Near to this dome is found a patch so green, Eager, perdie, to bask in sunny day! And eyes her fairy throng, and turns her wheel around. Her cap, far whiter than the driven snow, With dark distrust, and sad repentance fill'd; And stedfast hate, and sharp affliction join'd, And fury uncontroul'd, and chastisement unkind. * A russet stole was o'er her shoulders thrown; A russet kirtle fenc'd the nipping air; 'Twas simple russet, but it was her own; 'Twas her own country bred the flock so fair! 'Twas her own labour did the fleece prepare; And, sooth to say, her pupils, rang'd around, Through pious awe, did term it passing rare; For they in gaping wonderment abound, And think, no doubt, she been the greatest wight on ground. Albeit no flattery did corrupt her truth, Ne pompous title did debauch her ear; Redress'd affronts, for vile affronts there pass'd; And warn'd them not the fretful to deride, But love each other dear, whatever them betide. Right well she knew each temper to descry; To thwart the proud, and the submiss to raise; Some with vile copper-prize exalt on high, And some entice with pittance small of praise, And other some with baleful sprig she 'frays: E'en absent, she the reins of power doth hold, While with quaint arts the giddy crowd she sways: Forewarn'd, if little bird their pranks behold, 'T will whisper in her ear, and all the scene unfold. Lo now with state she utters the command! Eftsoons the urchins to their tasks repair; Their books of stature small they take in hand, Which with pellucid horn secured are, To save from finger wet the letters fair: The work so gay that on their back is seen, St. George's high achievements does declare; On which thilk wight that has y-gazing been, Kens the forth-coming rod, unpleasing sight, I ween! But now Dan Phoebus gains the middle skie, implore! For well may freedom erst so dearly won, Goody, good-woman, gossip, n'aunt, forsooth, Appear to British elf more gladsome than the sun. Or dame, the sole additions she did hear; Yet these she challenged, these she held right dear: Ne would esteem him act as mought behove, Who should not honour'd eld with these revere: For never title yet so mean could prove, But there was eke a mind which did that title love. * Enjoy, poor imps! enjoy your sportive trade, And chase gay flies, and cull the fairest flowers; For when my bones in grass-green sods are laid, For never may ye taste more careless hours Deluded wight! who weens fair Peace can spring In elbow-chair, like that of Scottish stem grac'd (The source of children's and of courtiers pride!), Hope. A Pastoral Ballad. My banks they are furnish'd with bees, Such health do my fountains bestow: Not a pine in my grove is there seen, But a sweet-brier entwines it around. One would think she might like to retire But I hasted and planted it there. To prune the wild branches away. From the plains, from the woodlands and groves, But where does my Phillida stray? What strains of wild melody flow! How the nightingales warble their loves From thickets of roses that blow! And when her bright form shall appear, Each bird shall harmoniously join In a concert so oft and so clear, As she may not be fond to resign. And where are her grots and her bowers? And the face of the valleys as fine; Gray. Thomas Gray ward 1716 in London geboren, erhielt seine Erziehung in Eton und studirte dann in Cambridge die Rechte, worauf er, um sich für die Praxis auszubilden, nach London ging. Später begleitete er Horace Walpole auf einer Reise nach dem Continent, überwarf sich jedoch mit demselben und kehrte allein nach England zurück. Er liess sich nun in Cambridge nieder, das er, einige Reiseausflüge abgerechnet, nicht wieder verliess und wo er 1768 die Professur der Geschichte erhielt, jedoch bereits 1771 starb. Gray hatte den Ruf eines der gelehrtesten Männer seiner Zeit, und hat eigentlich kein Werk hinterlassen, das diesen Ruf rechtfertigte; er galt für einen der besten und talentvollsten Dichter und seine hinterlassenen Gedichte sind der Zahl nach sehr unbedeutend, da er Vieles unvollendet hinterliess. Gedankenreichthum, Begeisterung, tiefes Gefühl und seltene Correctheit und Anmuth der Darstellung sind ihm in hohem Grade eigen und weisen ihm allerdings den ersten Rang unter seinen Zeitgenossen an; namentlich werden zwei seiner lyrischen Poesieen, die unten mitgetheilte Ode auf die Schule zu Eton und die so vielfach in das Deutsche übersetzte Elegie auf einen Dorfkirchhof die wir um der Beschränktheit des Raumes und ihrer allgemeinen Verbreitung willen wegliessen, sein Andenken erhalten, so lange es Freunde der englischen Poesie giebt. Er erweiterte das Gebiet der englischen Ode dadurch, dass er altvaterländische Sagenstoffe in ihren Kreis zog und wenn auch nicht ganz frei von Ueberladung, doch mit feinem Geschmack behandelte. Seine Gedichte erschienen zuerst von Horace Walpole herausgegeben London 1787 und seitdem sehr oft; die beste Edition ist die mit Anmerkungen von W. Mitford, London 1816-1819, 2 Bde in 4.; ferner befinden sie sich im 56. Bde von Johnson's, im 103. Bde von Bell's und im 10. Bde von Anderson's Sammlung. Ambition this shall tempt to rise, Then whirl the wretch from high, To bitter Scorn a sacrifice, And grinning Infamy. The stings of Falsehood those shall try, And hard Unkindness' alter'd eye, That mocks the tear it forc'd to flow; And keen Remorse, with blood defil'd, And moody Madness laughing wild Amid severest woe. Lo, in the vale of years beneath The painful family of Death, More hideous than their queen : This racks the joints, this fires the vains, Those in the deeper vitals rage: And slow-consuming Age. To each his sufferings: all are men, Condemn'd alike to groan; The tender for another's pain, The unfeeling for his own. Yet ah! why should they know their fate? And happiness too swiftly flies. The Progress of Poesy. Awake, Aeolian lyre, awake, And give to rapture all thy trembling strings. Headlong, impetuous, see it pour: And frantic passions, hear thy soft control: On Thracia's hills the lord of war Has curb'd the fury of his car, And dropp'd his thirsty lance at thy command; Perching on the scepter'd hand |Of Jove, thy magic lulls the feather'd king With ruffled plumes, and flagging wing: Quench'd in dark clouds of slumber lie The terrour of his beak, and lightning of his eye. Thee the voice, the dance, obey, Temper'd to thy warbled lay, O'er Italia's velvet-green The rosy-crowned Loves are seen, With antic sports and blue-ey'd pleasures, Now pursuing, now retreating, Slow-melting strains their queen's approach de clare: Where'er she turns, the Graces homage pay, II. Man's feeble race what ills await, And Death, sad refuge from the storms of The fond complaint, my song, disprove, Say, has he given in vain the heavenly Muse? Her spectres wan, and birds of boding cry, In climes beyond the solar road, Where shaggy forms o'er ice-built mountains roam, The Muse has broke the twilight gloom To cheer the shivering native's dull abode. The rocks, and nodding groves, rebellow to the She deigns to hear the savage youth repeat, roar. Oh! sovereign of the willing soul, Parent of sweet and solemn-breathing airs, Enchanting shell! the sullen cares, In loose numbers wildly sweet, Their feather-cinctur'd chiefs, and dusky loves. Th' unconquerable mind, and Freedom's holy | This can unlock the gates of Joy; flame. Woods, that wave o'er Delphi's steep, How do your tuneful echoes languish Murmur'd deep a solemn sound: Left their Parnassus, for the Latian plains And coward Vice, that revels in her chains. III. coast. Far from the sun and summer-gale, To him the mighty mother did unveil Richly paint the vernal year: Thine too these golden keys, immortal boy! Of Horrour that, and thrilling fears, Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic tears." He pass'd the flaming bounds of place and time; He saw; but, blasted with excess of light, Behold, where Dryden's less presumptuous car, Two coursers of ethereal race With necks in thunder cloth'd, and long-resound- Oh! lyre divine, what daring spirit Yet soft before his infant eyes would run Beneath the good how far - but far above great. Collins. William Collins, der Sohn eines Hutmachers und Alderman zu Chichester, ward daselbst am 25. December 1721 geboren, erhielt seine Erziehung in Winchester, studirte dann in Oxford und ging darauf nach London, wo er allein literarischen Beschäftigungen lebte. Im Jahre 1750 zwang ihn seine leidende Gesundheit Heilung unter einem milderen Himmelsstriche zu suchen, er kehrte aber krank zurück, verfiel in Wahnsinn und starb 1756 an seinem Geburtsort. Erst lange nach seinem Tode fand Collins als Dichter bei seinen Landsleuten die Anerkennung welche er namentlich in seinen lyrischen Poesieen, durchaus verdiente. Zartheit, Innigkeit, Eleganz, Würde und Correctheit geben denselben einen hohen Werth; minder glücklich war er in seinen orientalischen Eklogen, die vom Morgenlande weiter Nichts als den Namen hatten. Seine poeti |