Hausschatz englischer Poesie

Thomas Wyat.

Einer der ersten englischen Nachahmer des Petrarca. Sir Thomas Wyat ward im Jahre 1503 auf dem Schlosse Allington in Kent geboren, studirte in Cambridge und Oxford und ward dann von Heinrich VIII. in Staatsgeschäften verwandt und sehr begünstigt. Der Verdacht, in einem genaueren Verhältniss zu Anna Boleyn zu stehen, zog ihm jedoch die Ungnade seines Monarchen, Kerkerhaft und eine Untersuchung wegen verrätherischer Verbindungen zu. Er erhielt jedoch seine Freiheit und die Gunst des Königs wieder. Doch ging er nicht an den Hof zurück, sondern begab sich nach Allington, wo er in ländlicher Zurückgezogenheit den Musen sein Leben widmete und nur dann und wann den Hof besuchte. Der Auftrag, dem Gesandten Kaiser Karl's V. das Geleit von Falmouth nach London zu geben, zog ihm, da er während eines sehr heissen Tages nicht vom Pferde gekommen war, ein hitziges Fieber zu, an welchem er 1542 zu Sherborn starb. Sein poetischer Nachlass, gröstentheils aus Liedern und Balladen bestehend, erschien zuerst, zugleich mit den Gedichten seines Freundes Surrey (vgl. S. 4.) 1557 zu London, später wieder aufgelegt, London 1717 in 8 u. ö.

Petrarca war, wie bereits oben bemerkt wurde, W.'s Vorbild, das er zwar nicht erreichte, aber mit Glück nachahmte; seine gelungensten Leistungen finden sich in seinen Liedern und in seinen poetischen Episteln; sein bedeutendstes Verdienst bestand aber in seiner Behandlung der Sprache, die er förderte und veredelte.

The lover complaineth the unkindness of his love.

My Lute, awake, perform the last
Labour that thou and I shall wast:
And ende that I have now begunne,
And when this song is song and past,
My lute be styll for I have done.

As to be heard where eare is none,
As leade to grave in marble stone,
My song may pearce her hart as soon!
Should we then sigh, or sing, or mone,
No, no, my lute, for I have done.

The rocks do not so cruelly,
Repulse the waves continually,
As she my suite and affection:
So that I am past remedy,
Whereby my lute and I have done.

Proude of the spoyle that thou hast gotte,
Of simple hearts through Loves shot,
By whome unkind thou hast them wonne,
Think not he hath his bow forgott,
Although my lute and I have done.

Vengeance shall fall on thy disdaine
That makest but game of earnest payne,
Think not alone under the sunn,
Unquit to cause thy lovers playne,
Although my lute and I have done,

May chaunce thee lye withred and old,
In winter nights that are so cold,
Playning in vaine unto the moon:
Thy wishes then dare not be told!
Care then who list for I have done.

And then may chaunce thee to repent
The time that thou hast lost and spent,
To cause thy lovers sighe and swone:
Then shalt thou know beauty but lent,
And wish and want as I have done.

Now cease, my lute, this is the last,
Labour that thou and I shall wast,
And ended is that we begonne,
Now is this song both song and past.
My lute be still for I have done.

The lover determineth to serve faithfully.

Since Love will needs, that I shall love,

Of very force I must agree:
And since no chaunce may it remove,
In wealth and in adversitie,
I shall alway myselfe apply
To serve and suffer patiently.

Though for good will I finde but hate,
And cruelly my life to wast,
And though that still a wretched state,
Should pyne my days unto the last:
Yet I profess it willingly
To serve and suffer patiently.

For since my hart is bound to serve,

And I not ruler of myne owne,
Whatsoe befall, tyll that I sterve,
By proofe full well it shall be knowne,
That I shall still myself apply
To serve and suffer patiently.

Yet though my griefe finde noe redress,
But still encrease before myne eyes,
Though my reward be cruelnesse,
With all the harme, happs can devyse,
Yet I profess it willingly
To serve and suffer patiently.

Yea though fortune her pleasant face,
Should shew, to set me up aloft,
And straight my wealth for to deface,

Should wrythe away, as she doth oft,
Yet would I still my self apply,
To serve and suffer patiently.

There is no griefe, no smert, no woe,

That yet I feel, or after shall,

That from this minde may make me goeе,
And whatsoever me befall,
I do profess it willingly
To serve and suffer patiently.

Surrey.

Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey ward wahrscheinlich 1516 (nach Anderen 1512 oder 1518) zu Framlingham in Suffolk, geboren, brachte seine Jugend am königlichen Hofe zu Windsor zu, wo er ein enges Freundschaftsbündniss mit dem jungen Grafen von Richmond, einem natürlichen Sohne Heinrich's VIII. schloss. Sie besuchten dann gemeinschaftlich die Universität Oxford und machten darauf eine Reise durch Frankreich. Nach ihrer Rückkehr vermählte sich Richmond mit einer Schwester der Geliebten Surrey's, der von ihm gefeierten Geraldine (einer Gräfin Fitzgerald), starb aber bald nachher und Surrey trat nun eine Reise nach Italien an, auf welcher er alle zum Zweikampf gefordert, die seine Dame nicht für die erste Schönheit der Erde erklärten, und auch wirklich in einem Turnier zu Florenz den Sieg davon getragen haben soll. Trotz dem vermählte er sich nach seiner Rückkehr in das Vaterland mit einer Andern und zeichnete sich nun so als Krieger aus, dass er bereits 1544 das englische Heer als Feldmarschall auf dem Zuge nach Boulogne befehligte. Heinrich VIII. ward jedoch argwöhnisch gegen ihn, liess ihn verhaften, des Hochverrathes anklagen und trotz Surrey's männlicher und begeisterter Selbstvertheidigung am 21. Januar 1547 enthaupten.

Seine Gedichte (siehe vorige Seite.) sind selbstständige Nachahmungen Petrarca's, dessen Vorzüge er zu erreichen strebte, dessen Fehler er hingegen zu vermeiden wusste. Meist lyrische Poesien zeichnen sie sich durch Zartheit, Anmuth und Wärme aus. Zwar behandelt Surrey in denselben die Form mit grosser Freiheit, dagegen ist aber seine Sprache edel und geschmackvoll. Nicht ohne Glück versuchte er die Uebertragung einiger Stellen der Aeneis in englische ungereimte fünffüssige iambische Verse (blank verse).

Prisoner in Windsor, he recounteth his
pleasure there passed.

So cruell prison howe could betyde, alas!
As proude Windsor: Where I in lust and joye,
Wyth a kynges sonne, my chyldysh yeres dyd

passe,

In greater feast, than Priam's sonnes of Troye:
Where eche swete place returnes a tast full sower:
The large grene where we were wont to rove,
Wyth eyes cast up into the Maydens tower,
And easy sighes, such as folkes draw in Love:
The stately seates, the ladies brighte of hewe;
The daunces short, long tales of greate delight
Wyth woordes and lookes, that tygers could but

rewe.

Where eche of us dyd pleade the others ryghte.
The palme play, where despoyled for the game,
With dazed eyes oft we by gleames of love,
Have myst the ball, and gote sighte of our dame
To bayte her eyes, whyche kept the leads above

With silver droppes the meade yet spreade for
ruthe,
In active games of nimbleness and strength,
Where we did strayne trayned with swarmes of
youthe

Our tender limmes, that yet shot up in lengthe.
The secrete groves which oft we made resounde,
Of pleasant playnte, and of our Ladies prayse,
Recordyng oft what grace eche one had founde,
What hope of spede, what dreade of long delayes.
The wylde forrest, the clothed holtes with grene,
With raynes availed and swiftly breathed horse;
Wyth cry of houndes and merry blastes betwene,

Where we did chase the feareful harte of force. The wyde vales eke, that harborde us eche nyghte,

Wherewyth, (alas) reviveth in my breste
The swete accorde, such slepes as yet delyt,
The pleasant dreames the quyet bed of rest;
The secret thoughtes imparted with such trust,
The wanton talke, the dyvers chaunge of playe;
The friendship sworne, eche promise kept so fast,
Wherewith we past the winter nyghte away.
And wyth thys thoughte, the bloud forsakes the

face,

The teares berayne my chekes of deadly hewe, The whyche as soone as sobbyng sighes,

(alas!)

Upsupped have, thus I my playnt renewe:
O place of blisse! renewer of my woes!
Give me accompt where is my noble fere,
Whom in thy walles thou doest eche nyghte

enclose,
To other leefe, but unto me most dere:
Eccho (alas!) that doth my sorrow rewe,
Returns thereto a hollowe sounde of playnt;
Thus I alone, where all my freedome grewe,
In pryson pyne, withe bondage and restraynt:
And with remembrance of the greater griefe,
To banish the lesse, I fynd my chief reliefe.

Description of Spring wherein eche thinge renewes, save only the lover.

The soote season that bud and bloome forth

bringes,

My ladies beuty passeth more,
The best of yours I dare well sayne,
Then doth the sunne the caundle - lyght,
Or bryghtest day the darkest nyght.

And thereto hath a troth as just
As had Penelope the fayre;

For what she sayeth ye may it trust,
As it by wrytyng sealed were:
And virtues hath she many moe,

Than I wyth pen have skill to showe.

I could reherse, if that I would,
The whole effecte of Natures playnt,
When she had lost the perfecte mould,
The lyke to whome she could not paynte:
With wringeing hands, how she did cry,
And what she said, I know it, I.

I knowe she swore with rageing mynde,
Her kyngdome only set apart,
There was no losse by law of kynde,
That could have gone so nere her hearte;
And this was chiefely all her payne,
She could not make the lyke agayne.

Syth Nature thus gave her the prayse,
To be the chiefest worke she wroughte;
In fayth me thynke some better wayes,
On your behalfe myghte well be soughte,
Then to compare (as you have done)
To matche the caundle with the sunne.

With grene hath cladde the hyll, and eke the Description of the restlesse state of a

vale; The nightingall with fethers new she singes; The turtle to her mate hath told her tale, Somer is come, for every spray now springes; The hart hath hung hys olde head on the pale; The bucke in brake his winter coate he flynges; The fishes flete with newe repayred scale; The adder all her slough away she flynges; The swift swallow pursueth the flyes smalle; The busy bee her honey how she mynges; Winter is worne that was the floures bale. And thus I see among these pleasant thynges Eche care decayes, and yet my sorrow sprynges.

A Praise of hys Love

wherein he reproves them that compare their ladies with his.

Give place ye lovers here before,

That spent your boastes and bragges in vain!

Lover with sute to his Lady, to rue on his dieing hart.

The Sunne hath twyse brought forth his tender
grene,
Twyse cladde the earth in lyvely lustinesse;
Ones have the wyndes the trees dyspoled clene,
And once agayne begynnes theyr cruelnesse,
Synce I have hyd under my brest the harme,
That never shall recover healthfulnesse.

The wynters hurt recovers with the warme,
The parched grene restored is with shade:
What warmth, alas! may serve for to dysarme
The frosen hart that myne in flame hath made?
What colde agayne is able to restore
My fresh grene yeares, that wither thus and
fade?
Alas! I see nothing hath hurt so sore
But Tyme, in tyme reduceth a returne:
In tyme my harme encreaseth more and more
And seemes to have my cure allwayes in scorne;
Strange kindes of death, in lyfe that I doe trye

At hand to melt, farre off in flame to burne:
And lyke as tyme lyst to my cure applye,
So doth eche place my comfort cleane refuse.
All things alive, that seeth the heavens with

eye,

With cloke of night may cover, and excuse
Itself from travayle of the dayes unrest,

Save I, alas! against all others use,

That then styrre up the tormentes of my breaste,
And curse eche sterre as causer of my fate.
And when the sunne hath eke the darke opprest,
And brought the day, it doth nothing abate
The travayles of myne endless smarte and

payne:

For then as one that hath the light in hate,
I wish for night more covertly to playne;
And me withdrawe from every haunted place,
Lest by my chere my chaunce appeare to playne:
And in my mynde I measure pace by pace,
To seeke the place where I my self had lost,
That day that I was tangled in the lace,
In semyng slacke, that knitteth ever most.
But never yet the travayll of my thought
Of better state, could catche a cause to bost:
For if I founde sometime that I have sought,
Those sterres by whom I trusted of the port,
My sayles do fall, and I advaunce right nought;
As ankred fast, my sprites do all resort

To stand agazed, and sink in more and more
The deadly harme which she doth take in sport.
Lo! if I seek, how do I find my sore!

And if I flee, I cary with me styll

The venomed shaft which doth hys force restore
By hast of flight; and I may plaine my fill
Unto my self, unless this carefull song

Print in your hart some parcell of my tene.
For I, alas! in silence all too long

Of myne olde hurt yet feele the wound but

grene.

Rue on my lufe, or else your cruel wronge Shall well appeare, and by my death be sene.

Description of the restless estate of a
Lover.

When youth had led me halfe the race
Thad Cupides scourge had made me runne;
I looked back to meet the place,

From whence my weary course begunne:
And then I saw howe my desyre,
Misguiding me had led the waye,
Myne eyne too greedy of theyre hyre,
Had made me lose a better prey.
For when in sighes I spent the day,
And could not cloake my grief with game;
The boyling smoke dyd still bewray,

The present heate of secret flame:
And when salt teares do bayne my breast,
Where love his pleasent traynes hath sowen,
Her beauty hath the fruytes opprest,

Ere that the buddes were spronge and blowne.
And when myne eyen dyd still pursue,
The flying chase of theyre request;
Theyre greedy looks dyd oft renew,
The hydden wounde within my breste.
When every loke these cheekes might stayne,
From dedly pale to glowing red;

By outward signes appeared playne,
To her for helpe my hart was fled.
But all too late Love learneth me,

To blynd theyre eyes that else should see
My speckled chekes with Cupids hew.
And now the covert brest I clame,
That worshipt Cupide secretely;
And nourished hys sacred flame,

From whence no blairing sparkes do flye.

The Lover excuseth himself of

suspected change.

Though I regarded not
The promise made by me,
Or passed not to spot
My faith and honestie;
Yet were my fansie strange,
And wilful will to wite;

If I soughte now to change
A falkon for a kite.

All men might well dispraise
My wit and enterprise,
If I esteemed a pese

Above a pearle in price:
Or judged the owle in sight
The sparhauke to excell;
Which flyeth but in the night
As all men know righte well.
Or if I soughte to saile,
Into the brittle porte;
Where anker hold doth faile,
To such as do resort;

And leave the haven sure

Where blowes no blustring winde;
Nor ficklenesse in ure
So farforth as I finde.

No, think me not so lighte,
Nor of so churlish kinde,
Though it lay in my mighte,
My boundage to unbinde:
That I woulde leave the hinde
To hunt the ganders foe.
No, no, I have no minde

To make exchanges soe;

Nor yet to change at all;
For thinke it may not be
That I shoulde seke to fall
From my felicitie.
Desirous for to win,
And loth for to forgoe,
Or new change to begin;
How may all this be soe?

The fire it cannot frese,
For it is not his kinde;

Nor true love cannot lese

The constancye of minde:
Yet as sone shall the fire,

Want heate to blase and burne,
As I, in such desire,
Have once a thought to turne.

Vere.

Edward Vere, siebenzehnter Graf von Oxford, ward 1534 geboren, zeichnete sich bereits in seiner Jugend durch glänzende Fähigkeiten aus, studirte in Cambridge, machte darauf grössere Reisen und erbte 1562 nach seines Vaters Tode dessen Titel und Besitzungen. Als Oberkammerherr von England war er einer der Richter der unglücklichen Maria Stuart. Er starb 1604. Sein Character wird von seinen Zeitgenossen eben nicht gerühmt; als Jüngling soll er ein grosser Modenarr und vorzüglich ein Nachahmer italienischer Sitten, weshalb man ihn spottweise the Mirrour of Tuscanismo nannte, als Mann dagegen ein vollendeter Höfling gewesen sein.

Seine meist lyrischen Gedichte sind nie in einer besonderen Ausgabe erschienen, sondern finden sich in gleichzeitigen Sammlungen verstreut. Sie sind voll Anmuth und Grazie, aber mitunter auch dunkel und gesucht, und geben ein treues Abbild des damals herrschenden Geschmacks.

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Hausschatz englischer Poesie: Auswahl aus den Werken der bedeutendsten ...