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Near to this dome is found a patch so green,
On which the tribe their gambols do display;
And at the door imprisoning-board is seen,
Lest weakly wights of smaller size should
stray;

Eager, perdie, to bask in sunny day!
The noises intermixed, which thence resound,
Do Learning's little tenement betray;
Where sits the dame, disguis'd in look pro-
found,

And eyes her fairy throng, and turns her wheel around.

Her cap, far whiter than the driven snow,
Emblem right meet of decency does yield:
Her apron dy'd in grain, as blue, I trowe,
As is the hare-bell that adorns the field:
And in her hand, for sceptre, she does wield
Tway birchen sprays; with anxious fear en-
twin'd,

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,
And Liberty unbars her prison-door;
And like a rushing torrent out they fly,
And now the grassy cirque had cover'd o'er
With boisterous revel-rout and wild uproar;
A thousand ways in wanton rings they run,
Heaven shield their short-liv'd pastimes, I

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
In knightly castles, or in ladies' bowers.
O vain to seek delight in earthly thing!
But most in courts where proud Ambition
towers;

Deluded wight! who weens fair Peace can spring

In elbow-chair, like that of Scottish stem
By the sharp tooth of cankering eld defac'd,
In which, when he receives his diadem,
Our sovereign prince and liefest liege is plac'd,
The matron sate; and some with rank she Beneath the pompous dome of kesar or of king.

grac'd

(The source of children's and of courtiers

pride!),

Hope.

A Pastoral Ballad.

My banks they are furnish'd with bees,
Whose murmur invites one to sleep;
My grottoes are shaded with trees,
And my hills are white over with sheep.
I seldom have met with a loss,

Such health do my fountains bestow:
My fountains all border'd with moss,
Where the hare-bells and violets grow.

Not a pine in my grove is there seen,
But with tendrils of woodbine is bound:
Not a beech's more beautiful green,

But a sweet-brier entwines it around.
Not my fields, in the prime of the year,
More charms than my cattle unfold;
Not a brook that is limpid and clear,
But it glitters with fishes of gold.

One would think she might like to retire
To the bower I have labour'd to rear;
Not a shrub that I heard her admire,

But I hasted and planted it there.
O how sudden the jessamine strove
With the lilac to render it gay!
Already it calls for my love,

To prune the wild branches away.

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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?
Are the groves and the valleys as gay,
And the shepherds as gentle as ours?
The groves may perhaps be as fair,

And the face of the valleys as fine;
The swains may in manners compare,
But their love is not equal to mine.

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.

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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
A grisly troop are seen

The painful family of Death,

More hideous than their queen :

This racks the joints, this fires the vains,
That every labouring sinew strains,

Those in the deeper vitals rage:
Lo, Poverty, to fill the band,
That numbs the soul with icy hand,

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?
Since sorrow never comes too late,

And happiness too swiftly flies.
Thought would destroy their Paradise.
No more; where ignorance is bliss,
'Tis folly to be wise.

The Progress of Poesy.
I.

Awake, Aeolian lyre, awake,

And give to rapture all thy trembling strings.
From Helicon's harmonious springs
A thousand rills their mazy progress take;
The laughing flowers that round them blow,
Drink life and fragrance as they flow.
Now the rich stream of music winds along,
Deep, majestic, smooth, and strong,
Through verdant vales, and Ceres' golden reign:
Now rolling down the steep amain,

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,
On Cytherea's day

With antic sports and blue-ey'd pleasures,
Frisking light in frolic measures;

Now pursuing, now retreating,
Now in circling troops they meet,
To brisk notes in cadence beating
Glance their many-twinkling feet.

Slow-melting strains their queen's approach de

clare:

Where'er she turns, the Graces homage pay,
With arts sublime, that float upon the air,
In gliding state she wins her easy way:
O'er her warm cheek, and rising bosom, move
The bloom of young Desire, and purple of Love.

II.

Man's feeble race what ills await,
Labour and Penury, the racks of Pain,
Disease, and Sorrow's weeping train,

And Death, sad refuge from the storms of
Fate!

The fond complaint, my song, disprove,
And justify the laws of Jove.

Say, has he given in vain the heavenly Muse?
Night, and all her sickly dews,

Her spectres wan, and birds of boding cry,
He gives to range the dreary sky:
Till down the eastern cliffs afar
Hyperion's march they spy, and glittering shafts
of war.

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.
And oft, beneath the odorous shade
Of Chili's boundless forests laid,

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.
Her track, where'er the goddess roves,
Glory pursue, and generous shame,

Th' unconquerable mind, and Freedom's holy | This can unlock the gates of Joy;

flame.

Woods, that wave o'er Delphi's steep,
Isles, that crown th' Aegean deep,
Fields, that cool Ilissus laves,
Or where Maeander's amber waves
In lingering labyrinths creep,

How do your tuneful echoes languish
Mute, but to the voice of Anguish?
Where each old poetic mountain
Inspiration breath'd around:
Every shade and hallow'd fountain

Murmur'd deep a solemn sound:
Till the sad Nine, in Greece's evil hour,

Left their Parnassus, for the Latian plains
Alike they scorn the pomp of tyrant-power,

And coward Vice, that revels in her chains.
When Latium had her lofty spirit lost,
They sought, oh Albion! next thy sea-encircled

III.

coast.

Far from the sun and summer-gale,
In thy green lap was Nature's darling laid,
What time, where lucid Avon stray'd,

To him the mighty mother did unveil
Her aweful face: the dauntless child
Stretch'd forth his litte arms, and smil❜d.
"This pencil take", she said, "whose colours
clear

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."
Nor second he, that rode sublime
Upon the seraph-wings of Ecstasy,
The secrets of th' abyss to spy.

He pass'd the flaming bounds of place and time;
The living throne, the sapphire-blaze,
Where angels tremble, while they gaze,

He saw; but, blasted with excess of light,
Clos'd his eyes in endless night.

Behold, where Dryden's less presumptuous car,
Wide o'er the fields of glory bear

Two coursers of ethereal race

With necks in thunder cloth'd, and long-resound-
ing pace.
Hark, his hands the lyre explore!
Bright-ey'd Fancy, hovering o'er,
Scatters from her pictur'd urn
Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.
But ah! 'tis heard no more

Oh! lyre divine, what daring spirit
Wakes thee now? though he inherit
Nor the pride, nor ample pinion,
That the Theban eagle bear,
Sailing with supreme dominion
Through the azure deep of air:

Yet soft before his infant eyes would run
Such forms as glitter in the Muse's ray
With orient hues, unborrow'd of the Sun:
Yet shall he mount, and keep his distant way
Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate,

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

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