And, as he saw his darling money fail,
Blew his last breath, to sink the lighter scale.
The sexton shall green sods on thee bestow;
Alas, the sexton is thy banker now!
He who so long was current, 'twould be strange A dismal banker must that banker be,
If he should now be cried down since his change.] Who gives no bills but of mortality.
Joseph Addison, der Sohn eines Pfarrers, ward am 1. Mai 1672 zu Milston in Wiltshire geboren, studirte zu Oxford und machte dann, schon früh durch seine Fähigkeiten ausgezeichnet, mit königlicher Unterstützung eine Reise durch Frankreich und Italien. Bei seiner Rückkehr trat er in den Staatsdienst, begleitete den Grafen von Halifax nach Hannover und wurde nach der Thronbesteigung Georg's I. Unterstaatssecretair, nachdem er sich ein Jahr vorher, 1716, mit der verwittweten Gräfin von Warwick vermählt hatte. Reich und angesehen, starb er am 17. Juni 1719.
Addison war besonders ausgezeichnet als eleganter Prosaist und Sittenmaler und die von ihm theils in Verbindung mit Steele (mit dem er nachher auf unwürdige Weise brach), theils allein herausgegebenen Wochenschriften, the Tatler, the Spectator, the Freeholder u. s. w. haben ihm in dieser Hinsicht den wohlverdienten Ruf eines englischen Klassikers erworben. Als Dichter ist er dagegen kalt und nüchtern, obwohl correct und elegant, und selbst sein Trauerspiel "Cato", das einst so hoch gefeierte, das ganz nach den strengsten Regeln des Aristoteles und der französischen Schule gedichtet war, zeigt, obwohl reich an edeln Gedanken und schönen Schilderungen, dass Addison nur mit dem Verstande dichtete. Addison's Werke sind wiederholt aufgelegt worden; die beste Ausgabe ist die mit Anmerkungen von R. Hard, London 1811, 6 Bde in 8.
Paraphrase on Psalm XXIII.
The Lord my pasture shall prepare,
And feed me with a shepherd's care;
His presence shall my wants supply,
And guard me with a watchful eye:
My noon-day walks he shall attend,
And all my midnight hours defend.
When in the sultry glebe I faint,
Or on the thirsty mountain pant;
To fertile vales and dewy meads
My weary wandering step he leads,
Where peaceful rivers, soft and slow,
Amid the verdant landscape flow.
Though in the paths of death I tread,
With gloomy horrors overspread.
My stedfast heart shall fear no ill,
For thou, O Lord, art with me still;
Thy friendly crook shall give me aid,
And guide me through the dreadful shade.
Though in a bare and rugged way,
Through devious lonely wilds I stray,
Thy bounty shall my wants beguile:
The barren wilderness shall smile,
With sudden greens and herbage crown'd,
And streams shall murmur all around.
The spacious firmament on high,
With all the blue ethereal sky,
And spangled heavens, a shining frame
Their great Original proclaim.
Th' unwearied sun, from day to day,
Does his Creator's power display;
And publishes to every land,
The work of an Almighty hand.
Soon as the evening shades prevail,
The moon takes up the wonderous tale;
And nightly, to the listening earth,
Repeats the story of her birth:
Whilst all the stars that round her burn,
And all the planets, in their turn,
Confirm the tidings as they roll,
And spread the truth from pole to pole.
What though in solemn silence, all
Move round the dark terrestrial ball;
What though no real voice, nor sound,
Amidst their radiant orbs be found:
In reason's ear they all rejoice,
And utter forth a glorious voice;
For ever singing as they shine,
The hand that made us is divine.
|Unhurt amidst the war of elements,
The wreck of matter, and the crush of worlds.
What means this heaviness that hangs upon me?
This lethargy that creeps through all my senses?
Nature, oppress'd and harrass'd out with care,
Sinks down to rest. This once I'll favour her,
That my awaken'd soul may take her flight,
Renew'd in all her strength, and fresh with life,
An off'ring fit for heav'n. Let guilt or fear
Disturb man's rest, Cato knows neither of them,
Indiff'rent in his choice to sleep or die.
But, ha! who's this? my son! Why this intru
Were not my orders that I would be private?
Why am I disobey'd?
The wide, the unbounded prospect lies before me: You know, I'd rather die than disobey you.
Look not thus sternly on me;
But shadows, clouds, and darkness, rest upon it.
Here will I hold. If there's a power above us
(And that there is, all nature cries aloud
Through all her works), he must delight in virtue;
And that which he delights in must be happy.
But when, or where? this world was made
I'm weary of conjectures this must end them.
(Laying his Hand on his Sword.)
Thus am I doubly arm'd: my death and life,
My bane and antidote, are both before me.
This in a moment brings me to an end;
But this informs me I shall never die.
The soul, secur'd in her existence, smiles
At the drawn dagger, and defies its point.
The stars shall fade away, the sun himself
Grow dim with age, and nature sink in years,
But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth,
'Tis well! again I'm master of myself.
Now, Caesar, let thy troops beset our gates,
And bar each avenue; thy gath'ring fleets
O'erspread the sea, and stop up ev'ry port;
Cato shall open to himself a passage,
And mock thy hopes.
Oh, sir! forgive your son,
Whose grief hangs heavy on him. Oh, my father!
How am I sure it is not the last time
I e'er shall call you so? Be not displeas'd,
Oh, be not angry with me whilst I weep,
And, in the anguish of my heart, beseech you
To quit the dreadful purpose of your soul!
(Embracing him.)
Thou hast been ever good and dutiful.
Weep not, my son, all will be well again;
The righteous gods, whom I have sought
please,
Will succour Cato, and preserve his children.
Your words give comfort to my drooping heart.
Cato.
Portius, thou may'st rely upon my conduct:
Thy father will not act what misbecomes him.
But go, my son, and see if aught be wanting
Though stern and awful to the foes of Rome,
He is all goodness, Lucia, always mild;
to Compassionate and gentle to his friends;
Fill'd with domestic tenderness, the best,
The kindest father; I have ever found him
Easy and good, and bounteous to my wishes.
Lucia.
'Tis his consent alone can make us blest.
But who knows Cato's thoughts?
Who knows how yet he may dispose of Portius,
Or how he has determin'd of thyself?
Among thy father's friends, see them embark'd, Let him but live, commit the rest to heav'n.
And tell me if the winds and seas befriend them.
My soul is quite weigh'd down with care, and asks
The soft refreshment of a moment's sleep.
Sweet are the slumbers of the virtuous man!
Oh, Marcia, I have seen thy godlike father;
Some power invisible supports his soul,
And bears it up in all its wonted greatness.
A kind, refreshing sleep is fall'n upon him:
I saw him stretch'd at ease; his fancy lost
In pleasing dreams; as I drew near his couch,
He smil'd, and cried, Caesar, thou canst not
Marcia.
His mind still labours with some dreadful thought.
Enter Juba.
Juba.
Lucius, the horsemen are return'd from viewing
The number, strength, and posture of our foes,
Who now encamp within a short hour's march;
On the high point of yon bright western tower
We ken them from afar; the settling sun
Plays on their shining arms and burnish'd helmets,
And covers all the field with gleams of fire.
Marcia, 'tis time we should awake thy father.
Caesar is still dispos'd to give us terms,
And waits at distance till he hears from Cato.
Portius; thy looks speak somewhat of importance.
What tidings dost thou bring? Methinks I see
Unusual gladness sparkle in thy eyes.
As I was hasting to the port, where now
My father's friends, impatient for a passage,
Accuse the ling'ring winds, a sail arriv'd
From Pompey's son, who, through the realms
of Spain,
Isaac Watts ward 1674 in Southampton, wo sein Vater dissentirender Prediger war, geboren, erhielt eine wissenschaftliche Bildung in London und wurde dann selbst Seelsorger einer dissentirenden Gemeine; seine zarte Constitution zwang ihn jedoch diesem Berufe zu entsagen und Hausgenosse seines Freundes Sir Thomas Abney zu werden, bei dem er bis zu seinem am 25. November 1748 erfolgten Tode verweilte.
Seine prosaischen und poetischen Werke wurden 1754 zu London von Doddridge herausgegeben, 6 Bde in 8. Die Poesieen sind meist religiösen Inhaltes, gesund, natürlich, correct und elegant, aber ohne poetisches Feuer. Am glücklichsten ist er in seinen Divine Songs for Children, die noch jetzt in ganz England verbreitet sind und grossen Segen gestiftet haben.
|