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Which spoke his strength' mature beyond its prime,
Yet vigorous still, for from his healthy cheek
Time had not cropt a rose, or on his brow
One wriukling furrow plow'd; his eagle eye
Had all its youthful lightning, and each limb
The sinewy strength that toil demands, and gives.

The warrior saw and paus'd: his nod withheld
The crowd at awful distance, where their ears,
In mute attention, drank the Sage'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 haad
„That deals in blood, with blood thy shrines distain;
„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 unask'd is from thy heav'n of heav'ns
„Giv'n in, diurnal good? Yet, holy Power!
„Do all thar call thee Father this exulu
„In thy propitious presence? Sidon sinks

Beneath a tyrant's scourge. Parent of Good!
„Oh free my captive country.' Sudden here
He paus'd and sighd. 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, wbile the trumpet's voice
Proclaim'd him king of Sidon. Stern he stood,
Or, if he smild, 'twas a contemptuous

smile,
That held the pageant honours in disdain.
Then burst the people's voice, in loud acclaiin,
And bad him be their Father. At the word,
The honour'd blood, that warm'd liim, flush'd his cheek;

His brow expanded; his cxalted' step
March'd firmer; graciously he bow'd the head,
And was the Sire they call'd him. Tell me, King,"
Young Aminon cried, while o'er bis brigle'ning form
He cast the gaze of wonder, how a soul
„Like chine could bear the toils of penury?"
„Oh grant me, Gods!” he answer'd, „so to bear
„This load of Royalty. My coil was crown'd
„With blessings lost to kingsi yet, righteous Powers!
„If to my country ye transfer the boon,
I triumph in the loss. Be mine the chains
, That fetter Soy'reignty; let Sidon smile
With your best blessings, Liberty and Peace."

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Jose# WARTON, geboren um das Jahr 1729, Bruder des oben Seite 518 angeführten Dichlers Thomas Warton, stand eine geraume Zeit anfänglich als Unter-, dann als Oberlehrer am Kollegium zu Winchester. Er legte diese Stelle im Jahre 1793 nieder, und wurde erst Pfarrer 'eu Upham, dann zu Wickham. Er hat sich durch mehrere gute prosai. sche Werke und verschiedene wohlgelungene Gedichte ausgezeichnet. Sein erstes Werk waren Odes on several subjects, 1746, 8, die er ohne Namen herausgab. Diesem folgte, mit des Verfassers Namen, an Ode occasioned by reading West's Pindar mit mehreren neuern kleinen Gedichten, 1749. Der erste Theil des Essay on the genius and writings of A. Pope erschien bereits 1753 anonym; der zweite kam erst 1984 her

Dieses Werk bewies, dass Warton lange Zeit seinen Dichter studiert haben musste, und war gleichsam ein Vorläufer der Ausgabe von Pope's Werken ;, letzteres Werk führt den Titel: The Works of Alex. Pope, Esq., complete with notes and illustrations by J. W. and others, London, 1797, 9 Vol. 8.

Die erste Ausgabe von der Übersetzung Virgils erschien 1753 unter dem Titel: the Works of Virgil in English Verse, the Eneid translated by the Rev. Mr. Chris stopher Pitt, the Eclogues and Georgics by Mr. Joseph Warton, with several new observations by Mr. Hodoworth, Mr.

aus.

/

Spence and others in 4 Oktavbänden; eine neuere Ausgabe kam in den Jahren 1763, 1770 und 1778 in 4 Dnodezbänden heraus. Diese Übersetzung soll den Sinn des Originals genouer, als die vorigen Englischen Übersetzungen ausdrucken, die Versifikation soll leicht und harmonisch, die Sprache rein und korrekt seyn; an sich aber, 'als dichterisches Produkt, Dryden's Werk nachstehen. Warton lieferte mit seinem Bruder gelegentlich noch Beiträge zu Hawkesworth's Adventurer, und es scheinen von ihnen die Aufsätze über Shake speare herzurühren.

Warton hatte überdies Materia. lien zu einer Literaturgeschichte des Zeitalters Leo X gesammelt. Seine Ausgabe von Pope entsprach zwar dem ärfsern, aber nicht dem innern Werthe-nach den vielleicht zu hoch gespannten Erwartungen, welche man sich von derselben gemacht hatte. Man schärzte ihn übrigens eben so sehr wegen seiner Talente und Gelehrsamkeit, als wegen seiner liberalen Denkungsart und seines wohlwollenden Her

Er starb den 23sten Februar 1800, im 78sten Jahre seines Alters, zu Wickham in Hontshire als Pfarrer des Oras und Präbendar zu Winchester, mit dem Ruhm eines seks achtungswürdigen Mannes.

Sens.

ODB TO Fancy.

O Parent of each lovely Muse,
Thy spirit o'et my soul diffuse,
O'er all my heartless songs preside,
My footsteps to thy temple guide,
To offer at thy turf-built shrine,
In golden cups no costly wine,
No murder'd falling of the Rock,
But Bowers and honey from the rock.

O Nymph with loosely-flowing hair,
With buskin'd leg, and bosom bare,
Thy waist with myrtle-girdle bound,
Thy brows with Indian feathers' crown'd,
Waving in thy snowy hand
An all-commanding magic wand,
Of pow'r to bid fresh gardens grow
'Mid cheerless Lapland's barren snow,
Whose rapid wings thy flight convey

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Thro' air; and over earth and sea.. While the various landskip lies Conspicuous 10 thy piercing eyes; O lover of the desert, hail! Say in what deep and pathless vale, Or on what hoary mountain's side, 'Midst falls of water you reside, 'Midst broken rocks, a rugged scene, With green and grassy dales between, 'Midst forest dark of aged oak, Ne'er echoing, with the woodman's stroke,

human art appear'd, Nor e'en one straw-roof?d cot was rear'd, Where Nature seems to sit alone; Majestic on a craggy, throne; ... Tell me the path, sweet wand'rers teil, 'ya To tby unknown sequester'd cell, Where woodbines cluster round the door, Where sbells and inoss o’erlay the flous, And on whose, top au hawthorn blows, Amid whose thickly woven boughs Some nightingale still builds her nest. Each evening warbling tbee to rest se si 1: Then lay me by the haunted stream, Rapt in some .wild, poetiç dream, In converse, while meibinks, I rove With Spenser thro' a fairy -grove; Till suddenly awak'd, 1 hear Strange whisper'd music in my ear, And my glad soul in bliss is drown'd, By the sweetly-soothing sound ! 1:04,

Me, Goddess, by the right-hand lead, Sometimes thro' the yellow mead, Where Joy and white-robd Peace resort, And Venus keeps her festive coust, Where Mirth and Youth each evening meet, And lightly trip with nimble feet, sed solid Nodding their lily-crowned beads; Where Laughter rose - lipd, Hebe, leads; I T Where ecbo walks steep hills amang, List'ning to the shepherd's song.rm

Yet not these flow'ry fields of joy...,

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Can long my pensive mind employ:
Haste, Fancy, from these scenes of folly
To muet the matron Melancholy,
Goddess of the tearful eye,!
That loves to fold her arms and sigh!
Let us' with silent footsteps go
To charnels and the house of woe,
To Gothic churches, vaults and tombs,
Where each sad night some Virgin' comes,
With throbbing breast, and faded cheek,
Her promis'd bridegroom's urn to seek;
Or to some Abby's mould'ring cow'rs,
Where to avoid cold winter's show'rs,
The naked beggar sbiv'ring lies,
While whistling tempest round her rise,
And trembles lest 'the tottering wall
Should on her sleeping infants fall.

Now let us louder strike the lyre,
For

my heart glows with martial frė,
I feel, I feel', with sudden heat,
My big tumultuous bosom beát;
The trumpet's clangors pierce mine ear,
A thousand widows' shrieks I bear;
Give me another horse, I cry,
Lo! the base Gallic squadrons 'fly;
Whence is this rage? - What spitit, say,
To battle burries me away?
'Tis Fancy, in her fiery car,
Transports me to the chickest war,
There whirlgimo o'er the hills of slaia;
Where 'Tumult and Destruction reign;
Where mad with pain, the wounded steed
Tramples the dying and the dead:
Where giant Terror stalks around,
With sullen joy surveys the ground,
And pointing th' ensanguin'd field,
Shakes his dreadful Gorgon - shield!

O guide me from this borrid' scene
To high - archd walks and alloys green,
Which lovely Laura seeks, to shun
The fervoaro of the mid-day sun;"
Tbę pange of absence, O remove,

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