That life protracted is protracted woe.
Time hovers o'er, impatient to destroy,
And shuts up all the passages of joy:
In vain their gifts the bounteous seasons pour,
The fruit autumnal, and the vernal flow'r;
With listless eyes the dotard views the store,
He views, and wonders that they please no
more;
Now pall the tasteless meats, and joyless wines,
And Luxury with sighs her slave resigns.
The still returning tale, and ling'ring jest,
Perplex the fawning niece, and pamper'd guest,
While growing hopes scarce awe the gath'ring
And scarce a legacy can bribe to hear:
The watchful guests still hint the last offence;
The daughter's petulance, the son's expence,
Improve his heady rage with treach'rous skill,
And mould his passions till they make his will.
Unnumber'd maladies his joints invade,
Lay siege to life, and press the dire blockade;
But unextinguish'd av'rice still remains,
And dreaded losses aggravate his pains;
He turns, with anxious heart and crippled hands,
His bonds of debt, and mortgages of lands;
Or views his coffers with suspicious eyes,
Unlocks his gold, and counts it till he dies.
But grant, the virtues of a temp'rate prime
Bless with an age, exempt from scorn or crime;
An age that melts with unperceiv'd decay,
And glides in modest innocence away;
Whose peaceful day benevolence endears,
Whose night congratulating conscience cheers;
The gen'ral fav'rite as the gen'ral friend:
Such age there is, and who shall wish its end?
Yet ev'n on this her load Misfortune flings,
To press the weary minutes' flagging wings:
New sorrow rises as the day returns,
A sister sickens, or a daughter mourns.
Now kindred Merit fills the sable bier,
Now lacerated Friendship claims a tear;
Year chases year, decay pursues decay;
Still drops some joy from with'ring life away;
New forms arise, and diff'rent views engage,
Superfluous lags the vet'ran on the stage,
Till pitying Nature signs the last release,
And bids afflicted worth retire to peace.
But few there are whom hours like these
await,
Who set unclouded in the gulf of Fate.
From Lydia's monarch should the search descend,
By Solon caution'd to regard his end,
In life's last scene what prodigies surprise,
Fears of the brave, and follies of the wise!
From Marlb'rough's eyes the streams of dotage
And Swift expires a driv'ler and a show.
John Armstrong ward 1709 zu Castleton in Roxburgshire geboren, studirte Arzneiwissenschaft in Edinburg, promovirte daselbst 1732 und liess sich dann in London als Arzt nieder, beschäftigte sich jedoch nebenbei viel mit literarischen Arbeiten. Im Jahre 1760 begleitete er die englische Armee als Militairarzt, worauf er 1763 nach London zurückkehrte, das er, kurze Ausflüge abgerechnet, nun nicht wieder verliess. Er starb daselbst 1779.
Armstrong schrieb neben Kleinerem zwei didactische Gedichte, von denen das erstere the Economy of Love ihm wegen seiner Lüsternheit gerechten Tadel zuzog, das zweite dagegen: the Art of preserving Health allgemeinen Beifall fand und sich als eins der besten englischen Lehrgedichte jener Zeit im Andenken erhalten hat. Es ist eine geistreiche poetische Diaetetik in vier
Büchern, voll feiner Bemerkungen und guter Schilderungen in einer correcten, anmuthigen und einfachen Sprache verfasst. Sie erschien besonders gedruckt zuerst London 1744, dann in seinen Miscellanies London 1770 und findet sich auch nebst anderen Gedichten von ihm, im 102. Bde der Bell'schen und im 10. Bde der Anderson'schen Sammlung.
Select Passages
from Armstrong's Art of Preserving
|Rolls toward the western main. Hail, sacred flood!
May still thy hospitable swains be blest
In rural innocence; thy mountains still
What does not fade? the tower that long had Teem with the fleecy race; thy tuneful woods
The crush of thunder and the warring winds,
Shook by the slow, but sure destroyer, Time,
Now hangs in doubtful ruins o'er its base.
And flinty pyramids, and walls of brass,
Descend; the Babylonian spires are sunk;
Achaia, Rome, and Egypt moulder down.
Time shakes the stable tyranny of thrones,
And tottering empires crush by their own weight.
This huge rotundity we tread grows old;
And all those worlds that roll around the Sun,
The Sun himself, shall die; and ancient Night
Again involve the desolate abyss:
'Till the great Father through the lifeless gloom
Extend his arm to light another world,
And bid new planets roll by other laws.
For through the regions of unbounded space,
Where unconfin'd Omnipotence has room,
Being, in various systems, fluctuates still
Between creation and abhorr'd decay:
It ever did, perhaps, and ever will.
New worlds are still emerging from the deep;
The old descending, in their turns to rise.
But if the breathless chase o'er hill and dale
Exceed your strength, a sport of less fatigue,
Not less delightful, the prolific stream
Affords. The crystal rivulet, that o'er
A stony channel rolls its rapid maze,
For ever flourish; and thy vales look gay
With painted meadows, and the golden grain!
Oft, with thy blooming sons, when life was new,
Sportive and petulant, and charm'd with toys,
In thy transparent eddies have I lav'd:
Oft trac'd with patient steps thy fairy banks,
With the well-imitated fly to hook
The eager trout, and with the slender line
And yielding rod solicit to the shore
The struggling panting pray: while vernal clouds
And tepid gales obscur'd the ruffled pool,
And from the deeps call'd forth the wanton
How to live happiest; how avoid the pains, The disappointments, and disgusts of those Who would in pleasure all their hours employ; The precepts here of a divine old man
I could recite. Though old, he still retain'd
His manly sense, and energy of mind.
Virtuous and wise he was, but not severe;
He still remember'd that he once was young:
His easy presence check'd no decent joy.
Him even the dissolute admir'd; for he
A graceful looseness when he pleas'd put on,
And laughing could instruct. Much had he read
Much more had seen: he studied from the life,
And in th' original perus'd mankind.
Vers'd in the woes and vanities of life,
Swarms with the silver fry. Such, trough the He pitied man: and much he pitied those
Of pastoral Stafford, runs the brawling Trent; Such Eden, sprung from Cumbrian mountains;
Whom falsely-smiling fate has curs'd with means
To dissipate their days in quest of joy.
"Our aim is happiness; 'tis yours, 'tis mine,"
He said; "'tis the pursuit of all that live:
The Esk, o'erhung with woods; and such the Yet few attain it, if 'twas e'er attain'd.
On whose Arcadians banks I first drew air,
Liddel; till now, except in Doric lays
Tun'd to her murmurs by her love-sick swains,
Unknown in song; though not a purer stream,
Through meads more flowery, more romantic
groves,
But they the widest wander from the mark,
Who through the flowery paths of sauntering joy
Seek this coy goddess; that from stage to stage
Invites us still, but shifts as we pursue.
For, not to name the pains that pleasure brings
To counterpoise itself, relentless fate
Forbids that we through gay voluptuous wilds
Should ever roam: and were the fates more kind,
Our narrow luxuries would soon grow stale:
Were these exhaustless, nature would grow sick,
And, cloy'd with pleasure, squeamishly com-
plain
That all is vanity, and life a dream.
Let nature rest: be busy for yourself,
And for your friend; be busy even in vain,
Rather than tease her sated appetites.
Who never fasts, no banquet e'er enjoys;
Who never toils or watches, never sleeps.
Let nature rest: and when the taste of joy
Grows keen, indulge; but shun satiety.
"Tis not for mortals always to be blest. But him the least the dull or painful hours Of life oppress, whom sober sense conducts, And virtue, through this labyrinth we tread. Virtue and sense I mean not to disjoin; Virtue and sense are one; and, trust me, still A faithless heart betrays the head unsound. Virtue (for mere good-nature is a fool) Is sense and spirit with humanity: 'Tis sometimes angry, and its frown confounds; 'Tis even vindictive, but in vengeance just. Knaves fain would laugh at it; some great ones dare;
But at his heart the most undaunted son
Of fortune dreads its name and aweful charms.
To noblest uses this determines wealth;
This is the solid pomp of prosperous days;
The peace and shelter of adversity.
And if you pant for glory, build your fame
On this foundation, which the secret shock
Defies of envy and all-sapping time
The gaudy gloss of fortune only strikes
The vulgar eye; the suffrage of the wise
The praise that's worth ambition, is attain'd
By sense alone, and dignity of mind.
"Virtue, the strength and beauty of the soul,
Is the best gift of Heaven: a happiness
That even above the smiles and frowns of fate
Exalts great Nature's favourites; a wealth
That ne'er encumbers, nor can be transferr❜d.
Riches are oft by guilt and baseness earn'd;
Or dealt by chance to shield a lucky knave,
Or throw a cruel sunshine on a fool.
But for one end, one much-neglected use,
Are riches worth your care; (for Nature's wants
Are few, and without opulence supplied;)
This noble end is, to produce the soul;
To show the virtues in their fairest light;
To make humanity the minister
Of bounteous Providence; and teach the breast That generous luxury the gods enjoy."
Thus, in his graver vein, the friendly sage Sometimes declaim'd. Of right and wrong he taught
Truths as refin'd as ever Athens heard; And (strange to tell!) he practis'd what he preach'd.
There is a charm, a power that sways the
breast,
Bids every passion revel or be still;
Inspires with rage, or all your cares dissolves;
Can sooth distraction, and almost despair.
That power is music: far beyond the stretch
Of those unmeaning warblers on our stage:
Those clumsy heroes, those fat-headed gods,
Who move no passion justly but contempt:
Who, like our dancers, light indeed and strong,
Do wond'rous feats, but never heard of grace.
The fault is ours; we bear those monstrous arts,
Good heaven! we praise them: we, with loudest
peals,
Applaud the fool that highest lifts his heels;
And, with insipid show of rapture, die
On ideot notes impertinently long.
But he the muse's laurel justly shares,
A poet he, and touch'd with heaven's own fire,
Who, with bold rage or solemn pomp of sounds,
Inflames, exalts, and ravishes the soul;
Now tender, plaintive, sweet almost to pain,
In love dissolves you; now in sprightly strains
Breathes a gay rapture through your thrilling
breast;
Or melts the heart with airs divinely sad;
Or wakes to horror the tremendous strings
Such was the bard, whose heavenly strains
of old
Appeas'd the fiend of melancholy Saul.
Such was, if old and heathen fame say true,
The man who bade the Theban domes ascend,
And tam'd the savage nations with his song;
And such the Thracian, whose melodious lyre,
Tun'd to soft woe, made all the mountains weep;
Sooth'd ev'n th' inexorable powers of hell,
And half-redeem'd his lost Eurydice.
Music exalts each joy, allays each grief,
Expels diseases, softens every pain,
Subdues the rage of poison, and the plague;
And hence the wise of ancient days ador'd
One Power of physic, melody and song.
Richard Glover, der Sohn eines Kaufmanns, ward 1712 in London geboren, widmete sich dem Stande seines Vaters, ward 1761 Parlamentsmitglied für Weymouth und starb allgemein geachtet 1786. Er hinterliess zwei Tragödieen: Boadicea und Medea, mehrere kleinere Poesicen und ein grösseres Epos Leonidas, nebst einer Fortsetzung: The Athenaid. Dieses Heldengedicht war es vorzüglich, das ihm grossen Ruhm erwarb, aber er überlebte denselben. Es ist ein Werk edelster Gesinnung, voll trefflicher Gedanken, reich an meisterhaften Schilderungen, consequent durchgeführt und correct, aber trotz dem Allem doch nur Prosa in poetischer Form und lässt allen Bestrebungen des Dichters ungeachtet, auf das Gemüth eben so sehr wie auf den Verstand zu wirken, kalt und theilnahmlos; man wird weder ergriffen noch begeistert durch dasselbe, obwohl der Stoff alle Mittel zu tieferer Wirkung darbietet. Aehnliches lässt sich von seinen beiden Trauerspielen sagen, die, in antiker Form gehalten, veranlassen die Kunst des Verfassers zu bewundern, der Alles besitzt, nur nicht poetische Schöpfungskraft. Dagegen hat aber Glover in der unten mitgetheilten Ballade ein Meisterwerk hinterlassen, das zu dem Besten gehört, was die gerade in dieser Gattung so reiche englische Nationalliteratur aufzuweisen vermag.
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"Unrepining at thy glory,
Thy successful arms we hail; But remember our sad story
And let Hosier's wrongs prevail Sent in this foul clime to languish, Think what thousands fell in vain, Wasted with disease and anguish,
Not in glorious battle slain."
"Hence with all my train attending
From their oozy tombs below,
Through the hoary foam ascending,
Here I feed my constant woe:
Here the Bastimentos viewing,
We recal our shameful doom,
And our plaintive cries renewing,
Wander through the midnight gloom."
"O'er these waves for ever mourning,
Shall we roam depriv'd of rest,
If to Britain's shore returning,
You neglect my just request;
After this proud foe subduing,
When your patriot friends you see,
Think on vengeance for my ruin,
And for England sham'd in me."
William Shenstone ward 1714 zu Hales-Owen in Shropshire geboren, erhielt eine wissenschaftliche Bildung in Oxford und zog sich dann auf sein väterliches Erbe, das Landgut the Leasowes zurück, das er sehr verschönerte und wo er 1763 in stiller Abgeschiedenheit von der Welt starb. Er zeichnete sich vorzüglich als lyrischer und elegischer Dichter durch Wärme des Gefühls, tiefe Innigkeit und Einfachheit aus. Seine Werke erschienen gesammelt erst nach seinem Tode, London 1764, 3 Bde in 8.; sie enthalten Idyllen, Oden, Balladen und mehrere grössere Poesieen, unter denen das Urtheil des Herkules zwar correct aber geistlos, dagegen die Dorfschulmeisterin in Spenser's Manier eine sehr gelungene Leistung ist. Shenstone's Gedichte befinden sich im 99- 100. Bde der Bell'schen und im 9. der Anderson'schen Sammlung.
Select Passages
from Shenstone's School-mistress.
In every village mark'd with little spire,
Embower'd in trees, and hardly known to
And work the simple vassals mickle woe;
For not a wind might curl the leaves that
blew,
But their limbs shudder'd, and their pulse
beat low;
And as they look'd they found their horrour
grew,
There dwells in lowly shed, and mean attire,
A matron old, whom we School-mistress And shap'd it into rods, and tingled at the view.
Who boasts unruly brats with birch to tame;
They grieven sore, in piteous durance pent,
Aw'd by the power of this relentless dame;
And oft-times, on vagaries idly bent,
For unkempt hair, or task unconn'd, are sorely
shent.
And all in sight doth rise a birchen tree,
Which Learning near her little dome did stowe;
Whilom a twig of small regard to see,
So have I seen (who has not, may conceive)
A lifeless phantom near a garden plac'd;
So doth it wanton birds of peace bereave,
Of sport, of song, of pleasure, of repast;
They start, they stare, they wheel, they look
aghast;
Sad servitude! such comfortless annoy
May no bold Briton's riper age e'er taste!
No superstition clog his dance of joy,
Though now so wide its waving branches flow; No vision empty, vain, his native bliss destroy.
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