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Thomas Warton.

THE

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 Selbst: mårders zum gerechten, durch jenes Mitleid nicht verstimmten Urtheile über seine That und sein Schicksal hingeleitet wird.

SUICIDE.

BENEATH the beech, whofe 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.

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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.

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

O'er his fad couch, and in the balm
Of bland oblivion's dews his burning eyes to steep.

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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 fpectre pale, appear'd;

While, as the fhades of eve arose

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

,,Is this, mistaken Scorn will cry,

Is this the youth, whofe genius high

Could build the genuine rime?

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Whofe 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 sense 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 mitery's form his fancy drew
In dark ideal hues, and horrors not its own.

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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 buft
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

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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,

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"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,

Unlefs Truth's matron-hand the floating folds con

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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,

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„Her aid divine had lull'd to rest

„Yon foul self-murtherer's trobbing breast,
,,And stay'd the rifing storm:

Had bade the fun of hope appear

To gild the darken'd hemifphere,

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"And give the wonted bloom to nature's blafted ·

form,

Vain man! 'tis heaven's prerogative

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To take, what first it deign'd to give,
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!"

Haller.

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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 Spißen Röthet mit Blißen.

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

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

Jsts Verstellung, die uns selbst bekämpfet, Die des Jahzorns Feuerströme dåmpfer, 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,

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von Haller.

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