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At this, thy living bloom must fade;
As that will strip the verdant shade.

Let us, Amanda, timely wise,
Like them improve the hour that flies;
And, in soft raptures, waste the day,
Among the shades of Endermay.

Our taste of pleasure then is o'er,
The feather'd songsters love no more:
And when they droop, and we decay,
Adieu the shades of Endermay!

For soon the winter of the year,
And age, life's winter, will appear:


John Dyer, der Sohn eines Rechtsgelehrten ward 1700 zu Aberglasney in Caermarthenshire geboren, und erhielt seine Bildung in der Westminsterschule. Für den Stand seines Vaters bestimmt, entsagte er jedoch der Jurisprudenz und widmete sich der Malerkunst. Er besuchte Italien und die Frucht seiner Reise war ein descriptives Gedicht, The Ruins of Rome, nachdem er sich schon früher die Gunst des Publicums durch ein kleineres Poem derselben Gattung, Grongar Hill, erworben hatte. Aus Italien heimgekehrt, widmete er sich der Theologie, wurde ordinirt und bekleidete nach einander mehrere Pfarrämter. Kurz vor seinem Tode veröffentlichte er noch ein längeres didactisches Gedicht, The Fleece, das sich jedoch nicht sonderlichen Beifalls zu erfreuen hatte. Er starb am 24. Juli 1758.

Seine Gedichte erschienen gesammelt London 1757; sie finden sich auch im 53. Bde. der Johnson'schen, im 94. Bde. der Bell'schen und im 9. Bde. der Anderson'schen Sammlung. Gedankenreichthum, tiefes Gefühl, grosses Talent malerischer Darstellung und stylistische Anmuth offenbaren sich in denselben, namentlich in Grongar Hill, das auch die meiste Anerkennung fand. Sein didactisches Gedicht über die Wolle ward dagegen weniger geschätzt und zeichnet sich doch durch Gründlichkeit, meisterhafte Einfachheit und echte Vaterlandsliebe frei von allem Prunke, vor vielen ähnlichen Versuchen jener Tage und seines Landes höchst vortheilhaft aus.

Grongar Hill.

Silent nymph, with curious eye!
Who, the purple evening, lie
On the mountain's lonely van,
Beyond the noise of busy man;
Painting fair the form of things
While the yellow linnet sings;
Or the tuneful nightingale
Charms the forest with her tale;
Come, with all thy various dues
Come and aid thy sister Muse;
Now, while Phoebus riding high,
Gives lustre to the land and sky!
Grongar Hill invites my song,
Draw the landscape bright and strong;

¡Grongar, in whose mossy cells
Sweetly musing Quiet dwells;
Grongar, in whose silent shade,
For the modest Muses made;
So oft I have, the evening still,
At the fountain of a rill,
Sate upon a flowery bed,
With my hand beneath my head;
While stray'd my eyes o'er Towy's flood,
Over mead and over wood,
From house to house, from hill to hill,
Till Contemplation had her fill.

About his chequer'd sides I wind,
And leave his brooks and meads behind,
And groves, and grottoes where I lay,
And vistas shooting beams of day.

A little rule, a little sway,
A sun-beam in a winter's day
Is all the proud and mighty have
Between the cradle and the grave.

And see the rivers how they run,
Through woods and meads, in shade and sun
Sometimes swift, sometimes slow,

Wave succeeding wave, they go
A various journey to the deep,
Like human life, to endless sleep!
Thus is Nature's vesture wrought;
To instruct our wandering thought;
Thus she dresses green and gay,
To disperse our cares away.

Ever charming, ever new,
When will the landscape tire the view!
The fountain's fall, the river's flow,
The woody valleys warm and low;
The windy summit, wild and high,
Roughly rushing on the sky!
The pleasant seat, the ruin'd tower,
The naked rock, the shady bower;
The town and village, dome and farm,
Each give each a double charm,
As pearls upon an Ethiop's arm.

See on the mountain's southern side,
Where the prospect opens wide,
Where the evening gilds the tide ;
How close and small the hedges lie!
What streaks of meadows cross the eye!
A step methinks may pass the stream,
So little distant dangers seem;
So we mistake the Future's face,
Ey'd through Hope's deluding glass;
As your summits soft and fair,
Clad in colours of the air,
Which to those who journey near,
Barren, brown, and rough appear;
Still we tread the same coarse way,
The present's still a cloudy day.

O may I with myself agree,
And never covet what I see;
Content me with an humble shade,
My passions tam'd, my wishes laid;
For, while our wishes wildly roll,
We banish quiet from the soul:
'Tis thus the busy beat the air,
And misers gather wealth and care.

Now, e'en now, my joys run high,
As on the mountain-turf I lie;
While the wanton Zephyr sings,
And in the vale perfumes his wings;
While the waters murmur deep;
While the shepherd charms his sheep:
While the birds unbounded fly,
And with music fill the sky,

Wide and wider spreads the vale,
As circles on a smooth canal:
The mountains round, unhappy fate !
Sooner or later, of all height,
Withdraw their summits from the skies,
And lessen as the others rise:
Still the prospect wider spreads,
Adds a thousand woods and meads;
Still it widens, widens still,
And sinks the newly-risen hill.

Now, I gain the mountain's brow,
What a landscape lies below!
No clouds, no vapours intervene;
But the gay, the open scene
Does the face of Nature show,
In all the hues of Heaven's bow!
And, swelling to embrace the light,
Spreads around beneath the sight.

Old castles on the cliffs arise,
Proudly towering in the skies !
Rushing from the woods, the spires
Seem from hence ascending fires !
Half his beams Apollo sheds
On the yellow mountain-heads!
Gilds the fleeces of the flocks,
And glitters on the broken rocks!

Below me trees unnumber'd rise,
Beautiful in various dyes :
The gloomy pine, the poplar blue,
The yellow beech, the sable yew,
The slender fir that taper grows,
The sturdy oak with broad-spread boughs.
And beyond the purple grove,
Haunt of Phyllis, queen of love!
Gaudy as the opening dawn,
Lies a long and level lawn,
On which a dark hill, steep and high,
Holds and charms the wandering eye!
Deep are his feet in Towy's flood,
His sides are cloth'd with waving wood,
And ancient towers crown his brow,
That cast an aweful look below;
Whose ragged walls the ivy creeps,
And with her arms from falling keeps;
So both a safety from the wind
On mutual dependence find.
'Tis now the raven’s bleak abode;
'Tis now th' apartment of the toad;
And there the poisonous adder breeds,
Conceal'd in ruins, moss, and weeds;
ever and

anon, there falls
Huge heaps of hoary moulder'd walls.
Yet Time has seen, that lifts the low,
And level lays the lofty brow,
Has seen this broken pile complete,
Big with the vanity of state;
But transient is the smile of Fate!


Now, e'en now, my joys run high.

Be full, ye courts; be great who will;
Search for Peace with all your skill:
Open wide the lofty door,
Seek her on the marble floor.
In vain you search, sh is not there;
In vain ye search the domes of Care!

Grass and flowers Quiet treads,
On the meads, and mountain-heads,
Along with Pleasure, close allied,
Ever by each other's side:
And often, by the murmuring rill,
Hears the thrush, while all is still,
Within the groves of Grongar Hill.


William Hamilton ward 1704 zu Bangour in Ayrshire geboren, erhielt eine wissenschaftliche Bildung und lebte längere Zeit als Landedelmann seiner Muse, fern von allen Geschäften. Bei der Landung des Praetendenten ergriff er die Partei desselben, aber der unglückliche Ausgang der Schlacht von Kulloden zwang auch ihn, unstät in den Hochlanden umherzuirren, wo er damals den unten mitgetheilten Monolog schrieb. Später gelang es ihm sich zu retten; er lebte nun längere Zeit in Frankreich und Italien, bis er sich mit dem Gouvernement wieder aussöhnte und Erlaubniss erhielt, zurückzukehren und die durch den Tod seines Bruders ihm zugefallenen väterlichen Güter in Besitz zu nehmen; allein seine Gesundheit war zerrüttet, er sah sich gezwungen ein milderes Klima aufzusuchen und starb 1754 in Lyon. Seine irdischen Ueberreste wurden nach Schottland zurückgebracht, und in der Abteikirche von Holyroodhouse beigesetzt.

Seine Gedichte vermischten Inhaltes erschienen 1748; sie enthalten unter andern eine zu jener Zeit sehr gefeierte Ode auf die Schlacht von Gladesmuir, eine grössere Poesie The Triumph of Love, Episteln, Oden und ein zum Volksliede gewordenes Gedicht im schottischen Dialect: The Braes of Yarrow. Hamilton ist kein Dichter ersten Ranges, aber feiner Geschmack,

Anmuth und Correctheit weisen ihm immer eine ehrenvolle Stelle unter seinen poetischen Zeitgenossen an.

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