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B e a ttie.

James Beattie, der Sohn eines Pächters zu Lawrence-Kirk, Kincardineshire in Schottland, ward daselbst 1735 geboren und erhielt seine Bildung im Marishal - College zu Aberdeen. Er wurde darauf Gemeindeschullehrer in der Nähe seines Geburtsortes, dann Unterlehrer zu Aberdeen, und da er sich hier in vielfacher Hinsicht auszeichnete, Professor der Moralphilosophie an dem obengenannten Collegium; ein Amt, das er vierzig Jahre lang ruhmvoll bekleidete, obwohl ihn häusliche Leiden schwer wiederdrückten. Er starb 1803.

Beattie ward als Philosoph (er war einer der bedeutendsten Gegner Hume's) wie als Dichter gleich sehr gefeiert. Namentlich erwarb ihm sein grösseres, in Spenser'scher Weise geschriebenes Gedicht: The Minstrel or the Progress of Genius, wohlverdienten Ruf. Es ist trefflich erfunden, meisterhaft in der Form und reich an schönen Bildern, grossartigen Gedanken und edeln Gefühlen. Auch seine Elegieen und ein allegorisches Gedicht: The Judgment of Paris enthalten viel Gelungenes und Gutes.

Select Passages

With merriment, and song, and timbrels clear, from Beattie's Minstrel. A troop of dames from myrtle bowers advance

The little warriors doff the targe and spear, When the long-sounding curfew from afar And loud enlivening strains provoke the dance. Loaded with loud lament the lonely gale, They meet, they dart away, they wheel askance; Young Edwin, lighted by the evening star, To right, to left, they thrid the flying maze; Lingering and listening, wander'd down the vale. Now bound aloft with vigorous spring, then There would he dream of graves and corses pale;

glance And ghosts that to the charnel-dungeon throng, Rapid along: with many-colour'd rays And drag a length of clanking chain, and wail, Of tapers, gems, and gold, the echoing forests Till silenced by the owl's terrific song,

blaze. Or blast that shrieks by fits the shuddering

aisles along

side;

Or, when the setting moon, in crimson dyed, But who the melodies of morn can tell ?
Hung o'er the dark and melancholy deep, The wild brook babbling down the mountain's
To haunted stream, remote from man, he hied,
Where fays of yore their revels wont to keep; The lowing herd; the sheepfold's simple bell;
And there let Fancy rove at large, till sleep The pipe of early shepherd dim descried
A vision brought to his entranced sight. In the lone valley; echoing far and wide
And first, a wildly murmuring wind 'gan creep The clamorous horn along the cliffs above;
Shrill to his ringing ear; then tapers bright, The hollow murmur of the ocean-tide;
With instantaneous gleam, illum’d the vault of The hum of bees, the linnet's lay of love,

night.

And the full choir that wakes the universal grove.

Anon in view a portal's blazon'd arch

The cottage-curs at early pilgrim bark; Arose; the trumpet bids the valves unfold; Crown'd with her pail the tripping milkmaid And forth an host of little warriors march,

sings; Grasping the diamond lance, and targe of gold. The whistling ploughman stalks a field; and, Their look was gentle, their demeanor bold,

hark! And green their helms, and green their silk Down the rough slope the ponderous waggon attire;

rings; And here and there, right venerably old, Through rustling corn the hare astonish'd springs; The long-rob'd minstrels wake the warbling Slow tolls the village-clock the drowsy hour;

wire,

The partridge bursts away on whirring wings; And some with mellow breath the martial pipe Deep mourns the turtle in sequester'd bower,

inspire.

And shrill lark carols clear from her aerial tour.

O Nature, how in every charm supreme! But when to horror his amazement rose, Whose votaries feast on raptures ever new! A gentler strain the beldame would rehearse, O for the voice and fire of seraphim,

A tale of rural life, a tale of woes, To sing thy glories with devotion due !

The orphan-babes, and guardian uncle fierce. Blest be the day I 'scaped the wrangling crew, O cruel! will no pang of pity pierce From Pyrrho's maze, and Epicurus' sty; That heart, by lust of lucre sear'd to stone ? And held high converse with the godlike few, For sure, if aught of virtue last, or verse, Who to th' enraptur'd heart, and ear, and eye, To latest times shall tender souls bemoan Teach beauty, virtue, truth, and love, and me- Those hopeless orphan babes by thy fell arts lody.

undone.

Hence! ye, who snare and stupefy the mind,
Sophists, of beauty, virtue, joy, the bane!
Greedy and fell, though impotent and blind,
Who spread your filthy nets in Truth's fair fane, Responsive to the sprightly pipe, when all
And ever ply your venom'd fangs amain!

In sprightly dance the village youth were join'd,
Hence to dark Error's den, whose rankling slime Edwin, of melody aye held in thrall,
First gave you form! Hence! lest the Muse From the rude gambol far remote reclin'd,

should deign, Sooth'd with the soft notes warbling in the wind. (Though loth on theme so mean to waste a Ah then, all jollity seem'd noise and folly,

rhyme,)

To the pure soul by Fancy's fire refin'd,
With vengeance to pursue your sacrilegious Ah, what is mirth but turbulence unholy,

crime.
When with the charm compar'd of heavenly me-

lancholy!
But hail, ye mighty masters of the lay,
Nature's true sons, the friends of man and truth!

Is there a heart that music cannot melt? Whose song, sublimely sweet, serenely gay,

Alas! how is that rugged heart forlorn; Amus'd my childhood, and inform'd my youth.

Is there, who ne'er those mystic transports felt O let your spirit still my bosom soothe, Inspire my dreams, and my wild wanderings He needs not woo the Muse; he is her scorn.

Of solitude and melancholy born?

guide; Your voice each rugged path of life can smooth, Mope o'er the schoolman's peevish page; or

The sophist's rope of cobweb he shall twine; For well I know wherever ye reside,

mourn, There harmony, and innocence abide.

And delve for life in Mammon's dirty mine;

Sneak with the scoundrel fox, or grunt with Ah me! neglected on the lonesome plain,

glutton swine. As yet poor Edwin never knew your lore, Save when against the winter's drenching rain, And driving snow, the cottage shut the door,

For Edwin Fate a nobler doom had plann'd; Then, as instructed by tradition hoar,

Song was his favourite and first pursuit. Her legends hen the be 'gan impart,

The wild harp rang to his advent'rous hand, Or chant the old heroic ditty o'er,

And languish'd to his breath the plaintive flute. Wonder and joy ran thrilling to his heart;

His infant Muse, though artless, was not mute: Much he the tale admir'd, but more the tune- Of elegance as yet he took no care;

ful art.

For this of time and culture is the fruit;

And Edwin gain'd at last this fruit so rare: Various and strange was the long-winded tale;

As in some future verse I purpose to declare. And halls, and knights, and feats of arms, dis

play'd;

Meanwhile, whate'er of beautiful, or new, Or merry swains, who quaff the nut-brown ale, Sublime, or dreadful, in earth, sea, or sky, And sing enamour'd of the fairy glade; By chance, or search, was offer'd to his view, Or hags, that suckle an infernal brood, He scann'd with curious and romantic eye. And ply in caves th' unutterable trade,

Whate'er of lore tradition could supply 'Midst fiends and spectres, quench the moon in From gothic tale, or song, or fable old,

blood,

Roused him, still keen to listen and to pry. Yell in the midnight storm, or ride th' infuriate At last, though long by penury controllid,

flood.

And solitude, her soul his graces 'gan unfold.

Thus on the chill Lapponian's dreary land, Here pause, my gothic lyre, a little while; For many a long month lost in snow profound, The leisure hour is all that thou canst claim. When Sol from Cancer sends the season bland, But on this verse if Montague should smile And in their northern cave the storms are bound; New strains ere long shall animate thy frame; From silent mountains, straight, with startling And her applause to me is more than fame;

sound,

For still with truth accords her taste refin'd. Torrents are hurl'd; green hills emerge; and lo, At lucre or renown let others aim, The trees with foliage, cliffs with flowers are I only wish to please the gentle mind,

crown'd; Whom Nature's charms inspire, and love of huPure rills through vales of verdure warbling go;

man kind. And wonder, love, and joy, the peasant's heart

o'erflow.

Langhorn e.

John Langhorne ward 1735 zu Kirkby-Stephen in Westmoreland geboren, studirte in Cambridge und lebte dann eine Zeit lang als Hauslehrer in Lincolnshire. Später erhielt er eine Landpfarre und wurde 1764 Prediger in London. Er starb 1779 zu Blagdon.

Langhorne hat viele Schriften hinterlassen: Romane, Predigten, eine Uebersetzung des Plutarch, Gedichte u. A. m., und sich dadurch zu seiner Zeit einen sehr geachteten Namen erworben. Seine poetischen Werke erschienen zuerst London 1766, zwei Bde in 8.; sie enthalten ein didactisches Gedicht On the Enlargement of Mind, Oden, Elegieen, Lieder, Sonnette, ein descriptives Poem, The Country-Justice, eine poetische Erzählung Owen of Carron u. A. m. Sie sind reich an guten Gedanken und edeln Gesinnungen, aber zu sehr mit poetischem Schmuck überladen und ohne eigentliche Begeisterung, so dass ihr Eindruck auf den Leser kein begeisternder und anhaltender ist.

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My full heart pour'd the lover's tale,

The vow sincere, devoid of guile! While Delia in her panting breast, With sighs the tender thought supprest,

And look'd as angels smile.

Yet, while thy studious eyes explore,
And range these various volumes o'er,
Trust blindly to no fav’rite pen,
Remembering authors are but men.
Has fair Philosophy thy love?
Away! she lives in yonder grove.
If the sweet Muse thy pleasure gives,
With her, in yonder grove she lives:
And if Religion claims thy care,
Religion, fled from books, is there.
For first from nature's works we drew
Our knowledge, and our virtue too.

O goddess of the crystal bow,

That dwell'st the golden meads among; Whose streams still fair in memory flow,

Whose murmurs melodise my song ! Oh! yet those gleams of joy display, Which brightening glow'd in fancy's ray,

When near the lucid urn reclin'd, The dryad, Nature, bar'd her breast, And left, in naked charms imprest,

Her image on my mind.

To a Red-Breast.

In vain the maids of memory fair

No more in golden visions play;
No friendship smooths the brow of care,

No Delia's smile approves my lay.
Yet, love and friendship lost to me,
'T is yet some joy to think of thee,

And in thy breast this moral find That life, though stain'd with sorrow's showers, Shall flow serene, while virtue pours

Her sunshine on the mind.

Little bird, with bosom red,
Welcome to my humble shed!
Courtly domes of high degree
Have no room for thee and me;
Pride and pleasure's fickle throng
Nothing mind an idle song.

Daily near my table steal,
While I pick my scanty meal.
Doubt not, little though there be,
But I'll cast a crumb to thee;
Well rewarded , if I spy
Pleasure in thy glancing eye:
See thee, when thou'st eat thy fill,
Plume thy breast, and wipe thy bill.

Come, my feather'd friend, again, Well thou know'st the broken pane. Ask of me thy daily store: Go not near Avaro's door; Once within his iron hall, Woful end shall thee befall. Savage! - He would soon divest Of its rosy plumes thy breast; Then, with solitary joy, Eat thee, bones and all, my boy!

Inscription on a Study Door.

O thou that shalt presume to tread
This mansion of the mighty dead,
Come with the free, untainted mind;
The nurse, the pedant leave behind;
And all that superstition, fraught
With folly's lore, thy youth has taught
Each thought that reason can't retain
Leave it, and learn to think again.

Hayley.

William Hayley ward 1745 zu Chichester in Sussex geboren, studirte in Cambridge und lebte dann als Privatmann von den Einkünften seines Vermögens. Er starb 1820 zu Pelpham in Sussex. Seine Poesieen erschienen gesammelt unter dem Titel Poems and Plays London 1785, 6 Bde in 8vo, denen er später noch Einiges folgen liess; sie enthalten mehrere Trauerspiele und eine Reihe poetischer Abhandlungen (Essays) über Malerei, Geschichte, epische Poesie u. A. m. und einige vermischte Gedichte. Ihr Verfasser wurde seiner Zeit ausserordentlich gefeiert als einer der Ersten, überlebte aber seinen Ruhm und Lord Byron fertigte ihn später mit den Worten ab: (S. English Bards and Scotch Reviewers):

In many marble-cover'd volumes view
Hayley, in vain attempting something new.
Whether he spin his comedies in rhyme,
Or scrawl, as Wood and Barclay walk, 'gainst time,
His style in youth or age is still the same

For ever feeble and for ever tame etc. Streng genommen hat er nicht Unrecht, denn Hayley's Poesie ist, mit wenigen Ausnahmen baare Prosa, aber in eleganter Einkleidung und reich an Bildern. Wir beschränken uns daher auch, auf folgenden Auszug aus seinem Versuche über das Epos.

From an Essay on Epic Poetry. Of penury, the bard's perpetual snare; For me, who feel, whene’er I touch the lyre, Marking the early temper of his soul My talents sink below my proud desire;

Careless of wealth, nor fit for base control: Who often doubt, and sometimes credit give,

Thou tender saint, to whom he owes much more When friends assure me that my verse will live; Than ever child to parent ow'd before, Whom health too tender for the bustling throng In life's first season, when the fever's flame Led into pensive shade and soothing song;

Shrunk to deformity his shrivell’d frame, Whatever fortune my unpolish'd rhymes

And turn'd each fairer image in his brain May meet, in present or in future times

To blank confusion and her crazy train, Let the blest art my grateful thoughts employ, \'T was thine, with constant love, through ling’ring Which soothes my sorrow and augments my joy ;

years, Whence lonely peace and social pleasure springs, To bathe thy idiot orphan in thy tears; And friendship dearer than the smile of kings!

Day after day, and night succeeding night, While keener poets, querulously proud,

To turn incessant to the hideous sight, Lament the ills of poesy aloud,

And frequent watch, if haply at thy view And magnify, with irritation's zeal,

Departed reason might not dawn anew. Those common evils we too strongly feel, Though medicinal art, with pitying care The envious comment and the subtle style

Could lend no aid to save thee from despair Of specious slander , stabbing with a smile; Thy fond maternal heart adher'd to hope and Frankly I wish to make her blessings known,

prayer: Nor would my honest pride that praise forego,

Nor pray'd in vain; thy child from powers above Which makes malignity yet more my foe.

Receiv'd the sense to feel and bless thy love; If heartfelt pain e'er led me to accuse

O might he thence receive the happy skill, The dangerous gift of the alluring Muse,

And force proportion'd to his ardent will, 'Twas in the moment when my verse imprest

With Truth's unfading radiance to emblaze Some anxious feelings on a mother's breast.

Thy virtues, worthy of immortal praise! O thou fond Spirit, who with pride hast smil'd, Nature, who deck'd thy form with Beauty's And frown'd with fear on thy poetic child,

flowers, Pleas'd, yet alarm’d, when in his boyish time Exhausted on thy soul her finer powers; He sigh'd in numbers, or he laugh'd in rhyme; Taught it with all her energy to feel While thy kind cautions warn'd him to beware Love's melting softness, Friendship’s fervid zeal,

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