Isaac Watts ward 1674 in Southampton, wo sein Vater dissentirender Prediger war, geboren, erhielt eine wissenschaftliche Bildung in London und wurde dann selbst Seelsorger einer dissentirenden Gemeine; seine zarte Constitution zwang ihn jedoch diesem Berufe zu entsagen und Hausgenosse seines Freundes Sir Thomas Abney zu werden, bei dem er bis zu seinem am 25. November 1748 erfolgten Tode verweilte.
Seine prosaischen und poetischen Werke wurden 1754 zu London von Doddridge herausgegeben, 6 Bde in 8. Die Poesieen sind meist religiösen Inhaltes, gesund, natürlich, correct und elegant, aber ohne poetisches Feuer. Am glücklichsten ist er in seinen Divine Songs for Children, die noch jetzt in ganz England verbreitet sind und grossen Segen gestiftet haben.
Bright Venus on her rolling throne Is drawn by gentlest birds alone, And Cupids yoke the doves.
Hast thou not seen, impatient boy, Hast thou not read the solemn truth,
That gray experience writes for giddy youth On every mortal joy?
Pleasure must be dash'd with pain:
And yet, with heedless haste,
The thirsty boy repeats the taste,
Nor hearkens to despair, but tries the bowl again. The rills of pleasure never run sincere:
Earth has no unpolluted spring,
From the curs'd soil some dangerous taint they
So roses grow on thorns, and honey wears a sting.
In vain we seek a heaven below the sky; The world has false but flattering charms: Its distant joys show big in our esteem, But lessen still as they draw near the eye; In our embrace the visions die: And when we grasp the airy forms, We lose the pleasing dream.
Earth, with her scenes of gay delight, Is but a landscape ruddy drawn, With glaring colours, and false light; Distance commends it to the sight,
For fools to gaze upon;
But bring the nauseous daubing nigh, Coarse and confus'd the hideous figures lie, Dissolve the pleasure, and offend the eye.
Look up, my soul, pant tow'rd th' eternal hills; Those heavens are fairer than they seem; There pleasures all sincere glide on in crystal rills,
There not a dreg of guilt defiles,
Nor grief disturbs the stream.
That Canaan knows no noxious thing, No cursed soil, no tainted spring,
Nor roses grow on thorns, nor honey wears a
Two kindred souls alone must meet,
'Tis friendship makes the bondage sweet, And feeds their mutual loves:
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 to 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, And survey myself a whole, 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 young 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 mix with love:
There beneath the smiling skies Hills of contemplation rise: Now upon some shining top Angels light, and call me up; I rejoice to raise my feet, Both rejoice when there we meet.
There are endless beauties more Earth hath no resemblance for; Nothing like them 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: Or she sits at fancy's door, Calling shapes and shadows to her Foreign visits still receiving, And t' herself a stranger living. Never, never would she buy Indian dust, or Tyrian dye, Never trade abroad for more, If she saw her native store; If her inward worth were known, She might ever live alone.
John Philips, Sohn des Archidiakonus Stephen Philips, ward 1676 zu Brampton in Oxfordshire geboren. Er studirte in Oxford und wollte sich dann den Naturwissenschaften widmen ; das Glück jedoch welches sein erstes Gedicht, the splendid shilling, von dem wir unten ein Bruchstück mittheilen, sogleich bei dessen Erscheinen machte, bewog ihn diesen Vorsatz aufzugeben und sich nur mit Poesie zu beschäftigen. Er schrieb noch ein Gedicht auf die Schlacht von
Blendheim und ein didactisches Poem Cider. - Ob ein Gedicht Cerealia, das ihm zugeschrieben wird auch wirklich von ihm herrühre, ist unentschieden geblieben. Er starb schon 1708 an der Schwindsucht zu Hereford, wo er auch begraben wurde, doch erhielt er ein Denkmal in der Westminster-Abtei.
Als didactischer Dichter ist Philips ausgezeichnet; er verbindet mit Eleganz, Correctheit und Adel der Diction, reiches Wissen, warmes Gefühl und eine anmuthig verschönernde Phantasie. Seine Poesieen erschienen zuerst gesammelt, London 1715 und dann öfter, auch finden sie sich im 21. Bande der Johnson'schen, im 66. Bande der Bell'schen und im 6. Bande der Anderson'schen Sammlung.
The splendid Shilling.
Happy the man who, void of cares and strife, In silken or in leathern purse retains A Splendid Shilling! he nor hears with pain New oysters cry'd, nor sighs for cheerful ale; But with his friends, when nightly mists arise, To Juniper's Magpie, or Town-Hall, repairs, Where, mindful of the nymph whose wanton eye Transfix'd his soul and kindled amorous flames, Cloe or Phillis, he each circling glass Wished her health, and joy and equal love; Mean-while he smokes and laughs at merry tale Or pun ambiguous, or conundrum quaint: But I, whom griping penury surrounds And hunger, sure attendant upon want, With scanty offals and small acid tiff (Wretched repast!) my meagre corpse sustain: Then solitary walk, or doze at home In garret vile, and with a warming puff Regale chill'd fingers; or from tube as black As winter chimney, or well-polish'd jet Exhale mundungus, ill perfuming scent! Not blacker tube, nor of a shorter size, Smokes Cambro-Briton (vers'd in pedigree Sprung from Cadwallador and Arthur, kings Full famous in romantic tale) when he O'er many a craggy hill and barren cliff Upon a cargo of fam'd Cestrian cheese High over-shadowing rides, with a design To vend his wares, or at th' Arvonian mart Or Maridunum, or the ancient town Yclep'd Brechinia, or where Vaga's stream Encircles Ariconium, fruitful soil!
Thro' sudden fear; a chilly sweat bedews My shudd'ring limbs, and (wonderful to tell!). My tongue forgets her faculty of speech; So horrible he seems! His faded brow, Intrench'd with many a frown, and conic beard, And spreading band, admir'd by modern saints, Disastrous acts forebode: in his right hand Long scrolls of paper solemnly he waves, With characters and figures dire inscrib'd, Grievous to mortal eyes; (ye Gods! avert Such plagues from righteous men!) Behind him stalks
Another monster, not unlike himself, Sullen of aspect, by the vulgar call'd A Catchpole, whose polluted hands the gods With force incredible and magic charms First have endu'd: if he his ample palm Should haply on ill-fated shoulder lay |Of debtor, straight his body, to the touch Obsequious, (as whilom knights were wont) To some enchanted castle is convey'd, Where gates impregnable and coercive chains In durance strict detain him, till, in form Of money, Pallas sets the captive free.
Beware, ye Debtors! when ye walk beware! Be circumspect; oft' with insidious ken This caitiff eyes your steps aloof, and oft' Lies perdue in a nook or gloomy cave, Prompt to enchant some inadvertent wretch With his unhallowed touch. So, (poets sing,) Grimalkin, to domestic vermin sworn
An everlasting foe, with watchful eye Lies nightly brooding o'er a chinky gap, Protending her fell claws, to thoughtless mice
Whence flow nectareous wines that well may vie Sure ruin; so her disembowell'd web With Massic, Setin, or renown'd Falern.
Thus while my joyless minutes tedious flow, With looks demure, and silent pace, a Dun, Horrible monster! hated by gods and men To my aerial citadel ascends;
With vocal heel thrice thund'ring at my gate With hideous accent thrice he calls. I know The voice ill-boding, and the solemn sound. What should I do, or whither turn? Amaz'd Confounded, to the dark recess I fly
Of woodhole: straight my bristling hairs erect
Arachne, in a hall or kitchen, spreads Obvious to vagrant flies: she secret stands Within her woven cell; the humming prey, Regardless of their fate, rush on the toils Inextricable, nor will aught avail Their arts, or arms, or shapes of lovely hue The wasp insidious and the buzzing drone, And butterfly, proud of expanded wings Distinct with gold, entangled in her snares, Useless resistance make: with eager strides She tow'ring flies to her expected spoils,
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