Miaron. , of this clear rill now stray'd the devious path,

Amid ainbrosial tufts where spicy plants,
Weeping their perfum'd tears of myrrhand

nard,
Stood crown'd with Sharon's rose; or where,

apart,
The patriarch Palm his load of sugar'd dates
Shower'd plenteous;, where the Fig, of standard

strength,
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 scatter'd shade
Spre l its ferene extent; a stately file
Of circling Cypress mark'd the distant bound.

Now, to the left, the path ascending pierc'd
A smaller fylvan theatre, yet deck'd
With more majestic foliage. Cedars here,
Coeval with the sky-crown-d mountain's self
Spread wide their giant arms; whence from a rock,
Craggy and black, that seem'd its fountain head,
The stream fell headlong; yet still higher rose,
Ev’n in th' eternal snow's of Lebanon,
That hallow'd spring; thence, in the porous earth,
Long while ingulph’d, its crystal weight here

forc'd
Its way to light and freedom. Down it dash'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 skim'd the lawn.

$1

Fronting this lake there rofe a solemn grot,

a
O'er which an ancient vine luxuriant fung
Its purple clusters, and beneath its roof
An unhewn altar. Rich Sabaea

gums
That altar pild, and there with torch of pine
The venerable Sage, now first desery'd,
The fragrant incense kindled. Age had shed
That dust of silver o'er his fable locks,

Which spoke his strength mature beyond its prime, Hiason.
Yet vigorous still, for from his healthy cheek
Time had not cropt a rose, or on his brow
One wrinkling furrow plow'd ; his eagle eye
Had all its youthful lightning, and each limb
The finewy strength, that toil demands and gives.
The warrior faw and paus's :' hiş nod with-

held
The crowd at awful distance, where their ears,
In mute attention, drank the fage's prayer.
„Parent of Good! (he cried) behold the gifts
„Thy humble votary brings, and may thy smile
„Hallow his custom’d offering. Let the hand
That deals in blood, with blood thy shrines Jis.

tain;
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 presence to a prouder fane
Than this poor cave; but will thy presence there
Be more devoutly felt? Parent of Good!
„It will not. Here then, shall the prostrate heart,

That deeply feels thy presence, lift its pray’r,
„But what has he to ask who nothing needs,
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 scourge. Parent of Good!
„Oh free my captive country.“ – Sudden here,
He paus'd and ligh'd; and now, the raptur'd crowd
Murmur'd applause: he heard, he turn'd, and saw
The king of Macedon with eager step
Burst 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 swift attendants o'er his shoulders cast
The robe of empire, while the trumpet's voice
Proclaim'd him king of Sidon, Stern he stood,

Or,

hapon. Or, if he fmild, 'twas a contemptuous smile,

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, fufh'd his

cheek;
His brow expanded; his exalted step
March'd firmer; graciously he bow d the head.
And was the Sire they call'd him.

Tell me king,
Young Ammon cried, while. o'er his brighi’ning

form
He cast the gaze of wonder, how a soul
„Like thine could bear the toils of Penury?"
„Oh grant me, Gods! " he answer'd, so to bear
This load of Royalty. My toil was crown'd
With blessings lost to kings; yet righteous Pow.

ers!
,, If to my country ye transfer the boon,
, I triumph in the loss: Be mine the chains
„That fetter Sov'reignty; let Sidon smile
„ With your best blessings, Liberty and Peace.“

Steiner unter den jebigen englischen Dichtern hat fich ist ber, von dieser Nation fo häufig und fo vorzüglich sdhSn bes. arbeiteten, artistischen Gattung des Lehrgedichts, so ausgez zeichneten Beifall erworben, als william hayley, krq. aus der Grafschaft Suffer gebürtig. Seine drei hieher ges hfrigen Gedichte sind indeß nicht gehrgedichte im ftrengern Verffande des Worts, und in Virgil's Manier; es find vielmehr, ihrer ganzen Form und Einrichtung nach, zugleich beschreibende und unterrichtende poetische Episteln, von der Art, wie die borazischen an die Pifonen und an den Auguft. Zuerst erschien der Elity on Painting, in zwei poes tischen Briefen, an den Mahler Romney gerichtet; dann der Esay on History, in drei Briefen, an den berühmten Ges schichtschreiber Gibbon; und julekt der Elling on Epic Poetry, in fünf Episteln, an Hrn. Jason. Ja allen ist der Gang nicht sowohl didaktisch, als historisch und charakterists rend ; aber eben in der Entwertung der cigenthümlicher Porzüge jedes Mahlers, Geschichtschreibers und Helbeny dichters zeigt Hr. barley einen sehr feinen Geschmack, und in ihrer Schilderung ein sehr fruchtbares poetisches Senie. Ueberaus unterhaltend find die jedem Gedichte beigefügten ausführlichen Aumerkungen, die zum Theil kritisch, meis ftens aber literarisch und historisch find. Unter denen zu dem lekten Gedichte befindet fich der glückliche Verfüch einer les berseßung der drei ersten Gesänge aus der solle des Danter mit beibehaltner Versart der terze rime. Die råmmtlis chen bisherigen Werke dieses Dichters find ju London 1785 in fechs Oktavbånden zusammen gedruckt; und die beiden erften der drei angeführten Esays, aus deren jedem hier eis ne kurze Probe folgt, ftehen, mit dem gedachten Stommentar begleitet, in den beiden bisherigen Gånden der Benzlerischen Poetical Library,

ESSAY

bayley.

ESSAY ON PAINTING;

Ep. I. v. 21–155.

Painting, fweet Nymph now leaves in "lifeless

trance
Exhausted Italy and tinsel France,
And fees in Britain, with exulting eyes,
Her vot’ries prosper, and her glories rise.
Yet tho', my friend, thy art is thus carest,
And with the homage of the public bleft,
And Aourishes with growing beauty fair,
The child of Majesty's adoptive care,
The youthful artist still is doom't to feel
Obstruction's chilling hand, that damps his zeal:
Th' imperious voice of Vanity and Pride
Bids him from Fancy's region turn aside,
And quit the magic of her scene, to trace
The vacant lines of some unmeaning face:
E’en in this work his wishes still are crost,
And all the efforts of his art are lost;
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 mnother bids him brighter tints employ,
And give new spirit to her booby boy;
Nor can the painter, with his utmost art,
Express the inage in the lover's heart:
Unconscious of the change the seasons bring,
Autumnal beauty asks the role of spring,
And vain self-love, in every age the same,
Will fondly urge some visionary claim.
The luckless painter, destin'd to subunit,
Mourns the lost likeness which he once had hit,
And, doom'd to groundless censure, bears alone
The grievous load of errors not his own,

Nor