loved her well From then till noon no foot should pace the street, No eye look down, she passing; but that all Should keep within, door s h u t , and window barred. Then fled she to her inmost bower, and there Unclasped the wedded eagles of her belt, The grim earl's g i f t ; but ever at a breath She lingered, looking like a summer moon Half dipt in cloud: anon she shook her head

And showered the rippled ringlets to her knee; Unclad herself in haste; adown the stair Stole o n ; and, like a creeping sunbeam, slid From pillar unto pillar, until she reached The gateway; there she found her palfrey trapped In purple, blazoned with armorial gold. Then she rode forth, clothed o'er with chastity; The deep air listened round her as she rode, And all the low wind hardly breathed for fear. The little wide-mouthed heads upon the spouts Had cunning eyes to see : the barking cur Made her check flame: her palfrey's footfall shot Light horrors through her pulses: the blind walls Were full of chinks and holes; and overhead Fantastic gables, crowding, stared: but she Not less through all bore up, till last she saw The white-flowered cider thicket from the field Gleam through the Gothic archways in the wall. Then she rode back clothed on with chastity; And one low churl, compact of thankless earth, The fatal byword of all years to come, Boring a little auger hole in fear, Peeped; but his eyes, before they had their will. Were shrivelled into darkness in his head, And dropped before him. So the powers, who wait On noble deeds, cancelled a sense misused; And she that knew not, passed; and all at once, With twelve great shocks of sound, the shameless noon W a s clashed and hammered from a hundred towers One after o n e ; but even then she gained

ALFRED TBMOTBON. Her bower: whence reitsuing, robed and crowned, To meet her lord, she took the tax away, And built herself an everlasting name.

2) MARIANA. ' Mariana m the moated grange.' — Measure far ¡feature. With blackest moss the flower-plots Were thickly crusted, one and all; The rusted nails fell from the knots That held the peach to the garden wall. The broken sheds looked sad and strange, Unlifted was the clinking latch, Weeded and worn the ancient thatch Upon the lonely moated grange; She only said, ' My life is dreary, He cometh not,' she said; She said, ' I am aweary, aweary,— I would that I were dead!' Her tears fell with the dews at even, Her tears fell ere the dews were dried; She could not look on the sweet heaven, Either at morn or eventide. After the flitting of the bats, When thickest dark did trance the sky, She drew her casement curtain by, And glanced athwart the glooming flats. She only said, ' The night is dreary, He cometh not,' she said; She said, ' I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead!' Upon the middle of the night, Waking, she heard the night-fowl crow: The cock sung out an hour ere light; From the dark fen the oxen's low Came to her: without hope of change, In sleep she seemed to walk forlorn, Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed morn About the lonely moated grange. She only said, ' The day is dreary, He cometh not,' she said; u.

385

She said, ' I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead!' About a atone-east from the wall, A sluice with blackened waters slept, And o'er it many, round and small, The clustered marish-mosses crept Hard by a poplar shook alway, All silver-green with gnarled bark, For league^jio other tree did mark The level waste, the rounding gray. She only said, 'My life is dreary, He cometh not,' she said; She said, ' I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead!' And ever when the moon was low, And the shrill winds were up and away, In the white curtain, to and fro, She saw the gusty shadow sway. But when the moon was very low, And wild winds bound within their cell, The shadow of the poplar fell Upon her bed, across her brow. She only s a i d , ' The night is dreary, He cometh not,' she said; She said, ' I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead!' All day within the dreamy house,. The doors upon their hinges creaked; The blue fly sung i' the pane; the mouse Behind the mouldering wainscot shrieked. Or from the crevice peered about. Old facea glimmered through the doors, Old footateps trod the upper floors, Old voices called her from without. She only said, ' My life is dreary, He cometh not,' she said; She 8aid,' I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead!' The sparrows's chirrup on the roof, The alow cloqk ticking, and the sound Which to the wooing wind aloof The poplar made, did all confound 25

386

ALFRED TENNYSON. — ROBERT BURNS.

Her sense; bat most «be loathed the hour When the thick-moted sunbeam lay Athwart the chamber«, and the day Waa doping toward hi« western bower. Then, said «he, ' I am very dreary, He will not come,1 ihe «aid; She wept, 'I am aweaiy, aweary, Oh, God, that I were dead!'

3) THE GOLDEN TEAR. We «Ieep and wake and sleep, but all things move; The sun flies forward to his brother sun; The dark earth follows, wheeled in ber ellipse, And human things returning on themselves, Move onward, leading up the golden year. Ab, though the times, when some new thought can bud, Are but as poets' seasons when they flower, Yet seas that daily gain upon the shore, Have ebb and flow conditioning their march, And slow and sure comes up the golden year.

When wealth no more shall rest in mounded heaps, But smit with freer light, shall slowly melt In many streams to fatten lower lands, And light shall spread, and man be liker man Through all the season of the golden year. Shall eagles not be eagles ? wrens be wrens ? If all the world were falcons, what of that? The wonder of the eagle were the less, But he not less the eagle. Happy days, Roll onward, leading up the golden year! Fly, happy, happy sails, and bear the Press; Fly, happy with the mission of the Cross: Knit land to land, and blowing havenward With silks, and fruits, and spices, clear of toll, Enrich the markets of the golden year. But we grow old. Ah, when shall all men's good Br each man's rule, and universal peacc Lie like a shaft of light across the land, AuJ like a lane of beams athwart the sea, Through all (lie circle of the golden year?

SCHOTTISCHE DICHTER. I. ROBERT BURNS, wurde am 25. Januar 1759 zu Alloway in der Nähe von Ayr von armen Eltern geboren. Zur ländlichen Arbeit angehalten, erhielt er doch etwas Unterricht; die Beknnntschaft mit einigen englischen Dichtern und besonders die romantischen Sagen seiner Heimath ntthrten seine Liebe zur Poesie. Von Jugend an fühlte er einen unwiderstehlichen Drang zum Dichten, 'his passions' — sagt er selbst — 'raged like so many devils, tili quenched in the stream of his verse.' Er gerieth aber auch in Kreise, wo er den Versuchungen zu Zerstreuungen und Ausschweifungen nicht widerstehen konnte. Eine Pachtung, welche Robert mit seinem Bruder Gilbert nach dem Tode ihres, in Mangel und Noth gestorbenen Vaters unternahmen, hatte keinen Erfolg und B. fasste nun den Eutschluss, nach Westindien auszuwandern. Um Geld zur Reise zu erhalten, liess er, 1786, in dem Städtchen KiWarnok seine Gedichte drucken, die mit der grössten Begeisterung aufgenommen wurden. Im Begriff sich einzuschiffen, erhielt er eine Einladung nach Edinburg, um eine neue Auflage zu veranstalten, wo er von Vornehmen und Gelehrten mit Enthusiasmus empfangen wurde; er blieb jedoch ohne nachhaltige Unterstützung und kehrte mit dem Ertrage der Edinburger

387

ROBERT BURNS. Ausgabe seiner Gedichte

(sie

verheirathete sieb mit Miss eines A c c i s e b e a m t e n , Dumfriesshire.

soll ihm l. 9 0 0 eingebracht h a b e n ) in

Armour

die er

—

seinen F r e u n d e n

E s wollte aber

die H e i m a t h

'Bonnie Jean' — und ü b e r n a h m ,

zurück,

n e | e n d e r Stelle

v e r d a n k t e , die F a r m Elliesland a m Nith in

a u c h hier n i c h t vorwärts geben u n d er s a h sich genötbigt,

die P a c h t u n g n a c h ein P a a r J a h r e n

wieder aufzugeben.

Seine H o f f n u n g auf Beförderung

im A m t e wurde ebenfalls g e t ä u s c h t ; sein ungeregeltes L e b e n , seine frilbern satirischen Ausfalle gegen die königl. Familie u n d hindernd

im W e g e .

a m 2 1 . Juli 1 7 9 6

zu Dumfries in

Schulden zu hinterlassen. welche m a n

dem

zu Theil. '— Bs.'

seine unklugen

Unterdessen war

Bs.'

politischen j e u x - d ' e s p r i t

Gesundheit u n t e r g r a b e n

der grössten

Armuth,

aber

standen

dem

worden u n d er

starb

doch

ohne

einen Pfennig

Die T r a u e r seines Vaterlandes war a l l g e m e i n ; die Unterstützung,

unglücklichen Gedichte,

Dichter

versagte,

wurde der Familie

im reichen Maasse

von denen seit 1 8 0 0 über h u n d e r t Auflagen erschienen sind

und von denen wir auch einige gelungene deutsche U e b e r t r a g u n g e n besitzen, (v.

Kauffmann,

Stuttg. 1 8 4 0 ,

'Political

von Heintze,

Braunschw. 1 8 4 0 )

bestehen i n : ' E p i s t l e s ' ; ' S a t i r e s ' ;

Jeux-d'esprit'; ' T h e Twa D o g s ' ; ' H a l l o w e ' e n ' ; ' T h e C o t t a r ' s S a t u r d a y N i g h t ' ; ' T h e V i s i o n ' ; ' T h e Jolly B e g g a r s ' ; ' T o m o' S l i a u t e r ' , Gellingenste gehalten wird.

welches letztere

U n t e r den zahlreichen Biographien von B. die besten. —

von

allen

engl. Kritikern

filr das

Ausserdem hiDterliess er eine sehr u m f a n g r e i c h e Korrespondenz. sind

die von Currie,

Lockhart

W i r beschliessen diese Notizen mit einem Urtheile Chambers'

' B. had little or n o technical knowledge of luusic.

und

Cunningham

ü b e r d e n Dichter.

Whatever pleasure h e derived from i t , was

t h e result of personal a s s o c i a t i o n s — t h e words to which airs were a d a p t e d , or the locality with which they were connected.

His whole soul, however, was full of t h e finest h a r m o n y .

So quick

and genial were his s y m p a t h i e s , that ho was easily stirred into lyrical melody by whatever was g o o d and beautiful in nature.

Not a bird sang in a bush, n o r a b u r n glanced in the s u n , b u t it

was eloquence and music to his e a r .

H i s feelings took the shape of s o n g and the words fell as

naturally into their places as if p r o m p t e d by the most perfect knowledge of music. feeling needed n o artificial a c c o m p a n i m e n t .

T h e inward

An attempt at a larger p o e m would have chilled

his a r d o u r : b u t a song embodying some one leading i d e a , some b u r s t of p a s s i o n , l o v e , patriotism, or h u m o u r , was exactly suited to the impulsive nature of his genius, and to his situation a n d circumstances. * * T h e arch h u m o u r , gaiety, simplicity, and genuine feeling of his original s o n g s will be felt as long as 'rivers

roll and woods are green.'

T h e y b r e a t h e t h e n a t u r a l character

and spirit of t h e country, and must be coeval with it in existence.

W h e r e v e r t h e words are

chanted, a picture is presented tu t h e mind anil whether t h e tone be plaintive and sad, or joyous a n d exciting, one overpowering feeling takes possession of t h e imagination.

T h e susceptibility

of t h e p o e t inspired him with real e m o t i o n s and passions, and his genius reproduced t h e m with t h e glowing w a r m t h aud t r u t h of n a t u r e . '

1) T H E COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. (Said to be a faithful

picture of the household

of Burns' father.)

I | ,

T h e toil-worn Cotter frae his labour goes, T h i s night his weekly moil is at an end, Collects his spades, his m a t t o c k s , a n d his hoes,

November chill blaws loud wi' a n g r y s u g h ;

H o p i n g the mchrn in ease and rest to

T h e s h o r t ' n i n g winter-day is n e a r a close ;

spend.

T h e miry b e a s t s retreating frae t h e p l e u g h ; i

A n d , w e a r y , o'er t h e m o o r , his course does

T h e b l a c k ' n i n g trains o' craws t o their repose ;

1

bameward bend.

25»

388

ROBERT BURNS.

At length his lonely cot appears in view,

Those strains that once did sweet in Zion

Beneath the shelter of an aged t r e e ; T h ' e x p e c t a n t wee-things, toddlin',

stacher

thro',

glide, He wales a portion with judicious care; And ' L e t us worship G o d ! ' he says, with so-

T o meet their dad, wi' flichterin' noise an'

lemn air.

glee. His wee bit ingle, blinkin' bonnily,

They chant their artless notes in simple

His clean hearth-stane, his thriftie wifie's smile,

guise; They tune their hearts, by far the noblest

The lisping infant prattling on his knee, Does a' his weary carking cares beguile,

aim: Perhaps ' Dundee's' wild-warbling measures

An' makes him quite forget his labour an' his toil.

rise, Or plaintive

'Martyrs,'

worthy of the name;

Belyve, the elder bairns come drapping in, At service out, amang the farmers r o u n ' : Some ca' the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin

Or noble ' E l g i n ' beets theheav'n-wardflame, The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays: Compar'd with these, Italian trills are t a m e ; The tickl'd ears no heart-felt raptures raise;

A cannie errand to a neebour town:

Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise.

Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown, In youthfu' b l o o m , love sparkling in her e'e,

The priest-like father reads the sacred page, How Abram was the friend of God on

Comes hame, perhaps, to shew a braw new

high; Or, Moses bade eternal warfare wage

gown, Or deposit her sair-won penny-fee, T o help her parents dear, if they in hardship be.

W i t h Amalek's ungracious progeny: Or how the royal bard did groaning lie Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging

Wi' joy unfeign'd, brothers and sisters meet, An' each for other's weelfare kindly spiers: The social-hours, swift-wing'd,

unnotic'd,

fleetj

ire; Or Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry; Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire; Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre.

Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears; The parents, partial, eye their hopeful y e a r s ; Anticipation forward points the view. The mother, wi' her needle an' her shears, Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the new; — The father mixes a' wi' admonition due. * * *

T h e cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face, They, round the ingle, form a circle wide; The sire turns o'er, wi' patriarchal grace, The big ha'-bible, ance his father's pride; His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside, His lyart haflets wearing thin an' bare;

Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme, How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed; How H e , who bore in Heav'n the second name, Had not on earth whereon to lay his head: How his first followers and servants sped, The precepts sage they wrote to many a land: How he, who lone in Patmos banished, Saw in the sun a mighty angel s t a n d ; And heard great Bab'Ion's doom pronounc'd by Heav'n's command.

R O B E R T BURNS. T h e n kneeling d o w n , t o H e a v e n ' s eternal King, T h e s a i n t , the f a t h e r , and the h u s b a n d prays:

T h o u need n a start awa sae hasty, W i ' bickering b r a t t l e ! I wad be laitb t o rin' an' chase thee, W i ' m u r d ' r i n g pattle!

H o p e ' s p r i n g s exulting on t r i u m p h a n t wing,' T h a t thus they all shall meet in f u t u r e days: T h e r e ever bask in uncreated rays, N o m o r e to sigh or shed t h e bitter tear,

I'm truly sorry m a n ' s dominion H a s b r o k e n n a t u r e ' s social u n i o n , An' justifies t h a t ill opinion W h i c h m a k e s thee startle

T o g e t h e r h y m n i n g their C r e a t o r ' s praise,

At me, thy p o o r earth-born c o m p a n i o n ,

In such society, yet still more d e a r ;

An' fellow-mortal!

W h i l e circling time moves r o u n d in an eternal sphere. *

* *

T h e n homeward all take off their sev'ral way; T h e youngling c o t t a g e r s retire to r e s t : T h e parent-pair their secret h o m a g e pay, And proffer up to H e a v ' n the warm request, T h a t He, who stills t h e rav'n's clam'rous nest, And decks the lily fair in flow'ry pride, W o u l d , in the way H i s wisdom sees the best, F o r t h e m and for their little ones p r o v i d e ; B u t , chiefly, in their h e a r t s with grace divine preside. *

*

I d o u b t na, whyles, b u t t h o u m a y t h i e v e ; W h a t t h e n ? poor beastie, thou m a u n live A daimen-icker in a thrave 's a sma' r e q u e s t : I'll get a blessin' wi' t h e lave, And never m i s s ' t ! T h y wee bit housie, too, in r u i n ! Its silly wa's the win's are s t r e w i n ' ! An' naething, now, to big a new ane, O ' foggage g r e e n ! An' bleak December's winds ensuin', Baith snell an' k e e n !

*

O S c o t i a ! my dear, m y native soil! F o r whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent! L o n g may thy hardy sons of rustic toil Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content! And, O ! m a y Heaven their simple lives prevent F r o m luxury's contagion, weak and vile! T h e n , howe'er crowns and coronets be r e n t , A virtuous populace m a y rise the while, And stand a wall of fire a r o u n d their muchlov'd isle.

T h o u saw the fields laid b a r e an' waste, An' weary winter comin' fast, An' cozie here, b e n e a t h t h e blast, T h o u t h o u g h t to dwell, Till, c r a s h ! t h e cruel coulter p a s t O u t t b r o ' thy cell. T h a t wee b i t h e a p o' leaves an' stibble H a s cost thee m o n y a weary n i b b l e ! Now t h o u ' s turn'd o u t , for a' thy trouble, But house or hald, T o thole the winter's sleety dribble, A n ' cranreuch c a u l d ! But, Mousie, t h o u art no t h y lane,

2) T O A MOUSE. On turning her up in her Nest with the Plough. W e e , sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie, O , what a p a n i c ' s in tliy b r e a s t i e !

I n proving f o r e s i g h t m a y b e v a i n : T h e best laid schemes o' mice a n ' m e n , G a n g a f t a-gley, An' leave us n o u g h t b u t grief and pain F o r promis'd joy.

ROBERT bUENS.

390

Still thou art blest, eompar'd wi' me! The present only toncheth thee: But, och! I backward cast my e'e, On prospects drear! An' forward, tho' I canna see, I guess an' fear.

3) TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY. On turning one doics with the Plough. Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r. T h o u ' s met me in an evil h o u r ; For I maun crush amang the stoure Thy tender stem: To spare thee now is past my pow'r, Thou bonnie gem. Alas! i t ' s no thy neebor sweet, The bonnie lark, companion meet, Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet, Wi' spreckl'd breast, When upward-springing, blythe to greet The purpling east. Cauld blew the bitter-biting north Upon thy early, humble, b i r t h ; Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth Amid the storm, Scarce rear'd above the parent earth Tby tender form. The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield, High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun shield; But thou, beneath the random bield O' clod or stane, Adorns the hiatie stibble-field, Unseen, alane. There, in thy scanty mantle clad, Thy snawie bosom sun-ward spread, Thou lifts tby unassuming head In humble guise; But now the 'share' uptears thy bed, And low thou lies! Such is the fate of artless maid. Sweet flow'ret of the rural shade!

By love's simplicity betrayed, And guileless trust, Till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid Low i' the dust. Such is the fate of simple bard. On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd! Unskilful he to note the card Of prudent lore, Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, And whelm him o'er! Such fate to suffering worth is giv'n, Who long with wants and woes has striv'n, By human pride or cunning driv'n T o misery's brink, Till, wrench'd of ev'ry stay but Heav'n, He, ruin'd, sink! Ev'n thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate, T h i t fate is thine — no distant date: Stern Ruin's plough-share drives, elate, Full on thy bloom, Till, crush'il beneath the furrow's weight, Shall be thy doom!

4) LAMENT OF MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS. On the Approach of

faring.

Now Nature hangs her mantle green On every blooming tree, And spreads her sheets o' daisies white Out o'er the grassy lea: Now Phoebus cheers the crystal streams, And glads the azure skies; But nought can glad the weary wight That fast in durance lies. Now lav'rocks wake the merry morn, Aloft on dewy wing; The merle, in his noontide bow'r, Makes woodland echoes ring; The mavis, wild wi' mony a note, Sings drowsy day to rest: In love and freedom they rejoice, Wi' care nor thrall opprest.

ROBERT BURM8. Now blooms the lily by the bank, The primrose down the brae; The hawthorn 's budding in the glen, And milk-white is the slae; The meanest hind in fair Scotland May rove their sweets amang; But 1, the Queen of a' Scotland, Maun lie in prison Strang! I was the Queen o' bonnie France, Where happy I bai been; Fu' lightly rose I in the morn, As blythe lay down at e'en: And I'm the sov'reign of Scotland, And mony a traitor there; Yet here I lie in foreign bands, And never-ending care. But as for thee, thou false woman!— My sister and my fae, Grim vengeance, yet, shall whet a sword That thro' thy soul shall gae! The weeping blood in woman's breast Was never known to thee; Nor the balm that draps on wounds of woe Frae woman's pitying e'e. My son! my son! may kinder stars Upon thy fortune shine! And may those pleasures gild thy reign, That ne'er wad blink on mine! God keep thee frae thy mother's faes, Or turn their hearts to thee: And where thou meet'st thy mother's friend, Remember him for me! Oh! soon, to me, may summer-suns Nae mair light up the morn! Nae mair, to me, the autumn winds Wave o'er the yellow com! And in the narrow house o' death Let winter round me rave; And the next flow'rs, that deck the spring, Bloom on my peaceful grave!

391

5) MY BONNIE MAST. Go fetch to me a pint o* wine, An' fill it in a silver taasie; That I may drink, before I go, A service to my bonnie lassie; The boat rocks at the pier o* Leith; Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the ferry; The ship rides by the Berwick-law, And I maun leave my bdknie Mary. The trumpets sound, the banners fly, The glittering spears are ranked ready; The shouts o' war are heard afar, The battle closes thick and bloody; But it's not the roar o' sea or shore Wad make me langer wish to tarry; Nor shout o' war that 'a heard afar — I t ' s leaving thee, my bonnie Mary.

6) OF A' THE AIRTS THE WIND CAN BLAW. Of a' the airts the wind can blaw, I dearly like the west, For there the bonnie lassie lives, The lassie I lo'e best: There wild-woods grow, and rivers row, And mony a hill between; But day and night my fancy's flight Is ever wi' my Jean. I see her in the dewy flowers, I see her sweet and fair: I hear her in the tunefu' birds, I hear her charm the air: There's not a bonnie flower that springs By fountain, shaw, or green, T h e r e ' s not a bonnie bird that sings, But minds me o' my Jean. Upon the banks o' flowing Clyde The lasses busk them braw; But when their best they hae put on, My Jeannie dings them a';

302

ROBOT BURNS.

*

In hamely wetdi the far exceed« The fairest o' the town; Baith sage and gay confeM it sae, Tho' drest in rosaet gown. The gamesome lamb, that sucks its dam, Mair harmlesa canna b e ; She has nae faut (if sic ye ca't,) Except her love for me; The sparkling dew, o' clearest hue, Is like her shining een: In shape and air nane can compare Wi' my sweet lovely Jean. O blaw ye westlin winds, blaw saft Amang the leafy trees, Wi' balmy gale, frae hill and dale Bring hame the laden bees; And bring the lassie back to me T h a t ' s aye sae neat and clean; Ae smile o' her wad banish care, Sae charming is my Jean. What sighs and TOWS amang the knowes Hae passed atween us twa! How fond to meet, how wae to part, That night she gaed awa! The powers aboon can only ken, To whom the heart is seen, That nane can be sae dear to me As my sweet lovely Jean!

7) MY HEART 'S IN THE HIGHLANDS. My h e a r t ' s in the Highlands, my heart is not here; My h e a r t ' s in the Highlands a chasing the deer; Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe — My heart 'a in the Highlands wherever I go. Farewell to theHighlands, farewell to the North, The birth-place of valour, the country of worth; Wherever I wander, wherever I rove, The hills of the Highlands for ever I love.

Farewell to the mountains high cover*d with snow; Farewell to the straths and green valleys below; Farewell to the forests and wild hanging woods; Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods. My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here, My heart 's in the Highlands a chasing the deer; Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe — My heart's in the Highlands, wherever I go.

8) JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO. John Anderson, my jo, John, When we were first acquent, Your locks were like the raven, Your bonnie brow was brent; But now your brow is beld, John, Your locks are like the snaw; But blessings on your frosty pow; John Anderson, my jo. John Anderson, my jo, John, We clamb the bill thegither; And mony a canty day, John, We've had wi' ane anither: Now we maun totter down, John, But hand in,hand we 'II g o ; And sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson, my jo.

9) TO MARY IN HEAVEN. Thou ling'ring star, with less'ning ray, That lor'st to greet the early mom, Again thou usher'st in the day My Mary from my soul was torn. 0 Mary! dear departed shade! Where is thy place of blissful rest? Seest thou thy lover lowly laid? Hearst thou the groans that rend his breast ? That sacred hour can I forget ? Can I forget the hallowed grove,

393

ROBERT BURNS. Where by the winding Ayr we met, T o live one day of parting love? Eternity will not efface Those records dear of transports past; Thy image at our last embrace; Ah! little thought w e ' t was our last!

11) AE FOND KISS. Ae fond kiss, and then we sever; Ae fareweel, and then, for ever! Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee, Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. W h o shall say that fortune grieves him,

Ayr, gurgling, kiss'd his pebbled shore, O'erhung with wild woods, thick'ning green; The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar,

While the star of hope she leaves him? Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights m e ; Dark despair around benights me.

Twin'd am'rous round the raptur'd scene; The flow'rs sprang wanton to be prest, The birds sang love on every spray — Till too, too soon, the glowing west, Proclaim'd the speed of winged day.

I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy, Naething could resist my Nancy; But to see her was to love h e r ; Love- but her and love for ever. — Had we never lov'd sae kindly,

Still o'er these scenes my mem'ry wakes, And fondly broods with miser care! Time but th'impression stronger makes,

Had we never lov'd sae blindly, Never m e t — o r never parted, W e had ne'er been broken-hearted.

As streams their channels deeper wear. My Mary, dear departed shade! Where is thy place of blissful rest! See'st thou tby lover lowly laid? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?

Fare thee vveel, thou first and fairest! Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest! Thine be ilka joy and treasure, Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure! Ae fond kiss, and then we sever; Ae fareweel, alas! for ever! Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee,

10) THE BANKS 0 ' DOON.

Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee!

Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair; IIovv can ye chant, ye little birds, And I sae weary, fu' o' care! Thou '11 break my heart, thou warbling bird, That wantons thro' the flowering t h o r n : T h o u minds me o' departed joys, Departed — never to return!

12) AFTON WATER. Flow gently, sweet A f t o n ! among the green braes, Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise; My M a r y ' s asleep by the murmuring stream —

Oft hae I rov'd by bonnie Doon, To see the rose and woodbine twine;

Flow gently, sweet A f t o n , disturb not her dream.

And ilka bird sang o' its luve, And fondly sae did I o' mine. Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose,

Thou stock-dove, whose echo resounds thro' the glen,

Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree;

Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den;

And my fause luver stole my rose,

Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming for-

But, ah! he left the thorn wi' me.

bear— I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair.

3M

#

ROBEBT BURNS.

How lofty, tweet Afton! thy neighbouring hills, Far marli'd with the courses of clear winding rilli; There daily I wander as noon rises high, My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye. How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below, Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow! There oft as mild ev'ning weeps over the lea, The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me. Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides! And winds by the cot where my Mary resides! How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave, As gathering sweet flow'rets she stems thy clear wave! Flow gently, sweet Afton! among thy green braes, Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays! My Mary's asleep by the murmuring stream — Flow gently, sweet Afton! disturb not her dream.

13) HIGHLAND MARY.

Wi* mony a vow, and lock'd embrace, Our parting was fu' tender; And, pledging aft to meet again, We tore oursels asunder; But, oh! fell Death's untimely frost, That nipt my flower sae early! — Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay, That wraps my Highland Mary! Oh pale, pale now, those rosy lips, I aft hae kiss'd sae fondly! And clos'd for aye the sparkling glance That dwelt on me sae kindly! And mouldering now in silent dust That heart that Io'ed me dearly — But still within my bosom's core Shall live my Highland Mary!

14) MARY MORISON. 0 Mary, at thy window be, It is the wish'd, the trysted hour! Those smiles and glances let me see That make the miser's treasure poor: How blithely wad I bide the stoure, A weary slave frae sun to sun; Could I the rich reward secure, The lovely Mary Morison.

Ye banks, and braes, and streams around The castle o' Montgomery, Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, Your waters never drumlie! There simmer 6rst unfaulds her robes, And there the langest tarry; For there I took the last fareweel O' my sweet Highland Mary.

Yestreen, when to the trembling string The dance gaed thro' the lighted fca', To thee my fancy took its wing, I sat, but neither heard nor saw: Tho' this was fair, and that was braw, And yon the toast of a' the town,

How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk! How rich the hawthorn's blossom! As underneath their fragrant shade, I clasp'd her to my bosom! The golden hours, on angel wings, Flew o'er me and my dearie; For dear to me, as light and life, Was my sweet Highland Mary! '

O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace Wha for thy sake wad gladly die? Or canst thou break that heart of his Whase only faut is loving thee ? If love for love thou wilt na gie, At least be pity to me shown; A thought ungentle canna be The thought o' Mary Morison.

1 sigh'd, and said, amang them a', 'Ye are na Mary Morison.'

395

JAMES HOGG.

II. J A M S IIOGG, genannt ' The Ettrick-Shepherd',

wurde am 2 5 . Januar 1 7 7 2 in einer Hütte am Ufer des

Ettrick in Selkirkshire geboren.

Aus einer Schäferfamilie stammend musste er ebenfalls die

Schafe hüten und genoss im Ganzen nur ein halbes Jahr Schulunterricht: bis er zum Manne heranwuchs, war die Bibel fast seine einzige Lektüre. alten schottischen Lieder und Balladen Zeit durch Nachahmungen derselben.

Von seiner Mutter hatte er aber die

gelernt und er vertrieb sich bei seiner Heerde die Nachdem

er mühsam

sehreiben gelernt, fing er an

sie aufzuzeichnen und gab 1 8 0 1 einen Band Gedichte in Edinburg heraus, die wenig Aufmerksamkeit erregten.

Er wurde aber mit IV. Scott b e k a n n t ,

dem er bei der Sammlung

alter Balladen zu seinem 'Border-Minstrelsy' half, und veröffentlichte bald darauf einen zweiten Band von Gedichten unter dem Titel: ' T h e M o u n t a i n - B a r d ' , deren Ertrag er zu einer Pachtung verwendete.

Es wollte ihm jedoch

damit nicht gelingen und er ging nun nach

E d i n b u r g , um sich durch die Feder seinen Lebensunterhalt zu verschaffen.

Eine von ihm

unternommene Zeitschrift, ' T h e Spy', ging bald wieder ein und erst im Jahre 1 8 1 3 gelang es i h m , sich durch ein grösseres Gedicht ' T h e Queen's W a k e ' einen Ruf als Dichter zu verschaffen.

In demselben Jahre erhielt er von seinem Gönner, dem Herzoge v.

Buccleugh,

fast zinsfrei die Pachtung von Altrive in Ettrick; er übernahm zugleich die daran stossende Meierei von Mount Benger, war a b e r ,

da er vom Ackerbau wenig verstand,

nach einigen

Jahren genöthigt, sie wieder aufzugeben und sah sich auf's Neue in Armuth gestürzt.

Wäh-

rend dieser Zeit schrieb er Viel, namentlich für ' Blaekwoüd's Magazine', welches er eigentlich begründete.

E r lebte später blos von seinen literarischen Arbeiten in einer 'Cottage'»

die er auf einem, vom Herzoge v, Buccleugh hatte.

ihm überlassenen Stück Moorlandes, sich gebaut

Im Herbste 1835 bekam er die Wassersucht und starb am 2 1 . November desselben

Jahres so ruhig und frei von Schmerzen, Hügels in Schlaf gesunken war. —

als er je in seinem grauen Plaid am Fusse des

Nach

seinem: ' Q u e e n ' s W a k e ' , — ' h i s finest poem,

composed of a series of lyric legends, supposed to be sung before Mary, Queen of Scots, at a wake (or nightly meeting) of northern minstrels' — erschienen n o c h : ' M a d o r of the M o o r ' ( i n der Spenserstanze); ' T h e Pilgrims of the S u n ' ; ' The Hunting of Badlewe'; ' T h e Poetic Mirr o r ' ; 'Dramatic Tales'; ' Q u e e n Hynde', u. s. vv., so wie mehre Novellen, z. B. 'Winter-Evening T a l e s ' ; The Three Perils of M a n ' ; ' T h e Three Perils of W o m a n ' u. s. w., welche Byron ' r o u g h and r a c y ' nennt.

Seine gesammten W e r k e , o h n e seine Beiträge für Zeitschriften, füllen gegen

3 0 Bände. — ' T h e Ettrick-Shepherd — sagt Chambers von ihm — abandoned himself entirely to the genius of old romance and legendary story.

He loved, like Spenser, to luxuriate in fairy vi-

sions, and to picture scenes of supernatural splendour and beauty.

* * * Akin to this peculiar

feature in Hogg's poetry is the spirit of most of his songs — a wild lyrical flow of fancy, that is sometimes inexpressibly sweet and musical.

He wanted art to construct a fable, and taste to

give due effect to his imagery and conceptions; but there are few poets who impress us so much with the idea of direct inspiration, and that poetry is indeed an art ' unteachable and untaught.'

1) FROM: ' T H E QUEEN'S WAKE'. Bonny

Kilmeny.

Nor the rosy monk of the isle to see, For KilmeDy was pure as pure could be. It was only to hear the yorlin sing,

Bonny Kilmeny gaed up the glen ;

And pu' the cress-flower round the spring;

But it wasna to meet Duneira's men,

The scarlet hypp and the hindberrye,

$96

JAMBS HOGG.

And the not that bang frae the h a u l tree; Por Kilmeny was pare u pure could be. Bat lang may her minny look o'er the wa', And l u g may the seek i' the greenwood thaw; Lang the Laird of Duneira blame, And lang, lang greet or Kilmeny come hamel When many a day had come and fled. When grief grew calm, and hope was dead, When mats for Kilmeny's soul bad been sung, When the beadsman bad prayed, and the deathbell rung, Late, late in a gloamin, when all was still, When the fringe was red on the western hill, The wood was sere, the moon i' the wane, The reek o' the cot hung over the plain Like a little wee cloud in the world its lane; When the ingle lowed with an eiry leme, Late, late in the gloamin, Kilmeny came heme! ' Kilmeny, Kilmeny, where have you been? Lang bae we sought baith holt and dean; By linn, by ford, and greenwood tree. Yet you are balesome and fair to see. Where gat ye that joup o' the lily sheen? That bonny snood of the birk sae green ? And these roses, the fairest that ever were seen ? Kilmeny, Kilmeny, where have you been ?' Kilmeny looked up with a lovely grace, Bat nae smile was seen on Kilmeny's face; As still was her look, and as still was her ee, As the stillness that lay on the emerant lea, Or the mist that sleeps on a waveless sea. For Kilmeny had been she knew not where, And Kilmeny had seen what she could not declare ; Kilmeny had been where the cock never crew, Where the rain never fell, and the wind never blew, Bat it seemed as the harp of the sky had rung, And the airs of heaven played round her tongue, When she spake of the lovely forms she had seen, And a land where sin had never been. In yon greenwood there is a waik, And in that waik there is a wene, And in that wene there is a maike That neither hath flesh, blood, nor bane;

And down in yon greenwood he walks his lane! In that green wene Kilmeny lay, Her bosom happed wi' the flowrets gay; Bat the air was soft, and the silence deep. And bonny Kilmeny fell sound asleep; She kend nae mair, nor opened her ee, Till waked by the hymns of a far countrye, She wakened on couch of the silk sae slim, All striped wi' the bars of the rainbow's rim; And lovely beings round were rife, Who erst bad travelled mortal life. They clasped her waist and her hands sae fair, They kissed her cheek, and they kamed her hair, And round came many a blooming fere, Saying, 'Bonny Kilmeny, ye're welcome here!'

KUmeny'i Vitumt m Fairy Load. She saw a sun on a summer-sky, And clouds of amber sailing by, A lovely land beneath her lay, And that land had glens and mountains grey; And that land had valleys and boary piles, And merled seas, and a thousand isles; Its fields were speckled, its forests green, And its lakes were all of the dazzling sheen, Like magic mirrors, where slumbering lay The sun, and the sky, and the cloudlet grey. • • • * • She She She And And

saw the corn wave on the vale; saw the deer run down the dale; saw the plaid and the broad claymore, the brows that the badge of freedom bore: she thought she bad seen the land before.

She saw a lady sit on the throne, The fairest that ever the sun shone on! A Lion licked her hand of milk, And she held him in a leash of silk; And a leifu' (ditcreet) maiden stood at her knee, With a silver wand and a melting e'e, Her sovereign shield, till love stole in, And poison'd all the fount within. Then a gruff untoward bedeman came, And hundit the lion on his dame;

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JAMBS HOGG. And the guardian maid, wi' the dauntless e'e, She dropped a tear, and left her knee; And she saw till the queen frae the lion fled, Till the bonniest flower of the world lay dead. A coffin was set on a distant plain, And she saw the red blood fall like rain; Then bonny Kilmeny*s heart grew sair. And she turned away, and could look nae mair. Then the gruff grim carle girned amain, And they trampled him down, but he rose again; And he baited the lion to deeds of weir, Till he lapped the blood to the kingdom dear; And, weening his head was danger-preef, When crowned with the rose and the cloverleaf, He gowled at the carle, and chased him away, To feed with the deer on the mountain gray. He gowled at the carle, and he gecked at heaven, But his mark was set, and his arles given. Kilmeny awhile her een withdrew; She looked again, and the scene w«a pew. She saw below her fair unfurled One half of all the glowing world, Where oceans rolled, and rivers ran, To bound the aims of sinful man. She saw a people, fierce and fell, Burst frae their bounds like fiends of hell; There lilies grew, and the eagle flew, And she herked on her ravening crew, Till the cities and towers were wrapt in a blaze, And the thunder it roared o'er the land and the seas. The windows they wailed, and the red blood ran, And she threatened an end to the race of man: She never lened, nor stood in awe, Till caught by the lion's deadly paw. Oh! then the eagle swinked for life, And brainyelled up a mortal strife; But flew she north, or flew she south, She met wi' the gowl of the lion's mouth.

JEUmm^i JM011 JY&hi A v y Then Kilmeny begged again to see The friends she had left in her own countrye, To tell of the place where she had been, And the glories that lay in the land unseen. With distant music, soft and deep, They lulled Kilmeny sound aaleep; And when she awakened, she lay her lane, All happed with flower* in the greenwood wene. When seven Iang year* bad come and fled, When grief was calm and hope was dead, When scarce was remembered Kilmeny'a name, Late, late in the gloamin Kilmeny came hame! And oh, her beauty was fiur to see, But still and steadfast was her ee; Such beauty bard may never declare, For there was no pride nor passion there; And the soft desire of maiden's een, In that mild face could never be seen. Her seymar was the lily flower, And her cheek the moss-rose in the shower; And her voice like the distant melodye, That floats along the twilight sea. But she loved to raike the lanely glen, And keeped afar frae the haunts of men. Her holy hymns unheard to sing. To suck the flowers and drink the spring, But wherever her peaceful form appeared. The wild beasts of the hill were cheered; The wolf played blithely round the field, The lordly bison lowed and kneeled, The dun deer wooed with manner bland, And cowered aneath her lily band. And when at eve the woodlands rung. When hymns of other worlds she sung, In ecstacy of sweet devotion, Oh, then the glen was all in motion; The wild beasts of the forest came, Broke from their bughts and faulds the tame, And goved around, charmed and amazed; Even the dull cattle crooned and gazed, And murmured, and looked with anxious pain For something the mystery to explain. The buzzard came with the throstle-cock; The corby left her houf in the r o c k ;

JAME8 HOGG. The blackbird alang wi' the eagle flew; The hind came tripping o'er the dew; The wolf and the kid their raike began, And the tod, and the lamb, and the leveret ran; The hawk and the hern attour them hang, And the merl and the mavis forhooyed their young; And all in a peaceful ring were hurled: It waa like an eve in a sinless world! When a month and a