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Tindulge awhile. Now solemn rites he pays
To Bacchus, author of heart- cheering mirth.
His honest friends, at thirsty hour of dusk,
Come uninvited; he with bounteous hand
Imparts his smoking vintage, sweet reward
Of his own industry; the well-fraught bowl
Circles incessant, whilst the humble cell
With quavering laugh and rural jests resounds.
Ease, and content, and undissembled love
Shine in each face; the thoughts of labour past
Encrease their joy. As, from retentive cage
When sullen Philomel escapes, her notes
She varies, and of past imprisonment
Sweetly complains; her liberty retriev'd
Cheers her sad soul, improves her pleasing song.
Gladsome they quaff, yet not exceed the bounds
Of healthy temperance, nor encroach on night,
Season of rest, but well bedew'd repair
Each to his home, with unsupplanted feet.
Ere heaven's emblazon'd by the rosy dawn,
Domestic cares awake them; brisk they rise,
Refresh'd, and lively with the joys that flow
From amicable talk, and moderate cups
Sweetly interchang'd.

THOMAS

PARNEL L.

HOMAS PARNELL, 1679 zu Dublin geboren, bezog nach dem in einer Grammar-school genossenen Unterricht die Universität, nahm 1700 den Grad eines Magisters der freien Künste an, wurde gleich darauf zum Diaconus ordinirt, und erhielt 1705 das Archidiaconat von Clogher. Gegen das Ende der Regierung Anna's zeichnete er sich zu London sowohl durch seine Anhänglichkeit an das Ministerium, als durch seine Kanzelberedsamkeit aus, und erregte dadurch die Aufmerksamkeit des Erzbischofs King, der ihm 1713 eine Präbende, und 1716 eine einträgliche Predigerstelle zu Finglas in der Diöces von Dublin gab. Die letztere konnte er jedoch nicht antreten; denn er starb bereits 1717 auf seiner

Reise nach Irland zu Chester. Er ist Verfasser einer Reihe geschmackvoller Gedichte, die sein Freund Pope gesammelt, kerausgegeben und dem Grafen von Oxford dedicirt hat. Poems on several occasions, written by Thomas Parnell, and publish'd by A. Pope, London 1721 und 1760. 8. Goldsmith hat diese Ausgabe wiederholt, sie mit einigen Stücken vermehrt, und ihr das Leben des Dichters vorgesetzt,, London 1770, 8. In dieser Gestalt findet man sie in dem 44sten Bande der Johnsonschen, im 7ten der Andersonschen, und im 67sten und 68sten der Bellschen Sammlung der Werke Englischer Dichter abgedruckt. Zu den vorzüglichsten Stücken gehören: Hesiod, or the rise of woman; a Fairy Tale, in the ancient english style; the night-piece on death; the book-worm; the vigil of Venus; the hermit; the Allegory on man etc. Dem letztern Gedicht erkennt Johnson die Palme zu, der übrigens von unserm Dichter behauptet, dafs er immer ergötze, aber nie entzücke. Das Leben des Dichters haben, aufser Goldsmith, auch Johnson und An-, derson erzählt.

1) AN ALLEGORY ON MAN.

A thoughtful being, long and spare,

Our race of mortals call him Care
(Were Homer living, well he knew

What name the gods have call'd him too);
With fine mechanic genius wrought,

And lov'd to work, though no one bought.
This being, by a model bred

In Jove's éternal sable head,

Contriv'd a shape empower'd to breathe,
And be the worldling here beneath.

The man rose staring, like a štake,
Wondering to see himself awake!
Then look'd so wise, before he knew
The business be was made to do;
That, pleas'd to see with what a grace
He gravely shew'd his forward face,
Jove talk'd of breeding him on high,
An under-something of the sky.

But ere he gave the mighty nod,
Which ever binds a poet's god

(For which his curls ambrosial shake
And mother Earth's oblig'd to quake),
He saw old mother Earth arise;
She stood confess'd before his eyes;
But not with what we read she wore,
A castle for a crown before,
Nor with long streets and longer roads
Dangling behind her, like commodes;
As yet with wreaths alone she drest,
And trail'd a landskip - painted vest.
Then thrice she rais'd, as Ovid said,
And thrice she bow'd her weighty head.

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Her honours made Great Jove, she cry'd, This thing was fashion'd from my side: His hands, his heart, his head, are mine; Then what hast thou to call him thine?

Nay, rather ask, the Monarch said, What boots his hand, his heart, his head, Were what I gave remov'd away?

Thy part's an idle shape of clay.

Halves, more than halves! cry'd honest Care,
Your pleas would make your titles fair;
You claim the body, you the soul,

But I, who join'd them, claim the whole.
Thus with the gods debate began,
On such a trivial cause, as man.
And can celestial tempers rage;
Quoth Virgil, in a later age,

As thus they wrangled, Time came by;
(There's none that paint him such as 1;
For what the fabling ancients sung
Makes Saturn' old, when Time was young);
As yet his winters had not shed
Their silver honours on his head;
He just had got his pinions free
From his old sire, Eternity,
A serpent girdled round he wore,
The tail within the mouth, before;
By which our almanacks are clear
That learned Egypt meant the year.
A staff he carry'd, where on high
A glass was fix'd to measure by,

As amber boxes made a show

For heads of canes an age ago.

His vest, for day and night, was py'd;
A bending sickle arm'd his side;

And Spring's new months his train adorn!
The other Seasons were unborn.

Known by the gods, as near he draws,
They make him umpire of the cause.
Oe'r a low trunk his arm he laid,
Where since his hours a dial made;
Then leaning heard the nice debate,
And thus pronounc'd the words of Fate:

Since body from the parent Earth,
And soul from Jove receiv'd a birth,
Return they were they first began;
But, since their union makes the man,
Till Jove and Earth shall part these two,
To Care, who join'd them, man is due.

He said, and sprung with swift career
To trace a circle for the year;

Where ever since the Seasons wheel;
And tread on one another's heel.

'Tis well, said Jove; and, for consent,
Thund'ring, he shook the firmament,
Our umpire Time shall have his way;
With Care I let the creature stay:
Let business vex him, avarice blind,
Let doubt and knowledge rack his mind,
Let error act, opinion speak,

And want afflict; and sickness break,
And anger born, dejection chill,
And joy distract, and sorrow kill;

Till, arm'd by Care, and taught to mow,
Time draws the long destructive blow;
And wasted man, whose quick decay
Comes hurrying on before his day,
Shall only find by this decree,
The soul flies sooner back to me.

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Far in a wild, unknown to public view,

From youth to age a reverend Hermit grew;

The moss his bed, the cave his humble cell,
His food the fruits, his drink the crystall well:
Remote from men, with God he pass'd the days,
Prayer all his business, all his pleasure praise.
A life so sacred, such serene repose,
Seem'd heaven itself, till one suggestion rose;
That vice should triumph, virtue vice obey,
This sprung some doubt of Providence's sway:
His hopes no more a certain prospect boast,
And all the tenour of his soul is lost:

So when a smooth expanse receives Imprest
Calm nature's image on its watery breast,
Down bend the banks, the trees depending grow,
And skies beneath with answering colours glow:
But if a stone the gentle sea divide,
Swift ruffling circles curl on every side,
And glimmering fragments of a broken sun,
'Banks, trees, and skies, in thick disorder run.

To clear this doubt, to know the world by sight,
To find if books, or swains, report it right;
(For yet by swains alone the world he kuew,
Whose feet came wandering o'er the nightly dew)
He quits his cell; the pilgrim - staff he bore,
And fix'd the scallop in his hat before;
Then with the sun a rising journey went,
Sedate to think, and watching each event.

The morn was wasted in the pathless grass, And long and lonesome was the wild to pass; But when the southern sun had warm'd the day, A youth came posting o'er a crossing way; His raiment decent, his complexion fair, And soft in graceful ringlets wav'd his hair. Then near approaching, father, hail! he cry'd, And ,, hail, my son!" the reverend sire reply'd; Words follow'd words, from question answer flow'd, And talk of various kind deceiv'd the road; Till each with other pleas'd, and loth to part, While in their age they differ, join in heart. Thus stands an aged elm in ivy bound, Thus youthful ivy clasps an elm around.

Now sunk the sun; the closing hour of day Came onward, mantled o'er with sober grey;

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