Sivut kuvina

Mafon. Of this clear rill now ftray'd the devious path,
Amid ambrofial tufts where fpicy plants,

Weeping their perfum'd tears of myrrh and

Stood crown'd with fharon's rofe; or where, apart,

The patriarch Palm his load of fugar'd dates
Shower'd plenteous;, where the Fig, of ftandard

And rich Pomegranate, wrapt in dulcet pulp
Their racy feeds; or where the Citron's bough
Bent with its load of golden fruit mature.
Meanwhile the lawn beneath the fcatter'd fhade
Spreits ferene extent; a ftately file

Of circling Cypress mark'd the diftant bound.

Now, to the left, the path afcending pierc'd
A smaller fylvan theatre, yet deck'd
With more majeftic foliage. Cedars here,
Coeval with the fky-crown-d mountain's felf
Spread wide their giant arms; whence from a rock,
Craggy and black, that feem'd its fountain head,
The ftream fell headlong; yet ftill higher rofe,
Ev'n in th' eternal fnows of Lebanon,

That hallow'd fpring; thence, in the porous earth,
Long while ingulph'd, its cryftal weight here

Its way to light and freedom. Down it dafh'd;
A bed of native marble pure receiv'd

The new-born Naiad, and repos'd her wave,
Till with o'er-flowing pride it fkim'd the lawn.

Fronting this lake there rofe a folemn grot,
O'er which an ancient vine luxuriant flung
Its purple clusters, and beneath its roof
An unhewn altar. Rich Sabaea gums
That altar pil'd, and there with torch of pine
The venerable Sage, now firft defcry'd,
The fragrant incenfe kindled. Age had fhed
That duft of filver o'er his fable locks,

Which spoke his ftrength mature beyond its prime, niason.
Yet vigorous ftill, for from his healthy cheek
Time had not cropt a rofe, or on his brow
One wrinkling furrow plow'd; his eagle eye
Had all its youthful lightning, and each limb
The finewy ftrength, that toil demands and gives.

The warrior faw and paus'd: his nod with-

The crowd at awful diftance, where their ears,
In mute attention, drank the fage's prayer.

[ocr errors]


Parent of Good! (he cried) behold the gifts
Thy humble votary brings, and may thy fimile
„Hallow his cuftom'd offering. Let the hand
"That deals in blood, with blood thy fhrines dis-

„Be mine this harmless tribute. If it speaks
A grateful heart, can hecatombs do more?
Parent of Good! they cannot. Purple pomp
May call thy prefence to a prouder fane


Than this poor cave; but will thy prefence there ,,Be more devoutly felt? Parent of Good!

[ocr errors]

It will not. Here then, fhall the proftrate heart, "That deeply feels thy prefence, lift its pray'r.

,,But what has he to afk who nothing needs,

[ocr errors]

Save what unafk'd is from thy heav'n of heav'ns „Giv'n in diurnal good? Yet, holy Power!

Do all that call thee Father thus exult ,,In thy propitious prefence? Sidon finks "Beneath a tyrart's fcourge. Parent of Good!

[ocr errors]

Oh free my captive country.

Sudden here,

He paus'd and figh'd; and now, the raptur'd crowd
Murmur'd applaufe: he heard, he turn'd, and faw
The king of Macedon with eager ftep

Burft from his warrior phalanx.

From the youth,
Who bore its state, the conqueror's own right hand
Snatch'd the rich wreath, and bound it on his brow.
His fwift attendants o'er his fhoulders caft
The robe of empire, while the trumpet's voice
Proclaim'd him king of Sidon. Stern he stood,


Mafon. Or, if he fmil'd, 'twas a contemptuous fmile,
That held the pageant honours in disdain.

Then burst the people's voice, in loud acclaim,
And bad him be their Father. At the word
The honour'd blood, that warm'd him, flufh'd his

His brow expanded; his exalted step

March'd firmer; gracioufly he bowd the head.
And was the Sire they call'd him. "Tell me king,"
Young Ammon cried, while o'er his brightening

He caft the gaze of wonder, „,how a foul
,,Like thine could bear the toils of Penury?"
"Oh grant me, Gods!" he anfwer'd, fo to bear



This load of Royalty. My toil was crown'd
With bleffings loft to kings; yet righteous Pow


,,If to my country ye transfer the boon,
"I triumph in the lofs: Be mine the chains
"That fetter Sov'reignty; let Sidon (mile

[ocr errors]

With your best bleffings, Liberty and Peace.<



Keiner unter den jeßigen englischen Dichtern hat sich in der, von dieser Nation so häufig und so vorzüglich schon bes arbeiteten, artistischen Gattung des Lehrgedichts, so ausgez zeichneten Beifall erworben, als William Hayley, Esq. aus der Grafschaft Suffer gebürtig. Seine drei hieher ges hörigen Gedichte find indeß nicht Lehrgedichte im ftrengern Verftande des Worts, und in Virgil's Manier; es sind vielmehr, ihrer ganzen Form und Einrichtung nach, zugleich beschreibende und unterrichtende poetische Episteln, von der Art, wie die Horazischen an die Visonen und an den August. Zuerst erschien der Essay on Painting, in zwei poes tischen Briefen, au den Mahler Romney gerichtet; dann der Effay on History, in drei Briefen, an den berühmten Ges schichtschreiber Gibbon; und zulegt der Elay on Epic Poetry, in fünf Episteln, an Hrn. Mason. Ja allen ist der Gang nicht sowohl didaktisch,. als historisch und charakterists rend; aber eben in der Entwerfung der eigenthümlichen Vorzüge jedes Mahlers, Geschichtschreibers und Heldens dichters zeigt Hr. Hayley einen sehr feinen Geschmack, und in ihrer Schilderung ein sehr fruchtbares poetisches Genie. Ueberaus unterhaltend find die jedem Gedichte beigefügten ausführlichen Anmerkungen, die zum Theil kritisch, meis ftens aber literarisch und historisch sind. Unter denen zu dem lezten Gedichte befindet sich der glückliche Versuch einer Ues bersetzung der drei ersten Gesänge aus der Hölle des Dante, mit beibehaltner Versart der terze rime. - Die sämmtlic chen bisherigen Werke dieses Dichters find zu London 1785 in sechs Oktavbånden zusammen-gedruckt; und die beiden erften der drei angeführten Essays, aus deren jedem hier eis ne kurze Probe folgt, stehen, mit dem gedachten Kommentar begleitet, in den beiden bisherigen Bånden der Benzlerischen Poetical Library.

[ocr errors]
[ocr errors]




Ep. I. v. 21—155.

Painting, fweet Nymph now leaves in lifeless


Exhaufted Italy and tinfel France,
And fees in Britain, with exulting eyes,
Her vot'ries prosper, and her glories rife.
Yet tho', my friend, thy art is thus careft,
And with the homage of the public bleft,
And flourishes with growing beauty fair,
The child of Majefty's adoptive care,
The youthful artift ftill is doom't to feel
Obftruction's chilling hand, that damps his zeal:
Th' imperious voice of Vanity and Pride
Bids him from Fancy's region turn afide,
And quit the magic of her fcene, to trace
The vacant lines of fome unmeaning face:
E'en in this work his wifhes ftill are croft,
And all the efforts of his art are loft;
For when the canvas, with the mirror's truth,
Reflects the perfect form of age or youth,
The fond affections of the partial mind
The eye of judgment with delufion blind:
Each mother bids him brighter tints employ,
And give new fpirit to her booby boy;
Nor can the painter, with his utmost art,
Express the image in the lover's heart:
Unconscious of the change the feafons bring,
Autumnal beauty afks the rofe of spring,
And vain felf-love, in every age the fame,
Will fondly urge fome vifionary claim.
The luckiefs painter, deftin'd to fubmit,
Mourns the loft likeness which he once had hit,
And, doom'd to groundlefs cenfure, bears alone
The grievous load of errors not his own,


« EdellinenJatka »