Let it be weeping too; but there
Th' engraver sure his art may spare,
For I so truly thee bemoan,
That I shall weep though I be stone;
Until my tears, still dropping, wear
My breast, themselves engraving there.
There at my feet shalt thou be laid,
Of purest alabaster made;
For I would have thine image be
White as can, thoưgh not as thee,

I it at mine own fingers nurs'd;
And as it grew, so every day
It wax'd more white and sweet than they.
It had so sweet a breath! And oft
I blush'd to see its foot moore soft,
And white, shall I say than my hand ?
Nay, any lady's of t'ie land.

It is a wondrous thing how fleet
'Twas on those little silver feet.
With what a pretty skipping grace
It oft would challenge me the race;
And when't had left me far away,
'Twould stay, and run again, and stay.
For it was nimbler much than hinds;
And trod, as if on the four winds.

I have a garden of my own, But so with roses overgrown, lilies, that you

ould it guess
To be a little wilderness :
And all the spring time of the year
It only loved to be there,
Among the beds of lilies I
Have sought it oft, where it should lye;
Yet could not, till itself would rise,
Find it, although before mine eyes;
For, in the flaxen lilies' shade,
It like a bank of lilies laid.
Upon the roses it would feed,
Until its lips ev'n seemed to bleed;
And then to me 't would boldly trip,
And print those roses on my lip.
But all its chief delight was still
On roses thus itself to fill;
And its pure virgin limbs to fold
In whitest sheets of lilies cold.
Had it lived long, it would have been
Lilies without, roses within.

O help! O help! I see it faint,
And dye as calmly as a saint.
See how it weeps! the tears do come,
Sad, slowly, dropping like a gum.
So weeps the wounded balsam; so
The holy frankincense doth flow.
The brotherless Heliades
Melt in such amber tears as these.

I in a golden vial will
Keep these two crystal tears; and fill
It, till it do o'erflow with mine;
Then place it in Diana's shrine.

Now my sweet Fawn is vanish'd to
Whither the swans and turtles go;
In fair Elisium to endure,
With milk-white lambs, and ermines pure.
O do not run too fast: for I
Will but bespeak thy grave, and dye.

First my unhappy statue shall Be cut in marble; and withal,

To his coy Mistress. Had we but world enough, an time, This coyness, Lady, were no crime. We would sit down, and think which way To walk, and pass our long love's day. Thou by the Indian Ganges' side Should'st rubies find: I by the tide Of Humber would complain. I wou'd Love you ten years before the flood : And you should, if you please, refuse Till the conversion of the Jews. My vegetable love should grow Vaster than empires, and more slow. An hundred years should go to praise Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze

Two hundred to adore each breast; But thirty thousand to the rest. An age at least to every part, And the last age should show your heart, For, Lady, you deserve this state; Nor would I love at lower rate.

But at my back I always hear Time's winged chariot hurrying near: And yonder all before us lye Desarts of vast eternity. Thy beauty shall no more be found; Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound My echoing song: then worms shall try That long preserv'd virginity: And your quaint honour turn to dust; And into ashes all my lust. The grave's a fine and private place,

I think, do there embrace. Now therefore, while the youthful hue Sits on thy skin like morning dew, And while thy willing soul transpires At every pore with instant fires, Now let us sport us while we may; And now, like am'rous birds of prey, Rather at once our time devour, Than languish in his slow chap'd pow'r.

But none,

Let us roll all our strength, and all
Our sweetness, up into one ball:
And tear our pleasures with rough strife,

Thorough the iron gates of life.
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.


John Dryden ward am 9. August 1631 (nach Anderen 1632) zu Aldwinkle in Northamptonshire geboren, studirte in Cambridge und begab sich dann nach London, wo er zuerst mit einer Elegie auf den Tod Cromwell's auftrat und in einem andern Gedichte Astraea redux die Restau ration verherrlichte. 1665 vermählte er sich mit der Tochter des Grafen von Berkshire, Elisabeth Howard, ward eines der ersten Mitglieder der königlichen Akademie und arbeitete dann seit dem grossen Brande vorzüglich für das königliche Theater. Nach Davenant's Tode ward er Hofpoet und bald nachher auch königlicher Historiograph, doch schützte ihn dies nicht vor heftigen und wiederholten Angriffen. Nach der Thronbesteigung Jakob’s II. trat Dryden zur katholischen Religion über und vertheidigte diesen Schritt, wegen dessen er heftig angefeindet wurde, in mehreren Gedichten, besonders in dem darauf vorbereitenden didactischen Poem Religio Laici und in dem allegorischen Gedichte The Hind and the Panther. Die Revolution raubte ihm alle seine Aemter und er musste nun während seiner letzten Lebensjahre für das tägliche Brod arbeiten und mit Sorgen und Entbehrungen kämpfen. Er beschäftigte sich nun hauptsächlich mit poetischen Lebersetzungen, in denen er seltene Meisterschaft beurkundete, bis zu seinem am 1. Mai 1701 erfolgten Tode. Seine Leiche ward in der Westminster-Abtei beigesetzt.

Die beste Ausgabe von Dryden's poetischen Werken besorgte Jos. Warton (London 1811, 4 Bde. 8.); die seiner sämmtlichen sowohl dichterischen wie prosaischen Schriften W. Scott. (London 1808, 18 Bde. 8.). Die ersteren enthalten Dramen, Satiren, didactische Gedichte u. s. w., denn Dryden cultivirte alle Gattungen der Poesie. Er ist das Haupt einer neuen Dichterschule in England, welche mit grosser Besonnenheit, aber ohne Begeisterung einen neuen kunstgerechten Schulton einführte und viel für die Verfeinerung des Geschmackes und die Correctheit der Sprache und Form that, aber an Genialität den grossen Dichtern früher Zeit weit nachsteht.

Als poetischer Stylist ist Dryden höchst ausgezeichnet, und was man als solcher erreichen kann, hat er erreicht, was aber den wahren Dichter macht, fehlt ihm fast ganz; er ist ein feiner Satiriker, ein guter Lehrdichter, ein talentvoller Gelegenheitspoet und ein scharfsinniger geschmackvoller Kritiker, aber kalt in seinen Dramen wie überhaupt da, wo es auf Kraft, Phantasie und Gefühl ankommt.

Select Passages from Eleanora.

As gentle dreams our waking thoughts pursue; As precious gums are not for lasting fire, Or, one dream pass’d, we slide into a new; They but perfume the temple, and expire: So close they follow, such wild order keer, So was she soon exhal'd, and vanish'd hence; We think ourselves awake, and are asleep: A skort sweet odor, of a vast expence.

So softly death succeeded life in her: She vanish'd, we can scarcely say she dy'd; She did but dream of heaven, and she was there. For but a now did heaven and earth divide: No pains she suffer'd, nor expir'd with noise; She pass'd serenely with a single breath; Her soul was whisper'd out with God's still This moment perfect health, the next was death:

voice; One sigh did her eternal bliss assure;

As an old friend is beckon'd to a feast, So little penance needs, when souls are almost And treated like a long familiar guest.


He took her as he found, but found her so,




As one in hourly readiness to go:

Whether some soul incompassing this ball, Ev’n on that day, in all her trim prepard; Unmade, unmov'd, yet making, moving all; As early notice she from heaven had heard, Or various atoms' interfering dance, And some descending courier from above Leap'd into form, the noble work of chance; Had given her timely warning to remove; Or this great all was from eternity; Or counsel'd her to dress the nuptial room, Not ev'n the Stagirite himself could see; For on that night the bridegroom was to come. And Epicurus guess'd as well as he: He kept his hour, and found her where she lay As blindly grop'd they for a future state; Cloath'd all in white, the livery of the day: As rashly judy'd of providence and fate: Scarce had she sinn’d in thought, or word, or But least of all could their endeavours find


What most concern’d the good of human kind.
Unless omissions were to pass for fact : For happiness was never to be found,
That hardly death a consequence could draw, But vanish'd from them like enchanted ground.
To make her liable to nature's law.

One thought content the good to be enjoy'd;
This every little accident destroy'd:
The wiser madmen did for virtue toil;

A thorny, or at best a barren soil :
O happy soul! if thou canst view from high, In pleasure some their glutton souls would steep;
Where thou art all intelligence, all eye;

But found their line too short, the well too deep; If, looking up to God, or down to us,

And leaky vessels which no bliss could keep. Thou find'st, that any way be pervious,

Thus anxious thoughts in endless circles roll, Survey the ruins of thy house, and see

Without a centre where to fix the soul:

In this wild maze their vain endeavours end: Thy widow'd and thy orphan family: Look on thy tender pledges left behind;

How can the less the greater comprehend ? And if thou canst a vacant minute find

Or finite reason reach Infinity ? From heavenly joys, that interval afford

For what could fathom God were more than He. To thy sad children, and thy mourning lord.

The Deist thinks he stands on firmer ground; See how they grieve, mistaken in their love,

Cries econxa, the mighty secret's found: And shed a beam of comfort from above;

God is that spring of good; supreme, and best; Give them, as much as mortal eyes can bear,

We made to serve, and in that service blest. A transient view of thy full glories there;

If so, some rules of worship must be given: That they with mod’rate sorrow may sustain

Distributed alike to all by Heaven: And mollify their losses in thy gain.

Else God were partial, and to some deny'd Or else divide the grief; for such thou wert,

The means his justice should for all provide That should not all relations bear a part,

This general worship is to praise and pray It were enough to break a single heart.

One part to borrow blessings, one to pay:
And when frail nature slides into offence,
The sacrifice for crimes is penitence.
Yet since the effects of providence, we find,

Are variously dispens'd to human kind;
From Dryden's Religio Laici.

That vice triumphs, and virtue suffers here, Dim as the borrow'd beams of moon and stars

A brand that sovereign justice cannot bear; To lonely, weary, wand'ring travellers,

Our reason prompts us to a future state, Is reason to the soul: and as on high,

The last appeal from fortune and from fate, Those rolling fires discover but the sky,

Where God's all righteous ways will be declar'd, Not light us here: so reason's glimmering ray

The bad ineet punishment, the good reward. Was lent, not to assure our doubtful way,

Thus man by his own strength to heaven But guide us upward to a better day.

would soar, And as those nightly tapers disappear,

And would not be oblig'd to God for more. When day's bright lord ascends our hemisphere; Vain wretched creature, how art thou misled So pale grows reason at religion's sight; To think thy wit these god-like notions bred! So dies, and so dissolves in supernatural light. These truths are not the product of thy mind, Some few, whose lamp shone brighter, have But dropt from heaven, and of a nobler kind.

been led

Reveald religion first inform’d thy sight, From cause to cause, to nature's secret head; And reason saw not till faith sprung the light. And found that one First Principle must be: Hence all thy natural worship takes the source: But what, or who, that universal He;

'Tis revelation what thou think'st discourse.



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Else how com’st thou to see these truths so clear, To wink at crimes, and bear unpunish'd wrong;
Which so obscure to heathens did appear? Look humbly upward, see his will disclose
Not Plato these, nor Aristotle found:

The forfeit first, and then the fine impose:
Nor he whose wisdom oracles renown'd.

A mulct thy poverty could never pay, Hast thou a wit so deep, or so sublime,

Had not eternal wisdom found the way; Or canst thou lower dive, or higher climb? And with celestial wealth supply'd thy store; Canst thou by reason more of godhead know His justice makes the fine, his mercy quits the Than Plutarch, Seneca, or Cicero ?

score. Those giant wits in happier ages born, When arms and arts did Greece and Rome

Knew no such system: no such piles could

Of natural worship, built on prayer and praise
To one sole God.

Go tell Amynta, gentle swain
Nor did remorse to expiate sin prescribe : I would not die, nor dare complain;
But slew their fellow-creatures for a bribe : Thy tuneful voice with numbers join
The guiltless victim groan'd for their offence, Thy words will more prevail than mine.
And cruelty and blood was penitence.

To souls oppressed and dumb with grief.
If sheep and oxen could atone for men,

The gods ordain this kind relief;
Ah! at how cheap a rate the rich might sin! That music should in sounds convey
And great oppressors might Heaven's wrath What dying lovers dare not say.

By offering his own creatures for a spoil ! A sigh or tear perhaps she'll give

Dar’st thou, poor worm, offend Infinity ? But love on pity cannot live.
And must the terms of peace be given by thee? Tell her that hearts for hearts were made,
Then thou art justice in the last appeal : And love with love is only paid.
Thy easy God instructs thee to rebel :

Tell her my pains so fast increase
And, like a king remote, and weak, must take That soon they will be past redress;
What satisfaction thou art pleas'd to make. But ah! the wretch that speechless lies,

But if there be a power too just and strong, Attends but death to close his eyes.

ROSc o m m o n.

Wentworth Dillon Graf von Roscommon ward 1633 in Irland geboren, erhielt eine wissenschaftliche Bildung in Caen, bereiste darauf Frankreich und Italien, kehrte zur Zeit der Restauration zurück und wurde dann Hauptmann der Garde, ein Posten den er jedoch später wieder aufgab. Nach einer ziemlich regellosen Jugend widmete er sich ernsteren Bestrebungen und ging vorzüglich mit dem Plane um, eine Akademie nach dem Muster der französischen zu stiften, um die Reinheit und Correctheit der englischen Sprache zu überwachen, was ihm jedoch nicht glückte. Er beschäftigte sich nun mit einem didactischen Gedichte über die Kunst Verse zu übersetzen und mit poetischen Uebertragungen selbst. Als die Revolution auszubrechen drohte, wollte er nach Rom Hüchten, aber ein heftiger Gichtanfall zwang ihn zu bleiben und führte 1684 seinen Tod herbei. Er ward mit grosser Feierlichkeit in der Westminster - Abtei begraben.

Seine Gedichte erschienen zuerst gesammelt, London 1717 in 8. und sind seitdem öfter wieder aufgelegt worden Sie sind correct, elegant, gefällig, aber kalt, doch ist nicht zu leugnen, dass Roscommon seiner Zeit sehr günstig auf die Verfeinerung des Geschmackes wirkte.

souls agree

Select Passages

When things appear unnatural or hard, from the Essay on translated Verse. Consult your author, with himself compar'd.

Who knows what blessing Phoebus may bestow, Each poet with a different talent writes;

And future ages to your labour owe? One praises, one instructs, another bites.

Such secrets are not easily found out; Horace did ne'er aspire to Epic bays,

But, once discover'd, leave no room for doubt. Nor lofty Maro stoop to Lyric lays. Examine how your humour is inclin'd, And which the ruling passion of your mind; Then seek a poet who your way does bend,

I pity, from my soul, unhappy men, And choose an author as you choose a friend.

Compell’d by want to prostitute their pen; United by this sympathetic bond,

Who must, like lawyers, either starve or plead, You grow familiar, intimate, and fond:

And follow, right or wrong, where guineas lead! Your thoughts, your words, your styles, your But you, Pompilian, wealthy, pamper'd heirs,

Who to your country owe your swords and cares, No longer his interpreter, but lie.

Let no vain hope your easy mind seduce, With how much ease is a young Muse be- For rich ill poets are without excuse,


'Tis very dangerous, tampering with the Muse, How nice the reputation of the maid!

The profit's small, and you have much to lose; Your early, kind, paternal care appears, For though true wit adorns your birth or place, By chaste instruction of her tender years.

Degenerate lines degrade th' attainted race. The first impression in her infant breast

No poet any passion can excite, Will be the deepest, and should be the best.

But what they feel transport them when they Let not austerity breed servile fear;

write. No wanton sound offend her virgin ear,

Have you been led through the Cumaean cave, Secure from foolish pride's affected state, And heard th’ impatient maid divinely rare? And spacious flattery's more pernicious bait, I hear her now; I see her rolling eyes: Habitual innocence adorns her thoughts;

And panting, Lo! the God, the God, she cries; But your neglect must answer for her faults.

With words not her's, and more than human Immodest words admit of no defence;

sound For want of decency is want of sense.

She makes th' obedient ghosts peep trembling What moderate fop would rake the park or stews,

through the ground. Who among troops of faultless nymphs may But, though we must obey when heaven comchoose?

mands, Variety of such is to be found:

And man in vain the sacred call withstands, Take then a subject proper to expound; Beware what spirit rages in your breast; But moral, great, and worth a poet's voice;

For ten inspir’d, ten thousand are possest. For men of sense despise a trivial choice:

Thus make the proper use of each extreme,
And such applause it must expect to meet, And write with fury, but correct with phlegm.
As would some painter busy in a street, As when the cheerful hours too freely pass,
To copy bulls and bears, and every sign And sparkling wine smiles in the tempting glass,
That calls the staring sots to nasty wine.

Your pulse advises, and begins to beat
Through every swelling vein a loud retreat:
So when a Muse propitiously invites,

Improve her favours, and indulge her flights; What I have instanc'd only in the best, But when you find that vigorous heat abate, Is, in proportion, true of all the rest.

Leave off, and for another summons wait. Take pains the genuine meaning to explore: Before the radiant sun, a glimmering lamp, There sweat, there strain; tug the laborious oar; Adulterate measures to the sterling stamp, Search every comment that your care can find; Appear not meaner than mere human lines, Some here, some there, may hit the poet's mind : Compar'd with those whose inspiration shines: Yet be not blindly guided by the throng: These nervous, bold; those languid and remiss; The multitude is always in the wrong.

There cold salutes; but here lover's kiss.




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