Thomas Warton.

Man kennt die großen und mannichfaltig literarischen Verdienste dieses trefflichen Mannes, der noch als Profeffor der Geschichte zu Oxford lebt, und seit drei Jahren zum Poet Laureate, oder königlichem Dichter, ernannt ist. Aber auch seine Poesieen, von denen zu London 1777, gr. 8. cine zweite Auflage erschien, welche vermischte Gedichte, Oden und Sonnette enthält, verdienen alle Aufmerksamkeit, we gen des in ihnen herrschenden klassischen und ächten poetiz schen Geschmacks. Sehr mahlerisch schön ist folgende Ode, und die Wendung darin überaus glücklich, wodurch der Leser von dem tief erregten Bedauern des unglücklichen Selbstmörders zum gerechten, durch jenes Mitleid nicht verstimmten Urtheile über seine That und sein Schicksal hingeleitet wird.

ThomasWar ton.

BENEATH the beech, whose branches bare
Smit with the lightning's livid glare,
O'erhang the craggy road,

And whiftle hollow as they wave;
Within a folitary grave,

A wretched Suicide holds his accurs'd abode.

Lour'd the grim morn, in murky dies
Damp mifts involv'd the fcowling fkies,
And dimm'd the ftruggling day;
As by the brook that lingering laves
Yon rufh-grown moor with fable waves,
Full of the dark refolve he took his fullen way.

I mark'd his defultorý pace,

His geftures ftrange, and varying face,
With many a mutter'd found;

And ah! too late aghaft I view'd

The reeking blade, the hand embru'd:

He fell, and groaning grafp'd in agony the ground.

Full

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ron.

Full many a melancholy night
He watch'd the flow return of light;
And fought the powers of fleep,
To spread a momentary calm

O'er his fad couch, and in the balm

Of bland oblivion's dews his burning eyes to steep.

Full oft, unknowing and unknown,
He wore his endless noons alone,

Amid the autumnal wood:
Oft was he wont, in hafty fit,

Abrupt the focial board to quit,

And gaze with eager glance upon the tumbling flood.

Beckoning the wretch to torments new,
DESPAIR, for ever in his view,

A spectre pale, appear'd;

While, as the fhades of eve arofe

And brought the day's unwelcome close,
More horrible and huge her giant-fhape fhe rear'd.

,,Is this, miftaken Scorn will cry,
Is this the youth, whofe genius high

Could build the genuine rime?

Whose bofom mild the favouring Mufe

Had ftor'd with all her ample views,

"Parent of faireft deeds, and purposes fublime? «

Ah! from the Mufe that bofom mild
By treacherous magic was beguil'd,
To ftrike the deathful blow:
She filled his foft ingenuous mind
With many a feeling too refin'd,

And rous'd to livelier pangs his wakeful fenfe of woe.

Though doom'd hard penury to prove,
And the fharp ftings of hopeless love;
To griefs congenial prone,

More wounds than nature gave he knew,
While mifery's form his fancy drew

In dark ideal hues, and horrors not its own,

Then

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Then wifh not o'er his earthy tomb
The baleful night-fhade's lurid bloom
To drop its deadly dew:

Nor oh! forbid the twisted thorn,

That rudely binds his turf forlorn,

With Spring's green-fwelling buds to vegetate anew,

What though nor marble-piled bust
Adorn his defolated duft,

With speaking fculpture wrought?
Pity fhall woo the weeping Nine,
To build a vifionary shrine,

Hung with unfading flowers, from fairy regions brought.

What though refus'd each chanted rite?
Here viewlefs mourners fhall delight
To touch the fhadowy fhell:

And Petrarch's harp, that wept the doom
Of Laura, loft in early bloom,

In melancholy tones fhall ring his pensive knell

To footh a lone, unhallow'd fhade,
This votive dirge fad Duty paid,

Within an ivied nook:

Sudden the half-funk orb of day

More radiant fhot its parting ray,

And thus a cherub-voice my charm'd attention took,

"Forbear, fond hard, thy partial praise;

,,Nor thus for guilt in fpecious lays

The wreath of glory twine:

„In vain with hues of gorgeous glow

"Gay Fancy gives her veft to flow,

Unless Truth's matron-hand the floating folds con fine.

Juft heaven, man's fortitude to prove,
Permits through life at large to rove

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The tribes of hell-born Woe:

"Yet the fame power that wifely fends

Life's fierceft ills, indulgent lends

„Religion's golden fhield to break th' embattled foe.

„Her aid divine had lull'd to rest
"Yon foul felf-murtherer's trobbing breaft,

,,And stay'd the rifing storm:
„Had bade the fun of hope appear

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To gild the darken'd hemisphere,

„And give the wonted bloom to nature's blafted form,

„Vain man! 'tis heaven's prerogative
To take, what firft it deign'd to give,

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"Thy tributary breath:

„In aweful expectation plac'd,

,,Await thy doom, nor impious hafte

"To pluck from God's right hand his inftruments of death!"

von Haller.

Als Lehrdichter haben wir ihn B. II. S. 359. ff. kennen lernen; er bleibt es auch in den wenigen Oden, die er schrieb, vornehmlich in der folgenden, obgleich ihr lyrischer Gang dem gedrängten, spruchreichen Inhalte noch mehr Lebhaftigs keit und Gewicht giebt.

Die Tugend.

Freund! die Tugend ist kein leerer Name:
Aus dem Herzen keimt des Guten Saame
Und ein Gott ists, der der Berge Epißen
Röthet mit Blißen.

Laß den Freigeist mit dem Himmel scherzen;
Falsche Lehre fliesst aus bösen Herzen ;
Und Verachtung allzustrenger Pflichten
Dient für Verrichten.

Nicht der Hochmuth, nicht die Eigenliebe,
Nein, vom Himmel eingepflanzte Triebe
Lehren Tugend; und daß ihre Krone
Selbst sie belohne.

Ists Verstellung, die uns selbst bekämpfet, Die des Jahzorns Feuerströme dåmpfet, Und der Liebe doch zu sanfte Flammen Zwingt zu verdammen?

Ist es Dummheit, oder List des Weisen, Der die Tugend rühmet in den Eisen; Dessen Wangen, mitten in dem Sterben, Nie sich entfärben?

Ist es Thorheit, die die Herzen bindet, Daß ein jeder sich im andern findet,

von haller.,

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