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While far beneath, where Nature spreads
Her boundless length of level meads,
In loose luxuriance taught to stray
A thousand tumbling rills inlay
With silver veins the vale, or pass
Redundant through the sparkling grass.

Yet, in these presages rude,
Midst her pensive solitude,
Fancy, with prophetic glance,
Sees the teeming months advance;
The field, the forest, green and gay,
The dappled slope, the tedded hay;
Sees the reddening orchard blow,
The harvest wave, the vintage flow;
Sees June unfold his glossy robe
Of thousand hues o'er all the globe;
Sees Ceres grasp her crown of corn,
And plenty load her ample horn.

His free-born vigour yet unbroke
To lordly man's usurping yoke,
The bounding colt forgets to play,
Basking beneath the noon-tide ray,
And stretch'd among the daisies pied
Of a green dingle's sloping side:

Gold s m ith.

Oliver Goldsmith, der Sohn eines Geistlichen ward nach Einigen 1729 zu Elphin, nach Anderen 1731 zu Pallas in Irland geboren, studirte in Dublin und Edinburg die Heilkunde und sah sich genöthigt, weil er sich für einen Freund hinsichtlich einer Schuld verbürgt hatte, Grossbritannien zu verlassen. Er durchstreifte nun drei Jahre lang zu Fuss Holland und Deutschland, sich, wie es ging theils durch sein Flötenspiel von den Bauern, theils durch sein Wissen, von den Geistlichen die nöthigen Subsistenzmittel verschaffend. In Löwen wurde er Baccalaureus der Medicin, begleitete dann einen reichen Landsmann nach Genf und Südfrankreich und kehrte endlich 1758 nach England zurück. Da es ihm an dem Nöthigsten fehlte so wurde er zuerst Unterlehrer in Peckham, später Corrector und endlich Schriftsteller in London. 1765 erschien sein Gedicht the Traveller und ein Jahr nachher sein meisterhafter Roman: The Vicar of Wakefield.

Von nun an war sein Ruf gegründet und er hätte durchaus sorgenfrei leben können, wenn sein Hang zur Verschwendung und seine angeborene Thätigkeit ihn nicht oft von Neuem in Verlegenheit gebracht hätten. Er war rastlos thätig und zeichnete sich eben so wohl als Lustspieldichter, wie als Historiker und populärer Schriftsteller höchst rühmlich aus. Er starb am 4. April 1774, wurde auf dem Kirchhof des Temple begraben und erhielt ein Denkmal in der Westminster-Abtei mit einer meisterhaften lateinischen Inschrift von Sam. Johnson.

Goldsmith's Gedichte, namentlich sein Deserted Village das zugleich eine edle moralisch politische Tendenz hatte, gehören dem Besten dieser Gattung an, das die englische Literatur aufzuweisen hat. Zartheit, Innigkeit, Wärme des Gefühls, Gedankenreichthum, einfache, edle Natürlichkeit und eine eben so reine wie correcte Diction sind glänzende Eigenschaften derselben die ihnen stets die volle Anerkennung ihres hohen Werthes sichern. Sie erschienen zuerst gesammel London 1780, sind dann ausserordentlich oft wieder aufgelegt worden und befinden sich auch im 10. Bde der Anderson'schen Sammlung.

Shoulder'd his crutch, and show'd how fields

were won. A select Passage

Pleas'd with his guest's, the good man learn'd from Goldsmith's deserted Village.

to glow,

And quite forgot their vices in their woe; Sweet was the sound, when oft at ev'ning's Careless their merits or their faults to scan,


His pity gave ere charity began. Up yonder hill the village murmur rose;

Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, There, as I pass'd with careless steps and slow, And ev’n his failings lean'd to virtue's side; The mingling notes came soften'd from below; But in his duty prompt, at ev'ry call, The swain responsive as the milk-maid sung, He watch'd and wept, he pray'd and felt, for all: The sober herd that low'd to meet their young; And, as a bird each fond endearment tries The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool, To tempt its new-fledg'd offspring to the skies, The playful children just let loose from school: He tried each art, reprov'd each dull delay, The watch-dog's voice, that bay'd the whisp'ring Allur’d to brighter worlds, and led the way.


Beside the bed where parting life was laid, And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind; And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismay'd, These all in sweet confusi sought the shade, The rev'rend champion stood. At his control, And fill'd each pause the nightingale had made. Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul; But now the sounds of population fail,

Comfort came down the trembling wretch to No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale,

raise, No busy steps the grass-grown footway tread, And his last fault'ring accents whisper'd praise. But all the blooming flush of life is fled.

At church, with meek and unaffected grace,
All but yon widow'd, solitary thing,

His looks adorn’d the venerable place;
That feebly bends beside the plashy spring; Truth from his lips prevail'd with double sway,
She, wretched matron, forc'd in age, for bread, And fools, who came to scoff, remain’d to pray.
To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread, The service past, around the pious man,
To pick her wintry faggot from the thorn, With steady zeal each honest rustic ran;
To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn; Ev'n children follow'd, with endearing wile,
She only left of all the harmless train,

And pluck'd his gown, to share the good man's The sad historian of the pensive plain.

smile; Near yonder copse, where once the garden His ready smile a parent's warmth exprest,


Their welfare pleas'd him, and their cares disAnd still where many a garden flow'r grows

trest: wild,

To them his heart, his love, his griefs, were giv'n, There, where a few torn shrubs the place dis- But all his serious thoughts had rest in Heav'n.


As some tall cliff, that lifts its awful form, The village preacher's modest mansion rose. Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the A man he was to all the country dear,

storm, And passing rich with forty pounds a year; Though round its breast the rolling clouds are Remote from towns he ra his godly race,

spread, Nor e'er had chang'd, nor wish'd to change his Eternal sunshine settles on its head.

Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for pow'r,
By doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour;
Far other aims his heart had learn'd to prize,
More bent to raise the wretched than to rise.

The Hermit.
His house was known to all the vagrant train,
He chid their wand'rings, but reliev'd their pain; “Turn, gentle hermit of the dale,
The long-remember'd beggar was his guest,

And guide my lonely way,
Whose beard descending swept his aged breast; To where yon taper cheers the vale
The ruin'd spendthrift, now no longer proud, With hospitable ray:
Claim'd kindred there, and had his claims


"For here forlorn and lost I tread, The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay,

With fainting steps and slow;
Sat by his fire, and talk'd the night away; Where wilds, immeasurably spread,
Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done, See m length’ning as I go.”


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"In humble, simplest habit clad,

No wealth or power had he; Wisdom and worth were all he had,

But these were all to me.


"The blossom opening to the day,

The dews of heav'n refin'd, Could nought of purity display,

To emulate his mind.

"The dew, the blossoms of the tree,

With charms inconstant shine; Their charms were his, but, woe to me,

Their constancy was mine.

"For still I tried each fickle art,

Importunate and vain; And, while his passion, touch'd my heart,

I triumph'd in his pain.

"Till, quite dejected with my scorn,

He left me to my pride; And sought a solitude forlorn,

In secret where he died.

An Extract from Goldsmith's Traveller.

Ev'n now, where Alpine solitudes ascend, I sit me down a pensive hour to spend; And plac'd on high above the storm's career, Look downward where hundred realms

appear; Lakes, forests, cities, plains, extending wide, The pomp of kings, the shepherd's humbler pride.

When thus creation's charms around combine, Amidst the store, should thankless pride repine? Say, should the philosophic mind disdain That good which makes each humbler bosom

vain? Let school-taught pride dissemble all it can, These little things are great to little man; And wiser he, whose sympathetic mind Exults in all the good of all mankind. Ye glitt'ring towns, with wealth and splendour

crown'd, Ye fields, where summer spreads profusion

round, Ye lakes, whose vessels catch the busy gale, Ye bending swains, that dress the flow'ry vale, For me your tributary stores combine; Creation's heir, the world, the world is mine.

As some lone miser, visiting his store, Bends at his treasure, counts, recounts it o'er, Hoards after hoards his rising raptures fill, Yet still he sighs, for hoards are wanting still ; Thus to my breast alternate passions rise, Pleas'd with each good that Heav'n to man

supplies; Yet oft a sigh prevails, and sorrows fall, To see the hoard of human bliss so small; And oft I wish, amidst the scene to find Some spot to real happiness consign'd, Where my worn soul, each wand'ring hope at

rest, May gather bliss, to see my fellows blest.

But where to find that happiest spot below,

"But mine the sorrow, mine the fault,

And, well my life shall pay: I'll seek the solitude he sought,

And stretch me where he lay.

"And there forlorn, despairing, hid,

I'll lay me down and die; 'T was so for me that Edwin did,

And so for him will l."

"Forbid it, Heaven!” the Hermit cried,

And clasp'd her to his breast: The wondering fair-one turned to chide;

'T was Edwin's self that prest!

"Turn, Angelina, ever dear,

My charmer, turn to see

What charm can soothe her melancholy,

What art can wash her guilt away?

The only art her guilt to cover,

To hide her shame from ev'ry eye,
To give repentance to her lover

And wring his bosom — is, to die.

Who can direct, when all pretend to know?
The shudd'ring tenant of the frigid zone
Boldly proclaims that happiest spot his own;
Extols the treasures of his stormy seas,
And his long nights of revelry and ease:
The naked Negro, panting at the Line,
Boasts of his golden sands, and palmy wine,
Basks in the glare or stems the tepid wave,
And thanks his gods for all the good they gave.
Such is the patriot's boast, where'er we roam,
His first, best country, ever is at home.
And yet, perhaps, if countries we compare,
And estimate the blessings which they share,
Though patriots flatter, still shall wisdom find
An equal portion dealt to all mankind:
As diff'rent good, by Art or Nature giv'n
To diff'rent nations, makes their blessings ev'n.


O Memory! thou fond deceiver,

Still importunate and vain,
To former joys recurring ever,

And turning all the past to pain;

Stanzas on Wom a n.

Thou, like the world, th' opprest oppressing,

Thy smiles increase the wretch's woe! And he who wants each other blessing,

In thee must ever find a foe.

When lovely woman stoops to folly

And finds too late that men betray,


John Cunningham, der Sohn eines Kaufmannes ward 1729 in Dublin geboren, zeichnete sich schon früh durch seine Fähigkeiten aus, und schrieb bereits in seinem siebzehnten Jahre ein Trauerspiel, was ihm aber zum Verderben gereichte, denn seine Neigung für die Bühne ward dadurch so genährt, dass er Mitglied einer wandernden Schauspielergesellschaft wurde und dies trotz Armuth und Elend sein ganzes Leben lang blieb. Er starb 1773 in Newcastle. Seine gesammelten Gedichte erschienen unter dem Titel Poems, chiefly Pastorals, London 1766 in 8. sind seitdem öfter aufgelegt worden und finden sich auch im 106. Bde der Bell'schen und im 10. Bde der Anderson'schen Sammlung. Sie zeichnen sich durch Wahrheit, Einfachheit, Natürlichkeit, Wärme des Gefühls vortheilhaft aus,

May-Eve: or, Kate of Aberdeen.

The silver moon's enamour'd beam

Steals softly through the night, To wanton with the winding stream,

And kiss reflected light.

To beds of state go balmy sleep,

'T is where you've seldom been, May's vigil whilst the shepherds keep

With Kate of Aberdeen.

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