Davies.

John Davies, der Sohn eines Gerbers, ward 1570 zu Chisgrove in Wiltshire geboren, studirte zu Oxford, widmete sich der Rechtswissenschaft, und trat, nach einer bewegten Jugend, 1601 in das Parlament, als Mitglied für Corfe-Castle. Jakob I. wurde ihm ausserordentlich gewogen und ernannte ihn zuerst zum Solicitor dann zum Attorney general in Irland. 1607 ward er zum Ritter geschlagen und darauf Sprecher des ersten irischen Hauses der Gemeinen. Im Jahre 1615 kehrte er nach England zurück, wo er von nun an das Amt eines Oberrichters, Lord Chief Justice, bekleiden sollte, jedoch vor seiner förmlichen Installation vom Schlagfluss getroffen am 7. December 1616 starb.

D. darf nicht mit seinem Namensvetter dem berühmten kritischen Philologen (1679-1731) in Cambridge verwechselt werden. Er hinterliess eine Sammlung von Lobgedichten, Akrostichen auf die Königin Elisabeth unter dem Titel Hymns to Astrea; ein didactisches Gedicht, Nosce te ipsum or the Immortality of the soul, welches zuerst 1599 zu London erschien; Orchestra, ein Gedicht über den Tanz, das unvollendet blieb und mehrere kleine lyrische Poesieen. Eine vollständige Sammlung seiner dichterischen Werke ist nie veranstaltet worden, doch finden sich die besten zusammengestellt im zweiten Bande von Anderson's British Poets. Tiefes Gefühl, Scharfsinn, elegante Diction und für jene Zeit, seltene Correctheit, zeichnen Davies als Dichter aus.

From the Immortality of the Soul. What is this knowledge? but the sky-stoll'n fire, For which the thief still chain'd in ice doth sit?

Is now become a sparkle, which doth lie
Under the ashes, half extinct, and dead:

How can we hope, that through the eye and ear, And which the poor rude satyr did admire, This dying sparkle, in this cloudy place, And needs would kiss, but burnt his lips with it. Can recollect these beams of knowledge clear,

What is it? but the cloud of empty rain,
Which when Jove's guest embrac'd, he mon-
sters got?
Or the false pails, which oft being fill'd with
pain,
Receiv'd the water, but retain'd it not?

In fine, what is it? but the fiery coach
Which the youth sought, and sought his death
withal?
Or the boy's wings, which when he did approach
The sun's hot beams, did melt and let him

fall?

And yet, alas! when all our lamps are burn'd,

Our bodies wasted, and our spirits spent, When we have all the learned volumes turn'd Which yield men's wits both help and orna

ment:

What can we know, or what can we discern,
When error clouds the windows of the mind?
The divers forms of things, how can we learn,
That have been ever from our birth-day blind?

When reason's lamp, which (like the sun in sky) Throughout man's little world her beams did spread,

Which were infus'd in the first minds by grace?

So might the heir, whose father hath, in play,
Wasted a thousand pounds of ancient rent,
By painful earning of one groat a day,
Hope to restore the patrimony spent.

If ought can teach us ought, affliction's looks,
(Making us pry into ourselves so near)
Teach us to know ourselves, beyond all books
Or all the learned schools that ever were.

This mistress lately pluck'd me by the ear,
And many a golden lesson hath me taught;
Hath made my sences quick, and reason clear;
Reform'd my will, and rectify'd my thought.

So do the winds and thunders cleanse the air:
So working seas settle and purge the wine:
So lopp'd and pruned trees do flourish fair:
So doth the fire the drossy gold refine.

Neither Minerva, nor the learned Muse,
Nor rules of art, nor precepts of the wise,
Could in my brain those beams of skill infuse,
As but the glance of this dame's angry eyes.

She within lists my ranging mind hath brought, I know my soul hath power to know all things,

That now beyond myself I will not go; Myself am centre of my circling thought, Only myself I study, learn, and know.

I know my body's of so frail a kind,
As force without, fevers within can kill :
I know the heavenly nature of my mind,
But 'tis corrupted both in wit and will:

Yet is she blind and ignorant in all:
I know I'm one of Nature's little kings,
Yet to the least and vilest things am thrall.

I know my life's a pain, and but a span;
I know my sense is mock'd in ev'ry thing:
And to conclude, I know myself a man,
Which is a proud, and yet a wretched thing.

Donne.

John Donne ward 1573 zu London geboren und zeichnete sich schon so früh durch seine bedeutenden geistigen Fähigkeiten aus, dass er bereits in seinem zwölften Jahre die Universität Oxford besuchen konnte. Von hier ging er nach Cambridge, und widmete sich dann der Rechtswissenschaft; die kirchlichen Streitigkeiten seiner Zeit beschäftigten ihn aber so sehr, dass er ihnen seine ganze Zeit widmete und endlich in Folge seiner Forschungen offen vom Katholicismus zum Protestantismus übertrat. 1596 begleitete er den Grafen von Essex auf der Expedition nach Cadix, machte dann eine grössere Reise durch Spanien und Italien und ward bei seiner Heimkehr Secretair des Lord Kanzlers Egerton. Später trat er in den geistlichen Stand, wurde Caplan des Königs, dann Prediger der Gesellschaft von Lincolns-Inn und zuletzt Dechant von St. Paul. Er starb am 31. März 1631 und ward in der Kathedrale begraben, wo man ihm auch ein Monument errichtete. Seine poetischen Werke erschienen zuerst London 1633 in 4. und wurden später öfter und in verschiedenem Format wieder aufgelegt. Sie enthalten Satyren, Elegieen, Epigramme, Lieder, Sonette u. s. w. Er wird gewöhnlich als einer der ersten englischen Satyriker gepriesen, doch sind seine Satyren, welche Pope später überarbeitete, ihnen jedoch dadurch viel von ihrer Originalität raubte, mehr durch meisterhafte Reflectionen als durch Schilderungen bedeutend. Donne besass reiche Phantasie, Scharfsinn, Witz und tiefes Gefühl, aber seine Bilder sind oft zu gehäuft, sein Styl gesucht und dunkel und seine Diction selten correct. Unter seinen lyrischen Poesieen findet sich dagegen viel Gelungenes und Hübsches.

The Storm.

The south and west winds joyn'd, and, as they
blew,
Waves like a rowling trench before them threw.
Sooner than you read this line did the gale,
Like shot, not fear'd till felt, our sailes assaile;
And what at first was call'd a gust, the same
Hath now a stormes, anon a tempest's name.
Jonas! I pitty thee, and curse those men
Who, when the storm rag'd most, did wake thee

then.

Sleepe is paines easiest salve, and doth fullfill
All offices of death except to kill.
But when I wak'd, I saw that I saw not;

East, west, day, night; and I could onely say,
If the world had lasted, now it had beene day.
Thousands our noyses were, yet we 'mongst all
Could none by his right name but thunder call
Lightning was all our light, and it rain'd more
Than if the sunne had drunke the sea before.
Some coffin'd in their cabbins lye, equally
Griev'd that they are not dead, and yet must dye;
And as sin-burd'ned soules from grave will

creepe

At the last day, some forth their cabbins peepe,
And, tremblingly, aske what newes? and doe

hear so

As jealous husbands, what they would not know.
With_hideous gazing, to feare away Feare:

I and the sunne, which should teach me, had Some, sitting on the hatches, would seeme there,

forgot

My faith I give to Roman Catholiques;
All my good works unto the schismaticks

That though thine absense sterve mee I wish Of Amsterdam; my best civility

Love so alike, that none doe slacken, none can die. For yonger lovers, dost my gifts thus disproportion.

And cut their legges, with shells and weeds, O! wilt thou therefore rise from me?
Or treacherously poore fish beset
With strangling snare or windowie net.

Admit, but not the busied man.
It kill'd mee again, that I who still was true
He which hath businesse, and makes love, doth In life, in my last will should cozen you.