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I it at mine own fingers nurs'd;
And as it grew, so every day

It wax'd more white and sweet than they.
It had so sweet a breath! And oft
I blush'd to see its foot moore soft,
And white, shall I say than my hand?
Nay, any lady's of the land.

It is a wondrous thing how fleet
'Twas on those little silver feet.
With what a pretty skipping grace
It oft would challenge me the race;
And when't had left me far away,
'Twould stay, and run again, and stay.
For it was nimbler much than hinds;
And trod, as if on the four winds.

I have a garden. of my own,
But so with roses overgrown,
And lilies, that you would it guess
To be a little wilderness:

And all the spring time of the year
It only loved to be there.
Among the beds of lilies I

Have sought it oft, where it should lye;
Yet could not, till itself would rise,
Find it, although before mine eyes;
For, in the flaxen lilies' shade,
It like a bank of lilies laid.
Upon the roses it would feed,
Until its lips ev'n seemed to bleed;
And then to me 't would boldly trip,
And print those roses on my lip.
But all its chief delight was still
On roses thus itself to fill;
And its pure virgin limbs to fold
In whitest sheets of lilies cold.

Had it lived long, it would have been
Lilies without, roses within.

O help! O help! I see it faint,
And dye as calmly as a saint.
See how it weeps! the tears do come,
Sad, slowly, dropping like a gum.
So weeps the wounded balsam; so
The holy frankincense doth flow.
The brotherless Heliades

Melt in such amber tears as these.
I in a golden vial will
Keep these two crystal tears; and fill
It, till it do o'erflow with mine;
Then place it in Diana's shrine.

Now my sweet Fawn is vanish'd to
Whither the swans and turtles go;
In fair Elisium to endure,

With milk-white lambs, and ermines pure.
O do not run too fast: for I

Will but bespeak thy grave, and dye.

First my unhappy statue shall

Be cut in marble; and withal,

Let it be weeping too; but there
Th' engraver sure his art may spare,
For I so truly thee bemoan,

That I shall weep though I be stone;
Until my tears, still dropping, wear
My breast, themselves engraving there.
There at my feet shalt thou be laid,
Of purest alabaster made;

For I would have thine image be
White as I can, though not as thee.

To his coy Mistress.

Had we but world enough, and time,
This coyness, Lady, were no crime.
We would sit down, and think which way
To walk, and pass our long love's day.
Thou by the Indian Ganges' side
Should'st rubies find: I by the tide
Of Humber would complain. I wou'd
Love you ten years before the flood:
And you should, if you please, refuse
Till the conversion of the Jews.
My vegetable love should grow
Vaster than empires, and more slow.
An hundred years should go to praise
Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze
Two hundred to adore each breast:
But thirty thousand to the rest.
An age at least to every part,

And the last age should show your heart.
For, Lady, you deserve this state;
Nor would I love at lower rate.

But at my back I always hear
Time's winged chariot hurrying near:
And yonder all before us lye
Desarts of vast eternity.

Thy beauty shall no more be found;
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
My echoing song: then worms shall try
That long preserv'd virginity:
And your quaint honour turn to dust;
And into ashes all my lust.

The grave's a fine and private place,
But none, I think, do there embrace.

Now therefore, while the youthful hue
Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
And while thy willing soul transpires
At every pore with instant fires,
Now let us sport us while we may;
And now, like am'rous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour,

Than languish in his slow chap'd pow'r.

Let us roll all our strength, and all
Our sweetness, up into one ball:

And tear our pleasures with rough strife,

Thorough the iron gates of life.

Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.

Dryden.

John Dryden ward am 9. August 1631 (nach Anderen 1632) zu Aldwinkle in Northamptonshire geboren, studirte in Cambridge und begab sich dann nach London, wo er zuerst mit einer Elegie auf den Tod Cromwell's auftrat und in einem andern Gedichte Astraea redux die Restau ration verherrlichte. 1665 vermählte er sich mit der Tochter des Grafen von Berkshire, Elisabeth Howard, ward eines der ersten Mitglieder der königlichen Akademie und arbeitete dann seit dem grossen Brande vorzüglich für das königliche Theater. Nach Davenant's Tode ward er Hofpoet und bald nachher auch königlicher Historiograph, doch schützte ihn dies nicht vor heftigen und wiederholten Angriffen. Nach der Thronbesteigung Jakob's II. trat Dryden zur katholischen Religion über und vertheidigte diesen Schritt, wegen dessen er heftig angefeindet wurde, in mehreren Gedichten, besonders in dem darauf vorbereitenden didactischen Poem Religio Laici und in dem allegorischen Gedichte The Hind and the Panther. Die Revolution raubte ihm alle seine Aemter und er musste nun während seiner letzten Lebensjahre für das tägliche Brod arbeiten und mit Sorgen und Entbehrungen kämpfen. Er beschäftigte sich nun hauptsächlich mit poetischen Uebersetzungen, in denen er seltene Meisterschaft beurkundete, bis zu seinem am 1. Mai 1701 erfolgten Tode. Seine Leiche ward in der Westminster-Abtei beigesetzt.

Die beste Ausgabe von Dryden's poetischen Werken besorgte Jos. Warton (London 1811, 4 Bde. 8.); die seiner sämmtlichen sowohl dichterischen wie prosaischen Schriften W. Scott. (London 1808, 18 Bde. 8.). Die ersteren enthalten Dramen, Satiren, didactische Gedichte u. s. w., denn Dryden cultivirte alle Gattungen der Poesie. Er ist das Haupt einer neuen Dichterschule in England, welche mit grosser Besonnenheit, aber ohne Begeisterung einen neuen kunstgerechten Schulton einführte und viel für die Verfeinerung des Geschmackes und die Correctheit der Sprache und Form that, aber an Genialität den grossen Dichtern früher Zeit weit nachsteht. Als poetischer Stylist ist Dryden höchst ausgezeichnet, und was man als solcher erreichen kann, hat er erreicht, was aber den wahren Dichter macht, fehlt ihm fast ganz; er ist ein feiner Satiriker, ein guter Lehrdichter, ein talentvoller Gelegenheitspoet und ein scharfsinniger geschmackvoller Kritiker, aber kalt in seinen Dramen wie überhaupt da, wo es auf Kraft, Phantasie und Gefühl ankommt.

Select Passages from Eleanora.
As precious gums are not for lasting fire,
They but perfume the temple, and expire:
So was she soon exhal'd, and vanish'd hence;
A short sweet odor, of a vast expence.
She vanish'd, we can scarcely say she dy'd;
For but a now did heaven and earth divide:
She pass'd serenely with a single breath;
This moment perfect health, the next was death:
One sigh did her eternal bliss assure;

So little penance needs, when souls are almost

pure.

As gentle dreams our waking thoughts pursue;
Or, one dream pass'd, we slide into a new;
So close they follow, such wild order keep,
We think ourselves awake, and are asleep:
So softly death succeeded life in her:
She did but dream of heaven, and she was there.
No pains she suffer'd, nor expir'd with noise;
Her soul was whisper'd out with God's still
voice;

As an old friend is beckon'd to a feast,
And treated like a long familiar guest.
He took her as he found, but found her so,

As one in hourly readiness to go:
Ev'n on that day, in all her trim prepar'd;
As early notice she from heaven had heard,
And some descending courier from above
Had given her timely warning to remove;
Or counsel'd her to dress the nuptial room,
For on that night the bridegroom was to come.
He kept his hour, and found her where she lay
Cloath'd all in white, the livery of the day:
Scarce had she sinn'd in thought, or word,
act;

Unless omissions were to pass for fact:
That hardly death a consequence could draw,
To make her liable to nature's law.

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Whether some soul incompassing this ball,
Unmade, unmov'd, yet making, moving all;
Or various atoms' interfering dance,
Leap'd into form, the noble work of chance;
Or this great all was from eternity;
Not ev'n the Stagirite himself could see;
And Epicurus guess'd as well as he:
As blindly grop'd they for a future state;
As rashly judg'd of providence and fate:
or But least of all could their endeavours find
What most concern'd the good of human kind.
For happiness was never to be found,

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But vanish'd from them like enchanted ground. One thought content the good to be enjoy'd; This every little accident destroy'd:

The wiser madmen did for virtue toil;

A thorny, or at best a barren soil:

O happy soul! if thou canst view from high, In pleasure some their glutton souls would steep; Where thou art all intelligence, all eye;

If, looking up to God, or down to us,
Thou find'st, that any way be pervious,
Survey the ruins of thy house, and see
Thy widow'd and thy orphan family:
Look on thy tender pledges left behind;
And if thou canst a vacant minute find
From heavenly joys, that interval afford
To thy sad children, and thy mourning lord.
See how they grieve, mistaken in their love,
And shed a beam of comfort from above;
Give them, as much as mortal eyes can bear,
A transient view of thy full glories there;
That they with mod'rate sorrow may sustain
And mollify their losses in thy gain.
Or else divide the grief; for such thou wert,
That should not all relations bear a part,
It were enough to break a single heart.

*

*

From Dryden's Religio Laici.

Dim as the borrow'd beams of moon and stars
To lonely, weary, wand'ring travellers,
Is reason to the soul: and as on high,
Those rolling fires discover but the sky,
Not light us here: so reason's glimmering ray
Was lent, not to assure our doubtful way,
But guide us upward to a better day.
And as those nightly tapers disappear,
When day's bright lord ascends our hemisphere;
So pale grows reason at religion's sight;
So dies, and so dissolves in supernatural light.
Some few, whose lamp shone brighter,
been led
From cause to cause, to nature's secret head;
And found that one First Principle must be:
But what, or who, that universal He;

have

But found their line too short, the well too deep;
And leaky vessels which no bliss could keep.
Thus anxious thoughts in endless circles roll,
Without a centre where to fix the soul:

In this wild maze their vain endeavours end:
How can the less the greater comprehend?
Or finite reason reach Infinity?

For what could fathom God were more than He.
The Deist thinks he stands on firmer ground;
Cries vonza, the mighty secret's found:
God is that spring of good; supreme, and best;
We made to serve, and in that service blest.
If so, some rules of worship must be given:
Distributed alike to all by Heaven:

Else God were partial, and to some deny'd
The means his justice should for all provide
This general worship is to praise and pray
One part to borrow blessings, one to pay:
And when frail nature slides into offence,
The sacrifice for crimes is penitence.

Yet since the effects of providence, we find,
Are variously dispens'd to human kind;
That vice triumphs, and virtue suffers here,
A brand that sovereign justice cannot bear;
Our reason prompts us to a future state,
The last appeal from fortune and from fate,
Where God's all righteous ways will be declar'd,
The bad meet punishment, the good reward.

Thus man by his own strength to heaven
would soar,

And would not be oblig'd to God for more.
Vain wretched creature, how art thou misled
To think thy wit these god-like notions bred!
These truths are not the product of thy mind,
But dropt from heaven, and of a nobler kind.
Reveal'd religion first inform'd thy sight,
And reason saw not till faith sprung the light."
Hence all thy natural worship takes the source:
'Tis revelation what thou think'st discourse.

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Of natural worship, built on prayer and praise
To one sole God.

Nor did remorse to expiate sin prescribe:
But slew their fellow-creatures for a bribe:
The guiltless victim groan'd for their offence,
And cruelty and blood was penitence.
If sheep and oxen could atone for men,
Ah! at how cheap a rate the rich might sin!
And great oppressors might Heaven's wrath
beguile,

By offering his own creatures for a spoil!

Dar'st thou, poor worm, offend Infinity?
And must the terms of peace be given by thee?
Then thou art justice in the last appeal:
Thy easy God instructs thee to rebel:
And, like a king remote, and weak, must take
What satisfaction thou art pleas'd to make.
But if there be a power too just and strong,

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Roscom m o n.

Wentworth Dillon Graf von Roscommon ward 1633 in Irland geboren, erhielt eine wissenschaftliche Bildung in Caen, bereiste darauf Frankreich und Italien, kehrte zur Zeit der Restauration zurück und wurde dann Hauptmann der Garde, ein Posten den er jedoch später wieder aufgab. Nach einer ziemlich regellosen Jugend widmete er sich ernsteren Bestrebungen und ging vorzüglich mit dem Plane um, eine Akademie nach dem Muster der französischen zu stiften, um die Reinheit und Correctheit der englischen Sprache zu überwachen, was ihm jedoch nicht glückte. Er beschäftigte sich nun mit einem didactischen Gedichte über die Kunst Verse zu übersetzen und mit poetischen Uebertragungen selbst. Als die Revolution auszubrechen drohte, wollte er nach Rom flüchten, aber ein heftiger Gichtanfall zwang ihn zu bleiben und führte 1684 seinen Tod herbei. Er ward mit grosser Feierlichkeit in der Westminster - Abtei begraben.

Seine Gedichte erschienen zuerst gesammelt, London 1717 in 8. und sind seitdem öfter wieder aufgelegt worden Sie sind correct, elegant, gefällig, aber kalt, doch ist nicht zu leugnen, dass Roscommon seiner Zeit sehr günstig auf die Verfeinerung des Geschmackes wirkte.

Select Passages

from the Essay on translated Verse. Each poet with a different talent writes; One praises, one instructs, another bites. Horace did ne'er aspire to Epic bays, Nor lofty Maro stoop to Lyric lays. Examine how your humour is inclin'd, And which the ruling passion of your mind; Then seek a poet who your way does bend, And choose an author as you choose a friend. United by this sympathetic bond,

You grow familiar, intimate, and fond:

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I pity, from my soul, unhappy men,
Compell'd by want to prostitute their pen;
Who must, like lawyers, either starve or plead,
And follow, right or wrong, where guineas lead!

Your thoughts, your words, your styles, your But you, Pompilian, wealthy, pamper'd heirs,

souls agree

No longer his interpreter, but he.

Who to your country owe your swords and cares,
Let no vain hope your easy mind seduce,

With how much ease is a young Muse be- For rich ill poets are without excuse,

tray'd!

How nice the reputation of the maid!
Your early, kind, paternal care appears,
By chaste instruction of her tender years.
The first impression in her infant breast
Will be the deepest, and should be the best.
Let not austerity breed servile fear;
No wanton sound offend her virgin ear,
Secure from foolish pride's affected state,
And spacious flattery's more pernicious bait,
Habitual innocence adorns her thoughts;
But your neglect must answer for her faults.
Immodest words admit of no defence;
For want of decency is want of sense.
What moderate fop would rake the park or stews,
Who among troops of faultless nymphs may
choose?

Variety of such is to be found:
Take then a subject proper to expound;
But moral, great, and worth a poet's voice;
For men of sense despise a trivial choice:
And such applause it must expect to meet,
As would some painter busy in a street,
To copy bulls and bears, and every sign
That calls the staring sots to nasty wine.

What I have instanc'd only in the best, Is, in proportion, true of all the rest. Take pains the genuine meaning to explore: There sweat, there strain; tug the laborious oar; Search every comment that your care can find; Some here, some there, may hit the poet's mind: Yet be not blindly guided by the throng: The multitude is always in the wrong.

'Tis very dangerous, tampering with the Muse,
The profit's small, aud you have much to lose;
For though true wit adorns your birth or place,
Degenerate lines degrade th' attainted race.
No poet any passion can excite,

But what they feel transport them when they write.

Have you been led through the Cumaean cave,
And heard th' impatient maid divinely rave?
I hear her now; I see her rolling eyes:
And panting, Lo! the God, the God, she cries;
With words not her's, and more than human
sound

She makes th' obedient ghosts peep trembling through the ground. But, though we must obey when heaven commands,

And man in vain the sacred call withstands,
Beware what spirit rages in your breast;
For ten inspir'd, ten thousand are possest.
Thus make the proper use of each extreme,
And write with fury, but correct with phlegm.
As when the cheerful hours too freely pass,
And sparkling wine smiles in the tempting glass,
Your pulse advises, and begins to beat
Through every swelling vein a loud retreat:
So when a Muse propitiously invites,
Improve her favours, and indulge her flights;
But when you find that vigorous heat abate,
Leave off, and for another summons wait.
Before the radiant sun, a glimmering lamp,
Adulterate measures to the sterling stamp,
Appear not meaner than mere human lines,
Compar'd with those whose inspiration shines:
These nervous, bold; those languid and remiss;
There cold salutes; but here a lover's kiss.

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