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Into a puny point! The nightingale,
Her solo anthem sung, and all who heard
Content, joins in the chorus of the day.
She, gentle heart, thinks it no pain to please,
Nor, like the moody songsters of the world,
Displays her talent, pleases, takes affront,
And locks it up in envy.
Religion loves, a meek and humble maid,
Whose tender eye bears not the blaze of day.
And here with Meditation hand in hand
She walks, and feels her often-wounded heart
Renew'd and heal'd. Speak softly. We presume,
A whisper is too loud for solitude
So mute and still.
I love to see the little goldfinch pluck
The groundsel's feather'd seed, and twit and twit,
And soon in bower of apple blossoms perch'd,
Trim his gay suit, and pay us with a song.
I would not hold him pris'ner for the world.
The chimney-haunting swallow too, my eye
And ear well pleases. I delight to see
How suddenly he skims the glassy pool,
How quaintly dips, and with a bullet's speed
Whisks by. I love to be awake, and hear
His morning song twitter'd to dawning day.
But most of all it wins my admiration,
To view the structure of this little work,
A bird's nest. Mark it well, within, without.
No tool had he that wrought, no knife to cut,
No nail to fix, no bodkin to insert,
No glue to join; his little beak was all.
And yet how neatly finish'd! What nice hand,
With ev'ry implement and means of art,
And twenty years' apprenticeship to boot,
Could make me such another? Fondly then
We boast of excellence, whose noblest skill
Instinctive genius foils.
The bee observe;
She too an artist is, and laughs at man,
Who calls on rules the sightly hexagon
With truth to form; a cunning architect,
Who at the roof begins her golden work,
And builds without foundation. How she toils,
And still from bud to bud, from flow'r to flow'r,
Travels the live-long day. Ye idle drones,
Who rather pilfer than your bread obtain
By honest means like these, behold and learn
How good, how fair, how honourable 'tis
To live by industry.
How peaceable and solemn a retreat
This wood affords! I love to quit the glare
Of sultry day for shadows cool as these:
The sober twilight of this winding way
Lets fall a serious gloom upon the mind,
Which checks, but not appals. Such is the haunt
from Hurdis' Adriano, or the First of June.
He said, and led her to the cottage door,
Dispos'd the basket, comforted and kiss'd her.
Then to the garden bow'r together both,
Link'd arm in arm, proceeded. There they sat,
And he his melancholy tale rehears'd,
And she was all attention. He began,
And told her of his youth and boyish days
Till manhood came, his aged parents died,
And he, a sighing lover, sought a wife.
Twice was he wedded, and his former love
Bore him a son, the cause of all his woe.
He train'd him, as he thought, to deeds of praise,
He taught him virtue, and he taught him truth,
And sent him early to a public school.
Here, as it seem'd, (but he had none to blame,)
Virtue forsook him, and habitual vice
Grew in her stead. He laugh'd at honesty,
Became a sceptic, and could raise a doubt
E'en of his father's truth. 'Twas idly done
To tell him of another world, for wits
Knew better; and the only good on earth.
Was pleasure; not to follow that was sin.
'Sure he that made us, made us to enjoy;
And why,' said he, 'should my fond father prate
Of virtue and religion? They afford
No joys, and would abridge the scanty few
Of nature. Nature be my deity,
Her let me worship, as herself enjoins,
At the full board of plenty? Thoughtless boy!
So to a libertine he grew, a wit,
A man of honour; boastful empty names
That dignify the villain. Seldom seen,
And when at home, under a cautious mask
Concealing the lewd soul, his father thought
He grew in wisdom as he grew in years.
He fondly deem'd he could perceive the growth
Of goodness and of learning shooting up,
Like the young offspring of the shelter'd hop,
Unusual progress in a summer's night.
He call'd him home, with great applause dis-
By his glad tutors gave him good advice
Bless'd him, and bade him prosper. With warm
He drew his purse-strings, and the utmost doit
Pour'd in the youngster's palm. 'Away,' he cries,
'Go to the seat of learning, boy. Be good,
Be wise, be frugal for 'tis all I can.'
'I will,' said Toby, as he bang'd the door,
And wink'd, and snapp'd his finger, 'Sir, I will.'
So joyful he to Alma Mater went
A sturdy fresh-man. See him just arriv'd,
Receiv'd, matriculated, and resolv'd
To drown his freshness in a pipe of port.
'Quick, Mr. Vintner, twenty dozen more;
Some claret too. Here's to our friends at home.
There let 'em doze. Be it our nobler aim
The raffle, the excursion, and the dance,
Ices and soups, dice and the bet at whist,
Serve well enough to fill.
To Toby fares, nor heeds,
Till terms are wasted, and the proud degree,
Soon purchas'd, comes his learned toils to crown.
He swears, and swears he knows not what, nor
Becomes a perjur'd graduate, and thinks soon
To be a candidate for Orders. Ah!
Vain was the hope. Though many a wolf as fell
To live where stands the bottle!" Then to town Deceive the shepherd and devour the flock,
Hies the gay spark for futile purposes,
And deeds my bashful muse disdains to name.
From town to college, till a fresh supply
Sends him again from college up to town.
The tedious interval the mace and cue,
The tennis-court and racket, the slow lounge
From street to street, the badger-hunt, the race,
Thou none shalt injure. On a luckless day,
Withdrawn to taste the pleasures of the town,
Heated with wine, a vehement dispute
With a detested rival shook the roof.
He penn'd a challenge, sent it, fought, and fell;
And, if there be for such delinquents room
In God's eternal mansions, went to heav'n.
Robert Bloomfield ward 1766 zu Honington geboren; sein Vater, ein Schneider, war früh gestorben und seine Mutter, die eine Dorfschule hielt, that ihn zu seinem Oheim, einen Pachter. Des Knaben schwächliche Gesundheit hielt die Beschwerlichkeiten dieses Berufes nicht aus; er begab sich daher zu seinem älteren Bruder, einem Schuster nach London, lernte dessen Handwerk und arbeitete mehrere Jahre als Geselle. Durch die Lectüre von Journalen ward sein poetisches Talent geweckt. Er verheirathete sich und arbeitete in seinen Mussestunden an einem grössern descriptiven Gedicht, the Farmer's Boy, das, als es endlich nach manchen Hindernissen im Druck erschien, die allgemeine Aufmerksamkeit auf ihn lenkte. Seine dadurch erwachten Hoffnungen wurden aber getäuscht, er sah sich bald wieder vernachlässigt, und starb arm, kränklich, nieder gedrückt und von den Grossen, die ihm Beifall gespendet, vergessen, im Jahre 1823.
Ausser seinem Farmer's Boy (London 1800 u. ö.) erschienen noch von ihm Rural Tales (London 1802 u. ö.) und Wild Flowers (London 1813 2 Bde in 12. und 8.) Einfachheit, Wahrheit und Wärme des Gefühls, sowie Sinn für Naturwissenschaft und eine ungekünstelte aber anmuthige Diction zeichnen dieselben aus und lassen es innig bedauern, dass ein so liebevolles, bescheidenes Talent keinen besseren irdischen Lohn erntete.
from the Farmer's Boy.
Here, 'midst the boldest triumphs of her worth,
Nature herself invites the reapers forth;
Dares the keen sickle from its twelvemonth's
And gives that ardour which in every breast
From infancy to age alike appears,
When the first sheaf its plumy top uprears.
No rake takes here what Heaven to all bestows
Children of want, for you the bounty flows!
And every cottage from the plenteous store
Receives a burden nightly at its door.
And where the joy, if rightly understood,
Like cheerful praise for universal good?
The soul nor check nor doubtful anguish knows,
But free and pure the grateful current flows.
Behold the sound oak table's massy frame
Bestride the kitchen floor! the careful dame
And gen'rous host invite their friends around,
For all that clear'd the crop, or till'd the ground,
Are guests by right of custom: old and young;
And many a neighbouring yeoman join the throng,
With artizans that lent their dextrous aid,
When o'er each field the flaming sunbeams play'd.
Yet Plenty reigns, and from her boundless
Hark! where the sweeping scythe now rips Though not one jelly trembles on the board,
Each sturdy mower, emulous and strong,
Whose writhing form meridian heat defies,
Bends o'er his work, and every sinew tries;
Prostrates the waving treasure at his feet,
But spares the rising clover, short and sweet.
Come, Health! come, Jollity! light footed, come;
Here hold your revels, and make this your home:
Each heart awaits and hails you as its own;
Each moisten'd brow, that scorns to wear a frown
Th' unpeopled dwelling mourns its tenants stray'd;
E'en the domestic laughing dairy-maid
Hies to the field, the general toil to share.
Meanwhile the Farmer quits his elbow-chair,
His cool brick floor, his pitcher, and his ease,
And braves the sultry beams, and gladly sees
His gates thrown open, and his team abroad,
The ready group attendant on his word,
To turn the swarth, the quiv'ring load to rear,
Or ply the busy rake, the land to clear.
Summer's light garb itself now cumb'rous grown,
Each his thin doublet in the shade throws down;
Where oft the mastiff sculks with half-shut eye,
And rouses at the stranger passing by;
Whilst unrestrain'd the social converse flows,
And every breast Love's powerful impulse knows,
And rival wits with more than rustic grace
Confess the presence of a pretty face.
Now, ere sweet Summer bids its long adieu, And winds blow keen where late the blossom grew,
The bustling day and jovial night must come,
The long-accustomed feast of Harvest-home.
No blood-stain'd victory, in story bright,
Can give the philosophic mind delight;
No triumph please, while rage and death destroy;
Reflection sickens at the monstrous joy.
Supplies the feast with all that sense can crave;
With all that made our great forefathers brave,
Ere the cloy'd palate countless flavours tried,
And cooks had Nature's jndgment set aside.
With thanks to Heaven, and tales of rustic lore,
The mansion echoes when the banquet's o'er;
A wider circle spreads, and smiles abound,
As quick the frothing horn performs its round,
Care's mortal foe; that sprightly joys imparts
To cheer the frame and elevate their hearts.
Here, fresh and brown, the hazel's produce lies
In tempting heaps, and peals of laughter rise,
And crackling music, with the frequent song,
Unheeded bear the midnight hour along.
Here once a year Distinction low'rs its crest,
The master, servant, and the merry guest,
Are equal all; and round the happy ring
The reaper's eyes exulting glances fling,
And, warn'd with gratitude, he quits his place,
With sun-burnt hands and ale-enliven'd face,
Refills the jug his honour'd host to tend,
To serve at once the master and the friend;
Proud thus to meet his smiles, to share his tale,
His nuts, his conversation, and his ale.
Such were the days of days long past
When pride gave place to mirth without a sting;
Ere tyrant customs strength sufficient bore
To violate the feelings of the poor;
To leave them distanc'd in the mad'ning race,
Where'er refinement shows its hated face:
Nor causeless hatred, 'tis the peasant's curse,
That hourly makes his wretched station worse;
Destroys life's intercourse; the social plan
That rank to rank cements, as man to man:
Wealth flows around him, Fashion lordly reigns,
Yet poverty is his, and mental pains.
E'en Giles, for all his cares and watching past And all his contests with the wintry blast, Claims a full share of that sweet praise bestow'd By gazing neighbours, when along the road, Or village green, his curly-coated throng Suspends the chorus of the spinner's song; When admiration's unaffected grace
Lisps from the tongue, and beams in ev'ry face: Delightful moments! sunshine, health, and joy,
Play around, and cheer the elevated boy! "Another spring!" his heart exulting cries; "Another year!" with promis'd blessings rise.
The Widow to her Hour-Glass.
Come, friend, I'll turn thee up again:
Companion of the lonely hour!
Spring thirty times hath fed with rain
And cloth'd with leaves my humble bower,
Since thou hast stood
In frame of wood,
On chest or window by my side:
At every birth still thou wert near,
Still spoke thine admonitions clear
And, when my husband died.
I've often watch'd thy streaming sand
And seen the growing mountain rise,
And often found life's hopes to stand
On props as weak in Wisdom's eyes:
Its conic crown
Still sliding down,
Again heap'd up, then down again;
The sand above more hollow grew,
Like days and years still filt'ring through,
And mingling joy and pain.
While thus I spin and sometimes sing
(For now and then my heart will glow)
Thou measur'st Time's expanding wing:
By thee the noontide hour I know:
Though silent thou,
Still shalt thou flow,
And jog along thy destin'd way.
But when I glean the sultry fields,
When earth her yellow harvest yields,
Thou get'st a holiday.
Steady as truth, on either end Thy daily task performing well, Thou'rt Meditation's constant friend, 'st the heart without a bell: e, lovely May! ngthen'd day
Though deep shades delight me, yet love is my | That every flower and every leaf
As I call the dear name of my Joe;
His musical shout is the pride of the wood,
And my heart leaps to hear the . Hallo.
Is moral Truth's unerring friend.
I would not for a world of gold
That Nature's lovely face should tire;
Fountain of blessings yet untold,
Pure source of intellectual fire!
Simple flowers of the grove, little birds live at Fancy's fair buds, the germs of song,
I wish not to wander from you;
I'll still dwell beneath the deep roar of your
For I know that my Joe will be true.
The trill of the robin, the coo of the dove,
Are charms that I'll never forego;
But resting through life on the bosom of love,
Will remember the Woodland Hallo.
Welcome silence! welcome peace!
O most welcome, holy shade!
Thus I prove, as years increase,
My heart and soul for quiet made.
Thus I fix my firm belief
While rapture's gushing tears descend,
Unquicken'd midst the world's rude strife, Shall sweet retirement render strong,
And morning silence bring to live.
Then tell me not that I shall grow
Forlorn, that fields and woods will cloy;
From Nature and her changes flow
An everlasting tide of joy.
I grant that summer heats will burn,
That keen will come the frosty night;
But both shall please: and each in turn
Yield reason's most supreme delight.
Build me a shrine, and I could kneel
To rural gods, or prostrate fall;
Did I not see, did I not feel,
That one Great Spirit governs all.
O Heaven permit that I may lie
Where o'er my corse green branches wave;
And those who from life's tumult fly
With kindred feelings press my grave.
William Wordsworth einer der geachtetsten noch lebenden englischen Dichter ward am 7. April 1770 zu Cockesmouth geboren, studirte zu Cambridge und machte während der Ferien eine Fussreise durch Frankreich, die Schweiz und Italien, deren Beschreibung in Versen er 1793 veröffentlichte. Aus Neigung für die Dichtkunst entsagte er der Theologie für die er sich früher bestimmt hatte und zog sich in das Privatleben zurück. Schon seit einer langen Reihe von Jahren ist sein väterliches Erbgut Rydale in Westmoreland sein Wohnsitz, den er hin und wieder nur bei gelegentlichen Reisen verlassen hat.
Die neueste Sammlung von Wordsworth's Werken ist die von 1833 (Poetical Works of W. Wordsworth, 4 Bde in 8., sie enthält ein grösseres Gedicht: The Recluse (zuerst erschienen 1814, 2 Bde in 4.) welches in zwei besondere Abtheilungen the Excursion und the white doe of Rylstone zerfällt; Balladen, Lieder, Sonnette u. A. m.