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Near to this dome is found a patch so green, Redress'd affronts, for vile affronts there pass'd;
Right well she knew each temper to descry; Eager, perdie, to bask in sunny day!
To thwart the proud, and the submiss to raise; The noises intermixed, which thence resound, Some with vile copper-prize exalt on high, Do Learning's little tenement betray;
And some entice with pittance small of praise, Where sits the dame, disguis'd in look pro- And other some with baleful sprig she 'frays:
E'en absent, she the reins of power doth hold, And eyes her fairy throng, and turns her wheel While with quaint arts the giddy crowd she around.
Forewarn'd, if little bird their pranks behold, Her cap, far whiter than the driven snow,
'T will whisper in her ear, and all the scene Emblem right meet of decency does yield:
unfold. Her apron dy'd in grain, as blue, I trowe, As is the hare-bell that adorns the field :
Lo now with state she utters the command! And in her hand, for sceptre, she does wield
Eftsoons the urchins to their tasks repair; Tway birchen sprays; with anxious fear en
Their books of stature small they take in hand, twin'd,
Which with pellucid horn secured are, With dark distrust, and sad repentance fill'd;
To save from finger wet the letters fair: And stedfast hate, and sharp affliction join'd,
The work so gay that on their back is seen, And fury uncontroul'd, and chastisement unkind.
St. George's high achievements does declare;
On which thilk wight that has y-gazing been,
Kens the forth-coming rod, unpleasing sight, A russet stole was o'er her shoulders thrown;
I ween! 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;
But now Dan Phoebus gains the middle skie, And, sooth to say, her pupils, rang'd around,
And Liberty unbars her prison-door; Through pious awe, did term it passing rare;
And like a rushing torrent out they fly, For they in gaping wonderment abound,
And now the grassy cirque had cover'd o'er And think, no doubt, she been the greatest
With boisterous revel-rout and wild uproar; wight on ground.
A thousand ways in wanton rings they run,
Heaven shield their short-liv'd pastimes, I Albeit no flattery did corrupt her truth,
implore! Ne pompous title did debauch her ear;
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
Enjoy, poor imps! enjoy your sportive trade, dear:
And chase gay flies, and cull the fairest Ne would esteem him act as mought behove,
flowers; Who should not honour'd eld with these revere:
For when my bones in grass-green sods are For never title yet so mean could prove,
laid, But there was eke a mind which did that title
For never may ye taste more careless hours love.
In knightly castles, or in ladies' bowers.
But most in courts where proud Ambition In elbow-chair, like that of Scottish stem
towers; By the sharp tooth of cankering eld defac'd,
Deluded wight! who weens fair Peace can In which, when he receives bis diadem,
spring Our sovereign prince and liefest liege is plac'd, Beneath the pompous dome of kesar or of king. The matron sate; and some with rank she
grac'd (The source of children's and of courtiers
I have found out a gift for my fair;
I have found where the wood-pigeons breed: My banks they are furnish'd with bees,
But let me that plunder forbear, Whose murmur invites one to sleep;
She will say 't was a barbarous deed.
For he ne'er could be true, she averr’d,
Who would rob a poor bird of its young:
And I loy'd her the more when I heard
Such tenderness fall from her tongue.
How that pity was due to - a dove:
That it ever attended the bold; But with tendrils of woodbine is bound:
And she call'd it the sister of love. Not a beech's more beautiful green,
But her words such a pleasure convey, But a sweet-brier entwines it around.
So much I her accents adore, Not my fields, in the prime of the year,
Let her speak, and whatever she say,
Methinks I should love her the more.
Can a bosom so gentle remain
Unmov'd when her Corydon sighs ? To the bower I have labour'd to rear;
Will a nymph that is fond of the plain, Not a shrub that I heard her admire,
These plains and this valley despise? But I hasted and planted it there.
Dear regions of silence and shade! O how sudden the jessamine strove
Soft scenes of contentment and ease! With the lilac to render it gay!
Where I could have pleasingly stray'd,
If aught, in her absence, could please.
And where are her grots and her bowers?
And the shepherds as gentle as ours ?
And the face of the valleys as fine;
The swains may in manners compare, As she may not be fond to resign.
But their love is not equal to mine.
Gr a y.
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,
And frantic passions, hear thy soft control: Then whirl the wretch from high,
On Thracia's hills the lord of war To bitter Scorn a sacrifice,
Has curb’d the fury of his car, And grinning Infamy.
And dropp'd his thirsty lance at thy command;
Of Jove, thy magic lulls the feather'd king
The terrour of his beak, and lightning of his eye. Amid severest woe.
Thee the voice, the dance, obey,
Temper'd to thy warbled lay, Lo, in the vale of years beneath
O'er Italia's velvet-green A grisly troop are seen
The rosy-crowned Loves are seen, The painful family of Death,
On Cytherea's day
With antic sports and blue-ey'd pleasures,
Now pursuing, now retreating,
Now in circling troops they meet, Lo, Poverty, to fill the band,
To brisk notes in cadence beating That numbs the soul with icy hand,
Glance their many-twinkling feet. And slow-consuming Age.
Slow-melting strains their queen's approach de
clare: To each his sufferings : all are men,
Where'er she turns, the Graces homage pay, Condemn'd alike to groan;
With arts sublime, that float upon the air, The tender for another's pain,
In gliding state she wins her easy way : The unfeeling for his own.
O'er her warm cheek, and rising bosom, move Yet ah! why should they know their fate? The bloom of young Desire, and purple of Love. Since sorrow never comes too late,
And happiness too swiftly flies. Thought would destroy their Paradise.
Man's feeble race what ills await,
And justify the laws of Jove.
Say, has he given in vain the heavenly Muse?
Night, and all her sickly dews, 1.
Her spectres wan, and birds of boding cry, Awake, Aeolian lyre, awake,
He gives to range the dreary sky: And give to rapture all thy trembling strings. Till down the eastern cliffs afar From Helicon's harmonious springs
Hyperion's march they spy, and glittering shafts A thousand rills their mazy progress take;
of war. The laughing flowers that round them blow, In climes beyond the solar road, Drink life and fragrance as they flow.
Where shaggy forms o'er ice-built mountains Now the rich stream of music winds along,
roam, Deep, majestic, smooth, and strong,
The Muse has broke the twilight gloom Through verdant vales, and Ceres' golden reign: To cheer the shivering native's dull abode. Now rolling down the steep amain,
And oft, beneath the odorous shade
Of Chili's boundless forests laid,
In loose numbers wildly sweet,
Their feather-cinctur'd chiefs, and dusky loves. Parent of sweet and solemn-breathing airs, Her track, where'er the goddess roves, Enchanting shelll the sullen cares,
Glory pursue, and generous shame,
Th' unconquerable inind, and Freedom's holy This can unlock the gates of Joy;
Of Horrour that, and thrilling fears, Woods, that wave o'er Delphi's steep,
Or.ope the sacred source of sympathetic tears." Isles, that crown th' Aegean deep,
Nor second he, that rode sublime Fields, that cool Ilissus laves,
Upon the seraph-wíngs of Ecstasy, Or where Maeander's amber waves
The secrets of th' abyss to spy. In lingering labyrinths creep,
He pass'd the flaming bounds of place and time; How do your tuneful echoes languish
The living throne, the sapphire-blaze, Mute, but to the voice of Anguish?
Where angels tremble, while they gaze, Where each old poetic mountain
He saw; but, blasted with excess of light, Inspiration breath'd around:
Clos'd his eyes in endless night. Every shade and hallow'd fountain
Behold, where Dryden's less presumptuous car, Murmur'd deep a solemn sound:
Wide o'er the fields of glory bear Till the sad Nine, in Greece's evil hour,
Two coursers of ethereal race Left their Parnassus, for the Latian plains With necks in thunder cloth’d, and long-resoundAlike they scorn the pomp of tyrant-power,
ing pace. And coward Vice, that revels in her chains. Hark, his hands the lyre explore! When Latium had her lofty spirit lost,
Bright-ey'd Fancy, hovering n'er, They sought, oh Albion! next thy sea-encircled 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 Far from the sun and summer-gale,
Nor the pride, nor ample pinion, In thy green lap was Nature's darling laid, That the Theban eagle bear, What time, where lucid Avon stray'd,
Sailing with supreme dominion To him the mighty mother did unveil Through the azure deep of air: Her aweful face: the dauntless child
Yet soft before his infant eyes would run Stretch'd forth his litte arms, and smil'd. Such forms as glitter in the Muse's ray “This pencil take”, she said, “whose colours With orient hues, unborrow'd of the Sun:
Yet shall he mount, and keep his distant way Richly paint the vernal year:
Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate, Thine too these golden keys, immortal boy! Beneath the good how far - but far above great.
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