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Nor yet will every soil with equal stores Repay the tiller's labour; or attend

His will, obsequious, whether to produce The olive or the laurel.

Fresh pleasure, unreprov'd. Nor thence partakes
Fresh pleasure only: for the attentive mind,
By this harmonious action on her powers,
Becomes herself harmonious: wont so oft
In outward things to meditate the charm
Of sacred order, soon she seeks at home

Oh! blest of Heaven, whom not the languid To find a kindred order, to exert

songs

Of Luxury, the syren! not the bribes

Of sordid Wealth, nor all the gaudy spoils Of pageant Honour, can seduce to leave

Within herself this elegance of love,

This fair inspir'd delight: her temper'd powers
Refine at length, and every passion wears
A chaster, milder, more attractive mien.

Those ever-blooming sweets, which from the store But if to ampler prospects, if to gaze

Of Nature fair Imagination culls

On Nature's form, where, negligent of all

To charm the enliven'd soul! What though These lesser graces, she assumes the port

not all

His the city's pomp, Whate'er adorns

Of mortal offspring can attain the heights
Of envied life; though only few possess
Patrician treasures or imperial state;
Yet Nature's care, to all her children just,
With richer treasures and an ampler state,
Endows at large whatever happy man
Will deign to use them.
The rural honours his.
The princely dome, the column and the arch,
The breathing marbles and the sculptur'd gold,
Beyond the proud possessor's narrow claim,
His tuneful breast enjoys. For him, the spring
Distils her dews, and from the silken gem
Its lucid leaves unfolds: for him, the hand
Of Autumn tinges every fertile branch
With blooming gold, and blushes like the morn.
Each passing hour sheds tribute from her wings;
And still new beauties meet his lonely walk,
And loves unfelt attract him. Not a breeze
Flies o'er the meadow, not a cloud imbibes
The setting sun's effulgence, not a strain
From all the tenants of the warbling shade
Ascends, but whence his bosom can partake

Of that eternal majesty that weigh'd

The world's foundations, if to these the mind
Exalts her daring eye; then mightier far
Will be the change, and nobler. Would the
forms

Of servile custom cramp her generous powers?
Would sordid policies, the barbarous growth
Of ignorance and rapine, bow her down
To tame pursuits, to indolence and fear?
Lo! she appeals to Nature, to the winds
And rolling waves, the sun's unwearied course,
The elements and seasons: all declare
For what the eternal Maker has ordain'd
The powers of man: we feel within ourselves
His energy divine: he tells the heart,
He meant, he made us to behold and love
What he beholds and loves, the general orb
Of life and being: to be great like him,
Beneficent and active. Thus the men
Whom Nature's works can charm, with God
himself

Hold converse; grow familiar, day by day,
With his conceptions, act upon his plan;
And form to his, the relish of their souls.

Cotton.

Nathaniel Cotton ward im Jahre 1721 geboren; weiter ist Nichts über seine früheren Lebensumstände bekannt. Er studirte Medicin und liess sich als practischer Arzt in St. Alban's nieder, wo er zugleich Vorsteher eines Irrenhauses war, das er bis zu seinem 1788 erfolgten Tode mit segensreichem Erfolg verwaltete.

Cotton nimmt als Dichter zwar keinen sehr hohen Rang unter seinen Zeitgenossen ein, obwohl seine für die Jugend geschriebenen Visions mehrere Auflagen erlebten, seine Poesieen zeichnen sich aber durch Gemüthlichkeit, Einfachheit und Würde vortheilhaft aus, und unter seinen Miscellaneous poems finden sich mehrere die sich im Andenken seiner Nation erhalten haben, namentlich das hier mitgetheilte.

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While conscience, like a faithful friend,
Shall through the gloomy vale attend,
And cheer our dying breath;

Shall, when all other comforts cease,

Like a kind angel whisper peace,

And smooth the bed of death.

Mason.

William Mason, der Sohn eines Geistlichen ward 1725 zu Kingston upon Hull geboren, studirte Theologie zu Cambridge und bekleidete dann nach einander die Aemter eines Caplans des Königs, eines Pfarrers zu Aston und eines Pracentors zu York. Er starb 1797.

Mason's gesammelte Werke, welche zuerst 1796 3 Bde in 8. zu York erschienen und später wiederholt aufgelegt worden sind, enthalten Oden, Elegieen, zwei Trauerspiele in antiker Form Cataractus und Elfrida, ein didactisch descriptives Gedicht The English Garden u. A. m. Er nahm unter seinen Zeitgenossen einen hohen Rang als Dichter ein, den er jedoch mehr seinem eleganten Styl und seinem darstellenden Talent als anderen für einen Dichter nothwendigeren Eigenschaften zu verdanken hat; namentlich fehlt es ihm an Einfachheit und wirklicher Begeisterung; Mängel, die Geschmack und Bildung nicht zu ergänzen im Stande sind. Dagegen muss rühmlichst bemerkt werden, dass er ein trefflicher Prosaist und Kritiker und einer der Ersten war, die den Sklavenhandel bekämpften.

Ode on the Fate of Tyranny.
Oppression die: the Tyrant falls:
The golden City bows her walls!

Jehovah breaks th' Avenger's rod.
The Son of Wrath, whose ruthless hand
Hurl'd Desolation o'er the land,

Has run his raging race, has clos'd the scene of
blood.

Chiefs arm'd around behold their vanquish'd
Lord;
Nor spread the guardian shield, nor lift the loyal
sword.

He falls; and earth again is free.
Hark! at the call of Liberty,

All Nature lifts the choral song.
The Fir-trees, on the mountain's head,
Rejoice thro' all their pomp of shade;
The lordly Cedars nod on sacred Lebanon:

Tyrant! they cry, since thy fell force is broke, Our proud heads pierce the skies, nor fear the woodman's stroke.

Hell, from her gulph profound,
Rouses at thine approach; and, all around,
Her dreadful notes of preparation sound.
See, at the awful call,

Her shadowy Heroes all,

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Ev'n mighty Kings, the heirs of empire wide,
Rising, with solemn state, and slow,
From their sable thrones below,

Meet, and insult thy pride.
What, dost thou our ghostly train,
A flitting shadow light, and vain?
Where is thy pomp, thy festive throng,
Thy revel dance, and wanton song?
Proud King! Corruption fastens on thy breast;
And calls her crawling brood, and bids them
share the feast.

Oh Lucifer! thou radiant star;
Son of the Morn; whose rosy car

Flam'd foremost in the van of day:
How art thou fall'n, thou King of Light!
Hown fall'n from thy meridian height!
Who saidst the distant poles shall hear me,

obey.

and

High, o'er the stars, my sapphire throne shall glow, And, as Jehovah's self, my voice the heav'ns shall bow.

He spake, he died. Distain'd with gore,
Beside yon yawning cavern hoar,

See, where his livid corse is laid.
The aged Pilgrim passing by,

Surveys him long with dubious eye;

Eternal Infamy shall blast thy name,

And muses on his fate, and shakes his reverend And all thy sons shall share their impious Fa ther's shame.

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⚫ And crush'd the subject race, whom Kings are Thus by Myself I swear, and what I swear is Fate.

born to save:

Warto n.

Thomas Warton ward 1728 zu Basingstoke in Hampshire geboren, studirte in Oxford und erhielt daselbst, nachdem ihm die anderen akademischen Grade zu Theil geworden, die Professur der Poesie. Später trat er in den geistlichen Stand und bekleidete die Pfarrämter von Kiddington und Hill Farrame. 1785 wurde er poet laureate. Er starb 1790 in Oxford.

Warton hat viele Schriften hinterlassen; sein bedeutendstes Werk ist die Geschichte der englischen Poesie bis zu den Zeiten der Königin Elisabeth, eine überaus fleissige, stoffreiche, gelehrte und scharfsinnige, aber trockene und nur dem Manne vom Fach erspriessliche Arbeit. Als Dichter gehört er zu den Miscellaneous poets jener Tage; Oden, Lieder und Sonnette, bilden den Hauptinhalt der Sammlung seiner Poesieen welche zuerst London 1777 erschienen und später neu aufgelegt wurden. Er besass ein angenehmes lyrisches Talent, das zwar correct, aber nicht sehr originell, auf grosse Auszeichnung eben nicht Anspruch machen durfte.

Inscription in a Hermitage, at Ansley

Hall, in Warwickshire.

Beneath this stony roof reclin'd,
I soothe to peace my pensive mind;
And while, to shade my lowly cave,
Embowering elms their umbrage wave;
And while the maple dish is mine.
The beechen cup, unstain'd with wine;
I scorn the gay licentious crowd,
Nor heed the toys that deck the proud.

Within my limits lone and still
The blackbird pipes in artless trill;
Fast by my couch, congenial guest,
The wren has wove her mossy nest;
From busy scenes, and brighter skies,
To lurk with innocence, she flies:
Here hopes in safe repose to dwell,
Nor aught suspects the sylvan cell.

At morn I take my custom'd round,
To mark how buds yon shrubby mound,
And every opening primrose count,
That trimly paints my blooming mount;
Or o'er the sculptures, quaint and rude,
That grace my gloomy solitude,
I teach in winding wreaths to stray
Fantastic ivy's gadding spray.

At eve, within yon studious nook,
I ope my brass-embossed book,
Pourtray'd with many a holy deed
Of martyrs, crown'd with heavenly meed:
Then as my taper waxes dim,

Chaunt, ere I sleep, my measur'd hymn;
And at the close, the gleams behold
Of parting wings bedropt with gold.

While such pure joys my bliss create,
Who but would smile at guilty state?
Who but would wish his holy lot
In calm Oblivion's humble grot?
Who but would cast his pomp away,
To take my staff, and amice gray;
And to the world's tumultuous stage
Prefer the blameless hermitage?

Select Passages

from an Ode to the First of April. With dalliance rude young Zephyr wooes Coy May. Full oft with kind excuse The boisterous boy the fair denies, Or with a scornful smile complies.

Mindful of disaster past,

And shrinking at the northern blast
The sleety storm returning still,
The morning hoar, and evening chill;
Reluctant comes the timid Spring
Scarce a bee, with airy ring,
Murmurs the blossom'd boughs around,
That clothe the garden's southern bound:
Scarce a sickly straggling flower,
Decks the rough castle's rifted tower:
Scarce the hardy primrose peeps
From the dark dell's entangled steeps:
O'er the fields of waving broom
Slowly shoots the golden bloom:
And, but by fits, the furze-clad dale
Tinctures the transitory gale.
While from the shrubbery's naked maze,
Where the vegetable blaze

Of Flora's brightest 'broidery shone,
Every chequer'd charm is flown;
Save that the lilac hangs to view
Its bursting gems in clusters blue.

Scant along the ridgy land

The beans their new-born ranks expand:
The fresh-turn'd soil with tender blades
Thinly the sprouting barley shades:
Fringing the forest's devious edge,
Half rob'd appears the hawthorn hedge;
Or to the distant eye displays
Weakly green its budding sprays.

The swallow, for a moment seen,
Skims in haste the village green;
From the gray moor, on feeble wing,
The screaming plovers idly spring:
The butterfly, gay-painted soon,
Explores awhile the tepid noon:
And fondly trusts its tender dyes
To fickle suns, and flattering skies.
Fraught with a transient frozen shower,
If a cloud should haply lower,
Sailing o'er the landscape dark,
Mute on a sudden is the lark;
But when gleams the sun again
O'er the pearl-besprinkled plain,
And from behind his watery vail
Looks through the thin descending hail;
She mounts, and, lessening to the sight,
Salutes the blithe return of light,
And high her tuneful track pursues
Mid the dim rainbow's scatter'd hues.
Where in venerable rows

Widely waving oaks enclose
The mote of yonder antique hall,
Swarm the rooks with clamorous call;
And to the toils of nature true,
Wreath their capacious nests anew.

Musing through the lawny park,

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