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As lighted in her face resistless charms.

Her polish'd neck rose rounding from her breast

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With pleasing elegance:
Ah! fancy, dwell not there,

That lovely breast!
lest gay


Who, smiling, hovers o'er th' enchanting place,
Tempt thy wild thoughts to dangerous ecstasy.
Her shape was moulded by the hand of ease,
Exact proportion harmoniz'd her frame;
While grace, following her steps, with secret art
Stole into all her motions. Thus she walk'd}
In sweet simplicity; a snow-white pail
Hung on her arm, the symbol of her skill
In that fair province of the rural state,
The dairy; source of more delicious bowls
Than Bacchus from his choicest vintage boasts.

How great the power of beauty! The rude swains Grew civil at her sight; and gaping crowds, Wrapt in astonishment, with transport gaze, Whispering her praises in each other's ear. As when a gentle breeze, borne through the grove, With quick vibration shakes the trembling leaves, And hushing murmurs run from tree to tree; So ran a spreading whisper through the crowd. Young Thyrsis hearing, turn'd aside his head, And soon the pleasing wonder caught his eye. Full in the prime of youth, the joyful heir Of numerous acres, a large freehold farm, Thyrsis as yet from beauty felt no pain, Had seen no virgin he could wish to make His wedded partner. Now his beating heart Feels new emotion; now his fixed eye, With fervent rapture dwelling on her charms, Drinks in delicious draughts of new-born love. No rest the night, no peace the following day Brought to his struggling heart: her beauteous form, Her fair perfections playing on his mind, With pleasing anguish torture him. In vain He strives to tear her image from his breast; Each little grace, each dear bewitching look, Returns triumphant, breaking his resolves, And binding all his soul a slave to love.

Ah! little did he know, alas! the while Poor Patty's tender heart, in mutual pain, Long, long for him had heav'd the secret sigh. For him she drest, for him the pleasing arts She study'd, and for him she wish'd' to live. But her low fortunes, nursing sad despair, Check'd the young hope; nor durst her modest eyes Indulge the smallest glances of her flame,

Lest curious malice, like a watchful spy,

Should catch the secret, and with taunts reveal.
Judge then the sweet surprise, when she at length
Beheld him, all irresolute, approach;

And gently taking her fair trembling hand,
Breathe these soft words into her listening ear:

,, O Patty! dearest maid, whose beauteous form
,,Dwells in my breast, and charms my soul to love,
Accept my vows; accept a faithful heart,

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,, Which from this hour devotes itself to thee: ,, Wealth has no relish, life can give no joy,. ,,If you forbid my hopes to call you mine." Ah! who the sudden tumult can describe Of struggling passions rising in her breast? Hope, fear, confusion, modesty and love, Oppress her labouring soul: She strove to speak, But the faint accents dy'd upon her Her fears prevented utterance.

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At length
Can he

Can Thyrsis mock my poverty? ‚Be so unkind? O no! yet I, alas, Too humble even to hope"

No more she said;

But gently, as if half unwilling, stole

Her hand from his; and, with sweet modesty,
Casting a look of diffidence and fear,

To hide her blushes, silently withdrew.

But Thyrsis read, with rapture

in her eyes,

The language of her soul. He follow'd, woo'd
And won her for his wife.



EDWARD DWARD YOUNG, 1681 zu Upham bei Winchester geboren, erhielt seine Bildung zu Oxford, wo er eben nicht die Zierde der Religion und Moral gewesen seyn soll, die er in der Folge ward, und wurde hierauf Prediger zu Welwyn, einem Dorfe in Hertfordshire. Sein erstes Werk von Bedeu

tung, Poem on the last day, erschien 1713. Hierauf folgte the Force of religion or vanquish'd love, ein Gedicht, das sich auf die Hinrichtung der unglücklichen Lady Jane Gray bezieht. Nach Anna's Tode sang er on the late Queen's death and his Majesty's accession to the throne, eine captatio benevolentiæ, wie viele seiner frühern Produkte. 1719 wurde sein Trauerspiel Busiris gegeben, ein Stück, worin sich seine lebhafte Einbildungskraft in ihrer ganzen Stärke zeigt. Es fand und verdient wenig Beifall, da die Charaktere zu unnatürlich sind, als dass sie Mitleid, Schrecken oder Unwillen erregen sollten. In eben dem Jahre schrieb er a Letter to Mr. Tickell, veranlafst durch den Tod Addison's, des gemeinschaftlichen Freundes beider Dichter, und a Paraphrase on part of the book ob Job. The Revenge, sein zweites Trauerspiel, zuerst 1721 aufgeführt, erhält sich noch auf der Büh


Er er

Seine sieben charakteristischen Satyren, die er 1728 unter dem Titel Love of fame, the universal passion, zusammen drucken liefs, erschienen seit 1725 einzeln. warb sich dadurch einen hohen Rang unter den satyrischen Dichtern, und ein Vermögen von mehr als 3000 1. Bei George's II Regierungsantritt schrieb er zwei mit einem Essay on lyric poetry begleitete Oden, wovon die eine an den König gerichtet, und die andere Ocean überschrieben ist. 1728 wurde er ordinirt, und zum Caplan des Königs ernannt. 1729 erschien sein in Pindar's Manier geschriebenes Gedicht Imperium Pelagi, a naval lyric, occasioned by his Majesty's return from Hannover. 1730 gab er zwei Briefe an Pope, concerning the authors of the age und sein aus zwei Oden bestehendes Sea - piece heraus. Gleich darauf erhielt er die Pfarre von Welwyn in Hertfordshire. Von 1741 — 44 erschien sein auch unter uns durch die vortreffliche Ebertsche Übersetzung und Erläuterung rühmlichst bekanntes Meisterwerk, the Complaint, or Night-Thoughts, ein durchaus ori




ginelles, und in einem Anfall von wilder Schwermuth ge schriebenes Gedicht, voll der erhabensten Gedanken. Nächte kamen anfangs einzeln heraus, scheinen jedoch bald in ein Ganzes gesammelt zu seyn. Ihre Überschriften sind: Night I. Of life, death and immortality. II. Of time, death and friendship. III. Narcissa. IV. The christian triumph. V. The relapse. VI und VII. The infidel reclaimed. VIII. Virtue's apology. IX. The consolation, Einige gute Bemerkungen über dies Werk enthält der 16te Brief im 2ten Bande der Briefe zur Bildung des Geschmacks von Dusch. 1753 wurde ein drittes Trauerspiel unsers Dichters, the Brothers, aufgeführt. Sein letztes Gedicht, Resignation, athmet noch alles Feuer seiner Jugendarbeiten, ob er es gleich in einem achtzigjährigen Alter geschrieben hat.

Es ist voll Stellen,

die ganz diesem schönen Anfang entsprechen:

The days how few, how short the years

Of man's too rapid race,

Each leaving, as it swiftly flies,

A shorter in its place.

They who the longest lease enjoy,
Have told us with a sigh,

That to be born seems little more,

Than to begin to die.

Numbers there are who feel this truth,

With fears alarm'd; and yet,

In life's delusions lull'd asleep,

This weighty truth forget.

Der Dichter starb 1765. Seine Werke sind von ihm selbst in 4 Oktavbänden herausgegeben worden, zuerst wie es scheint, im Jahr 1757. Die Gedichte, mit Ausschlufs der 3 Trauerspiele, nehmen den 50 - 52sten Theil der Johnso nschen, einen Theil des 10ten Bandes der Andersonschen und den Nach 84sten bis 87sten Theil der Bellschen Sammlung ein. richten von seinem Leben suche man in der Biographia brit tannica und im 4ten Bande von Johnson's Lives of the english poets.


O time! than gold more sacred; more a load

Than lead, to fools; and fools reputed wise.
What moment granted man without account?
What years are squander'd, wisdom's debt unpaid!
Our wealth in days all due to that discharge.
Haste, haste, he lies in wait, he's at the door,
Insidious death! should his strong hand arrest,
No composition sets the prisoner free.
Eternity's inexorable chain

Fast binds; and vengeance claims the full arrear.
How late I shudder'd on the brink! how late

Life call'd for her last refuge in despair!
That time is mine, o Mead! to thee I owe;
Fain would I pay thee with eternity.
But ill my genius answers my desire;
My sickly song is mortal, past thy cure.
Accept the will;

that dies not with my strain. For what calls thy disease, Lorenzo? not For Esculapian, but for moral aid.

Thou think'st it folly to be wise too soon,
Youth is not rich in time, it may be poor;
Part with is as with money, sparing; pay
No moment, but in purchase of its worth;
And what its worth, ask death-beds; they can tell.
Part with it as with life, reluctant; big
With holy hope of nobler time to come;
Time higher-aim'd, still nearer the great mark
Of men and angels; virtue more divine.

Is this our duty, wisdom, glory, gain?
(These heaven benign in vital union binds)'
And sport we like the natives of the bough,
When vernal suns inspire? Amusement reigns
Man's great demand: To trifle, is to live;
And is it then a trifle, too, to die?

Thou say'st I preach, Lorenzo, 'tis confest.
What if, for once, I preach thee quite awake?
Who wants amusement in the flame of battle?

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