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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.


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 à 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

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.

Select Passages

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 | The raffle, the excursion, and the dance,
Bless'd him, and bade him prosper. With warm Ices and soups, dice and the bet at whist,


Serve well enough to fill.
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.'| To Toby fares, nor heeds,
So joyful he to Alma Mater went

Till terms are wasted, and the proud degree,
A sturdy fresh-man. See him just arriv'd, Soon purchas'd, comes his learned toils to crown.
Receiv'd, matriculated, and resolv'd

He swears, and swears he knows not what, nor To drown his freshness in a pipe of port.

cares ; 'Quick, Mr. Vintner, twenty dozen more; Becomes a perjur'd graduate, and thinks soon Some claret too. Here's to our friends at home. To be a candidate for Orders. Ah! There let 'em doze. Be it our nobler aim 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, Thou none shalt injure. On a luckless day, And deeds my bashful muse disdains to name. Withdrawn to taste the pleasures of the town, From town to college, till a fresh supply Heated with wine, a vehement dispute Sends him again from college up to town.

With a detested rival shook the roof. The tedious interval the mace and cue, He penn'd a challenge, sent it, fought, and fell; The tennis-court and racket, the slow lounge And, if there be for such delinquents room From street to street, the badger-hunt, the race, 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 an. muthige Diction zeichnen dieselben aus und lassen es innig bedauern, dass ein so liebevolles

, bescheidenes Talent keinen besseren irdischen Lohn erntete.

Select Passages

And where the joy, if rightly understood, from the Farmer's Boy.

Like cheerful praise for universal good ?

The soul nor check nor doubtful anguish knows, Here, 'midst the boldest triumphs of her worthi, But free and pure the grateful current flows. Nature herself invites the reapers forth;

Behold the sound oak table's massy frame Dares the keen sickle from its twelvemonth's Bestride the kitchen floor! the careful dame


And gen'rous host invite their friends around, And gives that ardour which in every breast For all that clear'd the crop, or till'd the ground, From infancy to age alike appears,

Are guests by right of custom:

old and young; When the first sheaf its plumy top uprears. And many a neighbouring yeoman join the throng, No rake takes here what Heaven to all bestows

With artizans that lent their dextrous aid, Children of want, for you the bounty flows ! When o'er each field the flaming sunbeams play'd. And every cottage from the plenteous store

Yet Plenty reigns, and from her boundless Receives a burden nightly at its door.

hoard, Hark! where the sweeping scythe now rips Though not one jelly trembles on the board,


Supplies the feast with all that sense can crave; Each sturdy mower, emulous and strong, With all that made our great forefathers brave, Whose writhing form meridian heat defies,

Ere the cloy'd palate countless flavours tried, Bends o'er his work, and every sinew tries; And cooks had Nature's jndgment set aside. Prostrates the waving treasure at his feet, With thanks to Heaven, and tales of rustic lore, But spares the rising clover, short and sweet.

The mansion echoes when the banquet's o'er; Come, Health! come, Jollity! light footed, come; A wider circle spreads, and smiles abound, Here hold your revels, and make this your home: As quick the frothing horn performs its round, Each heart awaits and hails you as its own; Care's mortal foe; that sprightly joys imparts Each moisten'd brow, that scorns to wear a frown To cheer the frame and elevate their hearts. Th’unpeopled dwelling mourns its tenants stray'd; Here, fresh and brown, the hazel's produce lies E'en the domestic laughing dairy-maid

In tempting heaps, and peals of laughter rise, lies to the field, the general toil to share.

And crackling music, with the frequent song, Meanwhile the Farmer quits his elbow-chair, Unheeded bear the midnight hour along. His cool brick floor, his pitcher, and his ease, Here once a year Distinction low'rs its crest, And braves the sultry beams, and gladly sees The master, servant, and the merry guest, His gates thrown open, and his team abroad,

Are equal all; and round the happy ring The ready group attendant on his word, The reaper's eyes exulting glances fling, To turn the swarth, the quiv'ring load to rear,

And, warn'd with gratitude, he quits his place, Or ply the busy rake, the land to clear.

With sun-burnt hands and ale-enliven’d face, Summer's light garb itself now cumb'rous grown, Refills the jug his honour'd host to tend, Each his thin doublet in the shade throws down; To serve at once the master and the friend; Where oft the mastiff sculks with half-shut eye, Proud thus to meet his smiles, to share his tale, And rouses at the stranger passing by; His nuts, his conversation, and his ale. Whilst unrestrain'd the social converse flows, Such were the days of days long past And every breast Love's powerful impulse knows,

sing, And rival wits with more than rustic grace

When pride gave place to mirth without a sting; Confess the presence of a pretty face.

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; Now, ere sweet Summer bids its long adieu, Destroys life's intercourse; the social plan And winds blow keen where late the blossom That rank to rank cements, as man to man:


Wealth flows around him, Fashion lordly reigns, The bustling day and jovial night must come, Yet poverty is his, and mental pains. 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.

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E'en Giles, for all his cares and watching past Shall gild once more my native plain;
And all his contests with the wintry blast, Curl inward here, sweet Woodbine flower;
Claims a full share of that sweet praise bestow'd Companion of the lonely hour,
By gazing neighbours, when along the road,

I'll turn thee up again.
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

Rosy Hannah.

A Spring, o'erhung with many a flower, Play around, and cheer the elevated boy!

The grey sand dancing in its bed, “Another spring !” his heart exulting cries;

Embank'd beneath a hawthorn bower, “Another year!” with promis'd blessings rise.

Sent forth its waters near my head:
A rosy lass approach'd my view;

I caugbt her blue eye's modest beam:

The stranger nodded "how d'ye do!” The Widow to her Hour-Glass. And leap'd across the infant stream. Come, friend, I'll turn thee up again:

The water heedless pass'd away: Companion of the lonely hour!

With me her glowing image stay'd: Spring thirty times hath fed with rain

I strove, from that auspicious day,
And cloth'd with leaves my humble bower,

To meet and bless the lovely maid.
Since thou hast stood

I met her where beneath our feet
In frame of wood,

Through downy moss the wild thyme grew; On chest or window by my side:

Nor moss elastic, flow'rs though sweet,
At every birth still thou wert near,

Match'd Hannah's cheek of rosy hue.
Still spoke thine admonitions clear
And, when my husband died.

I met her where the dark woods wave,

And shaded verdure skirts the plain; I've often watch'd thy streaming sand

And when the pale moon rising gave And seen the growing mountain rise,

New glories to her clouded train. And often found life's hopes to stand

From her sweet cot upon the moor On props as weak in Wisdom's eyes :

Our plighted vows to heaven are flown;
Its conic crown

Truth made me welcome at her door,
Still sliding down,

And rosy Hannah is my own.
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.

Woodland Hallo.
While thus I spin and sometimes sing
(For now and then my heart will glow) In our cottage, that peeps from the skirts of the
Thou measur'st Time's expanding wing:

wood, By thee the noontide hour I know :

I am mistress, no mother have I;
Though silent thou,

Yet blithe are my days, for my father is good,
Still shalt thou flow,

And kind is my lover hard by; And jog along thy destin'd way.

They both work together beneath the green shade, But when I glean the sultry fields,

Both woodmen, my father and Joe; When earth her yellow harvest yields, Where I've listen'd whole hours to the echo that Thou get'st a holiday.


So much of a laugh or Hallo.
Steady as truth, on either end
Thy daily task performing well,

From my basket at noon they expect their supply Thou'rt Meditation's constant friend,

And with joy from my threshold I spring; ?nt the heart without a bell: For the woodlands I love, and the oaks waving 2, lovely May!

high, angthen's day

And echo that sings as I sing.

Though deep shades delight me, yet love is my That every flower and every leaf


Is moral Truth's unerring friend.
As I call the dear name of my Joe;
His musical shout is the pride of the wood, I would not for a world of gold
And my heart leaps to hear the Hallo. 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,


Unquicken'd midst the world's rude strife, I wish not to wander from you;

Shall sweet retirement render strong, I'll still dwell beneath the deep roar of your And morning silence bring to live.

trees, For I know that my Joe will be true.

Then tell me not that I shall grow The trill of the robin, the coo of the dove,

Forlorn, that fields and woods will cloy; Are charms that I'll never forego;

From Nature and her changes flow But resting through life on the bosom of love,

An everlasting tide of joy. Will remember the Woodland Hallo.

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.

Love of the Country.

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,

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.

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