Pope übte auf die Geschmacksrichtung seiner Zeit einen ausserordentlichen Einfluss aus; er versuchte sich in fast allen Gattungen der Poesie und stellte hier überall Muster für die äussere Behandlung auf, aber ein wahrer Dichter war er doch nicht. Was sich durch scharfen und hellen Verstand, durch glückliche Combination, durch seltene Herrschaft über Form, Sprache und Klang, durch glänzenden Witz und Correctheit erreichen lässt, das hat er vollkommen erreicht; dagegen war aber arm an Phantasie, wahrem und tiefem Gefühl und an eigentlich poetischer Productionskraft. Seine Leistungen sind Erzeugnisse des Fleisses und des Verstandes, aber fast nie der Begeisterung. Am Glücklichsten ist er daher auch im Lehrgedicht und in der Satyre. Auch als Prosaiker zeichnete er sich durch Klarheit, Correctheit und Wohllaut ebenfalls höchst vortheilhaft aus.
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Or who could suffer being here below?
The lamb thy riot dooms to bleed to-day,
Had he thy reason, would he skip and play?
Pleas'd to the last, he crops the flowery food,
And licks the hand just rais'd to shed his blood.
Oh blindness to the future! kindly given,
That each may fill the circle mark'd by Heaven:
Who sees with equal eye, as God of all,
A hero perish, or a sparrow fall,
Atoms or systems into ruin hurl'd,
And now a bubble burst, and now a world.
Hope humbly then; with trembling pinions
soar,
Wait the great teacher, Death; and God adore.
What future bliss, he gives not thee to know,
But gives that hope to be thy blessing now.
Hope springs eternal in the human breast:
Man never Is, but always to be blest;
The soul, uneasy, and confined from home,
Rests and expatiates in a life to come.
Destroy all creatures for thy sport or gust,
Yet say, if man's unhappy, God's unjust;
If man alone engross not Heaven's high care,
Alone made perfect here, immortal there;
Snatch from his hand the balance and the rod,
Re-judge his justice, be the god of God.
In Pride, in reasoning Pride, our error lies;
All quit their sphere, and rush into the skies.
Pride still is aiming at the blest abodes,
Men would be angels, angels would be gods.
Aspiring to be gods, if angels fell,
Aspiring to be angels, men rebel:
And who but wishes to invert the laws
Of order, sins against th' Eternal Cause.
Elegy to the Memory of an unfortunate
Lady.
What beckoning ghost, along the moon-light shade,
Lo, the poor Indian! whose untutor'd mind
Sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind;
His soul proud Science never taught to stray
Far as the solar walk, or milky way;
Yet simple Nature to his hope has given,
Behind the cloud-topt hill, an humbler heaven;
Some safer world in depths of woods embrac'd,
Some happier island in the watery waste,
Where slaves once more their native land be- For those who greatly think, or bravely die?
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 love 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,
Why bade ye else, ye powers! her soul aspire
No fiends torment, no Christians thirst for gold. Above the vulgar flight of low desire?
To be, contents his natural desire,
He asks no angel's wing, no seraph's fire;
But thinks, admitted to that equal sky,
His faithful dog shall bear him company.
Go, wiser thou! and in thy scale of sense,
Weigh thy opinion against Providence;
Call imperfection what thou fanciest such;
Say, here he gives too little, there too much:
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 age,
Dull sullen prisoners in the body's cage:
Dim lights of live, 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 thy brother's blood!
See on these ruby lips the trembling breath,
These cheeks now fading at the blast of death;
Cold is that breast which warm'd the world
before,
And those love-darting eyes must roll no more. Thus, if eternal Justice rules the ball,
Poets themselves must fall, like those they sung, Deaf the prais'd ear, and mute the tuneful tongue. Ev'n he, whose soul now melts in mournful lays, Shall shortly want the generous tear he pays; Then from his closing eyes 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!
Thus shall your wives, and thus your children Prologue to Mr. Addison's Tragedy of
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,) "Lo! these were they, whose souls the Furies
To wake the soul by tender strokes of art,
To raise the genius, and to mend the heart;
To make mankind in conscious virtue bold,
Live o'er each scene, and be what they behold:
For this the Tragic Muse first trod the stage,
And curst with hearts unknowing how to yield." Commanding tears to stream through every age;
Thus unlamented pass the proud away,
The gaze of fools, and pageant of a day!
Tyrants no more their savage nature kept, And foes to Virtue wonder'd how they wept.
So perish all, whose breast ne'er learn'd to glow Our author shuns by vulgar springs to move
For others' good, or melt at others' woe.
What can atone, oh, ever-injur'd shade!
Thy fate unpitied, and thy rites unpaid?
No friend's complaint, no kind domestic tear
Pleas'd thy pale ghost, or grac'd thy mournful
By foreign hands thy flying eyes were clos'd,
By foreign hands thy humble grave adorn'd,
By strangers honour'd, and by strangers mourn'd!
What though no friends in sable weeds appear,
Grieve for an hour, perhaps, then mourn a year,
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 thy face?
What though no sacred earth allow thee room,
Nor hallow'd dirge be muttered o'er thy tomb?
Yet shall thy grave with rising flowers be dress'd,
And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast:
There shall 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 thy reliques made.
So, peaceful rests, without a stone, a name,
What once had beauty, titles, wealth, and fame,
How lov'd, how honour'd once, avails thee not,
To whom related, or by whom begot;
A heap of dust alone remains of thee,
'Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall be!
The hero's glory, or the virgin's love;
In pitying Love, we but our weakness show,
And wild ambition well deserves its woe.
Here tears shall flow from a more generous
cause,
Such tears as patriots shed for dying laws:
He bids your breasts with ancient ardour rise,
And calls forth Roman drops from British eyes.
Virtue confess'd in human shape he draws,
What Plato thought, and godlike Cato was:
No common object to your sight displays
But what with pleasure Heaven itself surveys,
A brave man struggling in the storms of fate,
And greatly falling with a falling state.
While Cato gives his little senate laws,
What bosom beats not in his country's cause?
Who sees him act, but envies every deed?
Who hears him groan, and does not wish to
bleed?
Ev'n when proud Caesar 'midst triumphal cars,
The spoils of nations, and the pomp of wars,
Ignobly vain, and impotently great,
Show'd Rome her Cato's figure drawn in state;
As her dead father's reverend image past,
The pomp was darken'd and the day o'ercast,
The triumph ceas'd, tears gush'd from ev'ry eye;
The world's great victor pass'd unheeded by;
Her last good man dejected Rome ador'd,
And honour'd Caesar's less than Cato's sword
Britons, attend: be worth like this approv'd, And show, you have the virtue to be mov'd. With honest scorn the first fam'd Cato view'd Rome learning arts from Greece, whom she sub
Your scene precariously subsists too long
On French translation, and Italian song.
Dare to have sense yourselves, assert the
stage,
Be justly warm'd with your own native rage;
Such plays alone should win a British ear,
As Cato's self had not disdain'd to hear.
Aus einer alten aber verarmten Familie stammend, ward John Gay 1688 in einem Flecken von Devonshire geboren, erhielt seine erste Bildung auf einer Schule in Barnstaple und musste dann bei einem Seidenhändler zu London in die Lehre treten. Diese Beschäftigung missfiel ihm aber durchaus, er kaufte sich los und ward nun Secretair der Herzogin von Monmouth, was ihn befähigte, poetischen Arbeiten zu leben. 1714 begleitete er den Grafen von Clarendon als Secretair auf einer Gesandtschaft nach Hannover, von wo er nach dem Tode der Königin Anna zurückkehrte, aber seine Hoffnung, weiter im Staatsdienste befördert zu werden, vereitelt sah. Von nun an lebte er ganz als Privatınann und erfreute sich ausserordentlichen Erfolges für seine dramatischen Arbeiten, besonders für seine Bettleroper (Beggar's Opera), die ihm jedoch die Verfolgung des Hofes zuzog, trotz dem dass er seine berühmten Fabeln für den jungen Herzog von Cumberland auf ausdrückliches Verlangen der Prinzessin von Wales geschrieben hatte. Dagegen fand er andere hohe Gönner und der Herzog und die Herzogin von Queensbury gaben sogar seinetwegen ihre Aemter bei Hofe auf und nahmen ihn zu sich in ihr Haus, wo er am 4. December 1732 starb. Er ward in der Westminster-Abtei begraben.
Warmes Gefühl, Naivetät, Phantasie, Witz und Wahrheit der Darstellung charakterisiren Gay als Dichter. Am Glücklichsten ist er in seinen Fabeln, den ersten wirklich gelungenen, welche die Engländer besitzen. Ausser den bereits genannten Leistungen schrieb er Rural Sports, ein grösseres descriptives, Trivia or the Art of walking in the streets of London, ein grösseres satyrisches Gedicht, the Shepherd's week, komische Idyllen, einige Trauerspiele, Opern, treffliche Balladen u. A. m. Seine Werke erschienen gesammelt London 1793, 3 Bde in 12. und öfterer; auch finden sie sich im 41-42. Bande der Johnson'schen, im 80-82. Bande der Bell'schen und im 8. Bande der Anderson'schen Sammlung.
'Tis not that rural sports alone invite,
But all the grateful country breathes delight;
Here blooming Health exerts her gentle reign,
And strings the sinews of th' industrious swain.
Soon as the morning lark salutes the day,
Through dewy fields I take my frequent way,
Where I behold the farmer's early care
In the revolving labours of the year.
When the fresh Spring in all her state is crown'd
And high luxuriant grass o'erspreads the ground,
The labourer with a bending scythe is seen,
Shaving the surface of the waving green,
Of all her native pride disrobes the land,
And meads lays waste before his sweeping hand;
While with the mounting sun the meadow glows,
The fading herbage round he loosely throws:
But, if some sign portend a lasting shower,
Th' experienc'd swain foresees the coming hour;
His sun-burnt hands the scattering fork forsake,
And ruddy damsels ply the saving rake;`
In rising hills the fragrant harvest grows,
And spreads along the field in equal rows.
Or when the ploughman leaves the task of day,
And trudging homeward, whistles on the way;
When the big-udder'd cows with patience stand,
Waiting the strokings of the damsel's hand;
No warbling cheers the woods; the feather'd
choir,
To court kind slumbers, to the sprays retire:
When no rude gale disturbs the sleeping trees,
Nor aspen leaves confess the gentlest breeze;
Engag'd in thought, to Neptune's bounds I stray,
To take my farewell of the parting day;
For in the deep the Sun his glory hides;
A streak of gold the sea and sky divides:
The purple clouds their amber linings show,
And, edg'd with flame, rolls every wave below:
Here pensive I behold the fading light,
And o'er the distant billow lose my sight.
Now let the fisherman his toils prepare,
And arm himself with every watery snare;
His hooks, his lines, peruse with careful eye,
Increase his tackle, and his rod re-tye.
When floating clouds their spongy fleeces drain Troubling the streams with swift descending rain;
And waters tumbling down the mountain's side,
Bear the loose soil into the swelling tide;
Then soon as vernal gales begin to rise,
And drive the liquid burthen through the skies,
The fisher to the neighbouring current speeds,
Whose rapid surface purls unknown to weeds:
Upon a rising border of the brook
He sits him down, and ties the treacherous hook;
Now expectation cheers his eager thought,
His bosom glows with treasures yet uncaught;
Before his eyes a banquet seems to stand,
Where every guest applauds his skilful hand.
Far up the stream the twisted hair he throws,
Which down the murmuring current gently flows;
When, if or chance or hunger's powerful sway
Directs the roving trout this fatal way,
He greedily sucks in the twining bait,
And tugs and nibbles the fallacious meat:
Now, happy fisherman, now twitch the line!
How thy rod bends! behold, the prize is thine!
When a brisk gale against the current blows, And all the watery plain in wrinkles flows, Then let the fisherman his art repeat, Where bubbling eddies favour the deceit. If an enormous salmon chance to spy The wanton errors of the floating fly, He lifts his silver gills above the flood, And greedily sucks in th' unfaithful food; Then downward plunges with the fraudful prey, And bears with joy the little spoil away: Soon in smart pain he feels the dire mistake,
Lashes the wave, and beats the foamy lake;
With sudden rage he now aloft appears,
And in his eye convulsive anguish bears;
And now again, impatient of the wound,
He rolls and wreathes his shining body round;
Then headlong shoots beneath the dashing tide,
The trembling fins the boiling wave divide.
Now hope exults the fisher's beating heart,
Now he turns pale, and fears his dubious art;
He views the tumbling fish with longing eyes,
While the line stretches with th' unwieldy prize;
Each motion humours with his steady hands,
And one slight lair the mighty bulk commands;
Till, tir'd at last, despoil'd of all his strength,
The game athwart the stream unfolds his length.
He now, with pleasure, views the gasping prize
Gnash his sharp teeth, and roll his blood-shot
eyes;
Then draws him to the shore, with artful care,
And lifts his nostrils in the sickening air:
Upon the burthen'd stream he floating lies,
Stretches his quivering fins, and gasping dies.
The Farmer's Wife and the Raven. A Fable.
"Why are those tears? why droops your head?
Is then your other husband dead?
Or does a worse disgrace betide?
Hath no one since his death apply'd?"
"Alas! you know the cause too well;
The salt is spilt, to me it fell;
Then, to contribute to my loss,
My knife and fork were laid across;
On Friday too; the day I dread!
Would I were safe at home in bed!
Last night (I vow to Heaven 'tis true)
Bounce from the fire a coffin flew.
Next post some fatal news shall tell:
God send my Cornish friends be well!"
"Unhappy widow, cease thy tears,
Nor feel affliction in thy fears:
Let not thy stomach be suspended;
Eat now, and weep when dinner's ended;
And, when the butler clears the table,
For thy desert I'll read my Fable."
Betwixt her swagging panniers' load
A farmer's wife to market rode,
And, jogging on, with thoughtful care,
Summ'd up the profits of her ware;
When, starting from her silver dream,
Thus far and wide was heard her scream.
"That raven on yon left-hand oak (Curse on his ill-betiding croak!)
Bodes me no good." No more she said, When poor blind Ball, with stumbling tread, o'erturn'd the pannier lay,
And her mash'd eggs bestrow'd the way.
She, sprawling in the yellow road,
"Dame," quoth the raven, "spare your oaths, Unclench your fist, and wipe your clothes.
But why on me those curses thrown?
Goody, the fault was all your own;
For, had you laid this brittle ware
On Dun, the old sure-footed mare,
Though all the ravens of the hundred
Rail'd, swore, and curs'd: "Thou croaking toad With croaking had your tongue out-thundered,
A murrain take thy whoreson throat!
I knew misfortune in the note."
Sure-footed Dun had kept her legs,
And you, good woman, sav'd your eggs."
William Somerville ward 1692 zu Edston in Warwickshire geboren, studirte in Winchester und Oxford und lebte dann von seinem Vermögen, das er jedoch gegen das Ende seines Lebens verschwendete, als Friedensrichter auf dem von seinem Vater ererbten Landgute. Er starb 1742 und ward in Wotton begraben. Ausser mehreren kleineren Poesieen schrieb er ein grösseres didactisch-descriptives Gedicht über die Jagd, das ein grosser Liebling der englischen Jagdfreunde geblieben ist, und das Verdienst hat, gefällig, malerisch, naturgetreu und einfach zu sein. Seine Poesieen erschienen gesammelt London 1776 u. ö.
The subtle spoiler of the beaver kind,
Far off perhaps, where ancient alders shade
The deep still pool, within some hollow trunk
Contrives his wicker couch: whence he surveys
Where rages not Oppression? Where, alas!
Is Innocence secure? Rapine and Spoil.
Haunt ev'n the lowest deeps; seas have their His long purlieu, lord of the stream, and all
That bristle on his back, defend the perch
From his wide greedy jaws; nor burnish'd mail
The yellow carp; nor all his arts can save
Th' insinuating eel, that hides his head
Beneath the slimy mud; nor yet escapes
The crimson-spotted trout, the river's pride,
And beauty of the stream. Without remorse,
This midnight pillager, ranging around
Insatiate swallows all. The owner mourns
Th' unpeopled rivulet, and gladly hears
The huntsman's early call, and sees with joy
The jovial crew, that march upon its banks
In gay parade, with bearded lances arm'd.
The finny shoals his own.
Dispute the felon's claim; try every root,
And every reedy bank; encourage all
The busy spreading pack, that fearless plunge
Into the flood, and cross the rapid stream.
Bid rocks and caves, and each resounding shore,
Proclaim your bold defiance; loudly raise
Each cheering voice, till distant hills repeat
The triumphs of the vale. On the soft sand
See there his seal impress'd! and on that bank
Behold the glittering spoils, half-eaten fish,
Scales, fins, and bones, the leavings of his feast.
Ah! on that yielding sag-bed, see, once more
His seal I view. O'er yon dank rushy marsh
The sly goose-footed prowler bends his course,
And seeks the distant shallows. Huntsman
bring
Thy eager pack, and trail him to his couch.
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