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