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Falconer.

William Falconer, der Sohn eines Barbiers in Edinburg ward daselbst 1730 geboren und widmete sich dem Seemannsstande. Er befand sich an Bord eines Kauffahrteischiffes, der Britannia, welches in der Nähe des Vorgebirges Colonna scheiterte; nur drei Leute von der Mannschaft, unter denen er sich befand, kamen mit dem Leben davon. Dies veranlasste ihn sein Gedicht The Shipwreck zu schreiben, in welchem er schilderte, was er selbst erfahren hatte. Es erschien 1762, fand grossen Beifall und verschaffte ihm eine gute Anstellung in der königlichen Flotte. Im September 1769 ging er auf der "Aurora" nach Indien, das Schiff erreichte im December das Vorgebirge der guten Hoffnung; seitdem ward aber nie wieder etwas von ihm gehört. Falconer starb also durch einen Unglücksfall den er selbst so beredt geschildert. Wahrheit, Kraft und Originalität sind seinem Gedichte eigen und haben ihm wohlverdiente, grosse Popularität bei seiner Nation verschafft, wogegen Falconer's andere Poesieen, wie z. B. seine Oden und ein politisches Poem the Demagogue in Vergessenheit gerathen sind.

An Extract

from Falconer's Shipwreck.
Now borne impetuous o'er the boiling deeps,
Her course to Attic shores the vessel keeps :
The pilots, as the waves behind her swell,
Still with the wheeling stern their force repel.
For this assault should either quarter feel,
Again to flank the tempest she might reel.
The steersmen every bidden turn apply;
To right and left the spokes alternate fly.
Thus when some conquer'd host retreats in fear,
The bravest leaders guard the broken rear;
Indignant they retire, and long oppose
Superior armies that around them close;
Still shield the flanks; the routed squadrons join;
And guide the flight in one embodied line:
So they direct the flying bark before

Th' impelling floods that lash her to the shore.
As some benighted traveller, through the shade,
Explores the devious path with heart dismay'd;
While prowling savages behind him roar,
And yawning pits and quagmires lurk before
High o'er the poop th' audacious seas aspire,
Uproll'd in hills of fluctuating fire.
As some fell conqueror, frantic with success,
Sheds o'er the nations ruin and distress;
So, while the wat'ry wilderness he roams,
Incens'd to sevenfold rage the tempest foams;
And o'er the trembling pines, above, below,
Shrill through the cordage howls, with notes
of woe.

Now thunders, wafted from the burning zone,
Growl from afar a deaf and hollow groan!
The ship's high battlements, to either side
For ever rocking, drink the briny tide:
Her joints unhing'd, in palsied languors play,
As ice dissolves beneath the noon-tide ray.
The skies, asunder torn, a deluge pour;

The impetuous hail descends in whirling-shower.
High on the masts, with pale and livid rays,
Amid the gloom portentous meteors blaze.
Th' ethereal dome, in mournful pomp array'd
Now lurks behind impenetrable shade;
Now, flashing round intolerable light,
Redoubles all the terrors of the night.
Such terror Sinai's quaking hill o'er spread,
When Heaven's loud trumpet sounded o'er its
head.

It seem'd the wrathful angel of the wind
Had all the horrors of the skies combin'd;
And here, to one ill-fated ship oppos'd,
At once the dreadful magazine disclos'd.
And lo! tremendous o'er the deep he springs,
Th' enflaming sulphur flashing from his wings!
Hark! his strong voice the dreadful silence
breaks;

Mad chaos from the chains of death awakes!
Loud and more loud the rolling peals enlarge,
And blue on deck their blazing sides discharge:
There all aghast the shivering wretches stood,
While chill suspense and fear congeal'd their
blood.

Now in a deluge bursts the living flame,
And dread concussion rends th' ethereal frame;
Sick earth convulsive groans from shore to shore,
And nature shuddering feels the horrid roar.

Still the sad prospect rises on my sight,
Reveal'd in all its mournful shade and light.
Swift through my pulses glides the kindling fire,
As lightning glances on th' electric wire.
But ah! the force of numbers strives in vain,
The glowing scene unequal to sustain.

But lo! at last from tenfold darkness born,
Forth issues o'er the wave the weeping morn.
Hail, sacred vision! who, on orient wing,
The cheering dawn of light propitious bring!
All nature smiling, hail'd the vivid ray,

That gave her beauties to returning day:
All but our ship, that, groaning on the tide,
No kind relief, no gleam of hope descry'd.
For now in front her trembling inmates see
The hills of Greece emerging on the lee.
So the lost lover views that fatal morn,
On which, for ever from his bosom torn,
The nymph ador'd resigns her blooming charms,
To bless with love some happier rival's arms.
So to Eliza dawn'd that cruel day,

That tore Aeneas from her arms away;
That saw him parting, never to return,
Herself in funeral flames decreed to burn.

O yet in clouds, thou genial source of light,
Conceal thy radiant glories from our sight!
Go, with thy smile adorn the happy plain,
And gild the scenes where health and pleasure
reign:

But let not here, in scorn, thy wanton beam,
Insult the dreadful grandeur of my theme!

While shoreward now the bounding vessel flies,
Full in her van St. George's cliffs arise:
High o'er the rest a pointed crag is seen,
That hung projecting o'er a mossy green.
Nearer and nearer now the danger grows,
And all their skill relentless fates oppose.

Scott.

John Scott, der Sohn eines Leinewandhändlers in London, der zu der Secte der Quäker gehörte, ward 1730 in Bermondsey geboren, verdankte seine Bildung zum grössten Theil sich selbst und brachte die meiste Zeit seines Lebens in dem Dorfe Amwell das er so oft in seinen Poesieen feierte und weshalb er auch der Dichter von Amwell genannt wurde, zu. Er starb daselbst 1783.

Seine Gedichte erschienen zuerst London 1782; sie enthalten mehrere didactische und descriptive Poesieen, wie z. B. Amwell und Essay on painting, Eklogen, Elegieen, Lieder u. s. w. Ein dichtender Quäker war damals eine Seltenheit, aber, diesem Umstande allein verdankte Scott nicht den Beifall, den er fand; Wahrheit, Natürlichkeit, Wärme und feiner Geschmack, verliehen seinen Leistungen bleibenden Werth. Am Unbedeutendsten sind seine Eklogen; dagegen zeichnete er sich auch als Prosaist, namentlich als Kritiker vortheilhaft aus.

The Tempestuous Evening.

There's grandeur in this sounding storm,
That drives the hurrying clouds along
That on each other seem to throng,
And mix in many a varied form;
While, bursting now and then between,
The moon's dim misty orb is seen,
And casts faint glimpses on the green.

Beneath the blast the forests bend,
And thick the branchy ruin lies,
And wide the shower of foliage flies;
The lake's black waves in tumult blend,
Revolving o'er and o'er and o'er,
And foaming on the rocky shore,
Whose caverns echo to their roar.

The sight sublime enrapts my thought,
And swift along the past it strays,
And much of strange event surveys,
What history's faithful tongue has taught,
Or fancy form'd, whose plastic skill
The page with fabled change can fill
Of ill to good, or good to ill.

But can my soul the scene enjoy,
That rends another's breast with pain?
O hapless he, who, near the main,
Now sees its billowy rage destroy!
Beholds the foundering bark descend,
Nor knows, but what its fate may end
The moments of his dearest friend!

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Charles Churchill ward 1731 zu Vine-Street im Kirchspiel St. John's, Westminster geboren, wo sein Vater als Pfarrer lebte. Er erhielt eine wissenschaftliche Bildung auf der Westminsterschule, wo er glänzende Fähigkeiten entwickelte, trotz dem aber in Oxford wegen Mangels an genügender klassischer Bildung zurückgewiesen wurde. Nach Westminster zurückgekehrt, verheirathete er sich daselbst, siebenzehn Jahre alt. Als er sein drei und zwanzigstes Jahr erreicht

hatte, erhielt er eine kleine Pfarre in Somersetshire und nach dem Tode seines Vaters 1758, dessen Amt. Anfangs bekleidete er dasselbe zu allgemeiner Zufriedenheit, dann aber nahm sein Betragen die ganz entgegengesetzte Wendung und hatte seine Absetzung zur Folge. Churchill ging nun nach London, wo eine Reihe von Satyren, die er herausgab, ausserordentlichen Beifall fand, was ihn jedoch zugleich veranlasste, ein überaus dissolutes Leben zu führen. Ein hitziges Fieber raffte ihn 1764 zu Boulogne, wo er seinen verbannten Freund Wilkes, den bekannten republicanischen Patrioten besuchte, in seinem drei und dreissigsten Jahre hin. Er ward zu Dover begraben; Wilkes setzte ihm die Grabschrift: Life to the last enjoy'd - here Churchill lies, der aber Churchill's eigene letzte Worte: What a fool I have been! gerade zu widersprechen.

Churchill's Gedichte erschienen gesammelt zuerst London 1763 in 8., dann öfterer u. A. mit Anmerkungen London 1804, 2 Bde in 8. Sie befinden sich auch im 107-109 Bde der Bell'schen und im 10. Bde der Anderson'schen Sammlung. Er besass Alles, was erforderlich ist, um wirklich ein grosser Satyriker zu werden, Reichthum und Kraft der Gedanken, sarkastischen Witz und seltene Herrschaft über Sprache und Form; aber ihm fehlte innere Wahrheit und Adel der Gesinnung; er griff statt der Sache Personen an und sein Leben widersprach vollständig der moralischen Würde und dem Eifer für Tugend, die er in seinen Versen zur Schau trug.

From an Epistle to William Hogarth.

'T is a rank falsehood; search the world around
There cannot be so vile a monster found,
Not one so vile, on whom suspicions fall
Of that gross guilt which you impute to all.
Approv'd by those who disobey her laws,
Virtue from Vice itself extorts applause;
Her very foes bear witness to her state;
They will not love her; but they cannot hate.
Hate Virtue for herself! with spite pursue
Merit for merit's sake! Might this be true
I would renounce my nature with disdain,
And with the beasts that perish graze the plain;
Might this be true, had we so far fill'd up
The measure of our crimes, and from the cup
Of guilt so deeply drank, as not to find,
Thirsting for sin, one drop, one dreg, behind,
Quick ruin must involve this flaming ball,
And Providence in justice crush us all.
None but the damn'd, and amongst them
worst,

To qualify the blockhead for a knave,

With that smooth falsehood, whose appearance

charms,

And reason of each wholesome doubt disarms,
Which to the lowest depths of guile descends,
By vilest means pursues the vilest ends,
Wears Friendship's mask for purposes of spite,
Fawns in the day, and butchers in the night;
With that malignant envy, which turns pale,
And sickens, even if a friend prevail,
Which merit and success pursues with hate,
And damns the worth it cannot imitate;
With the cold caution of a coward's spleen,
Which fears not guilt, but always seeks a skreen,
Which keeps this maxim ever in her view
What's basely done, should be done safely too;
With that dull, rooted, callous impudence
Which, dead to shame, and ev'ry nicer sense
Ne'er blush'd, unless, in spreading Vice's snares,
She blunder'd on some virtue unawares;
the With all these blessings, which we seldom find
Lavish'd by Nature on one happy mind,
A motley figure, of the Fribble tribe,
Which heart can scarce conceive, or pen describe,
Came simp'ring on; to ascertain whose sex
Twelve sage, impanell'd matrons would perplex.
Nor male, nor female; neither, and yet both;
Of neuter gender, though of Irish growth;
A six-foot suckling, mincing in its gait;
Affected, peevish, prim and delicate;
Fearful it seem'd, though of athletic make,
Lest brutal breezes should too roughly shake
Its tender form, and savage motion spread,
O'er its pale cheeks, the horrid manly red.

Those who for double guilt are doubly curst,
Can be so lost; nor can the worst of all
At once into such deep damnation fall;
By painful slow degrees they reach this crime,
Which e'en in hell must be a work of time.
Cease, then, thy guilty rage, thou wayward son!
With the foul gall of discontent o'errun.

Select Passages from the Rosciad.

With that low cunning, which in fools supplies,
And amply, too, the place of being wise,
Which Nature, kind indulgent parent, gave

Much did it talk, in its own pretty phrase, Of genius and of taste, of play'rs and plays; Much too of writings, which itself had wrote, Of special merit, though of little note;

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