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 wrinkling 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 hand

,,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 that call thee Father thus exult

,,In thy propitious presence?

Beneath a tyrant's scourge.
,,Oh free my captive country.'

Sidon sinks
Parent of Good!

He paus'd and sigh'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, if he smil'd, '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, flush'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 Aminon cried, while o'er his bright'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 Powers!
,, 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."

WARTO N.

JOSEPH WARTON, geboren um das Jahr 1722, Bruder des oben Seite 518 angeführten Dichters Thom comas 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 zu Uphẩm, dann zu Wickham. Er hat sich durch mehrere gute prosaische 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 1784 her

aus.

Dieses Werk bewies, dafs 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. Christopher Pitt, the Eclogues and Georgics by Mr. Joseph Warton, with several new observations by Mr. Hodsworth, Mr.

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 ge-
nauer, 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 Ad-
venturer, und es scheinen von ihnen die Aufsätze über Shak
speare herzurühren.
Warton hatte überdies Materia-
lien zu einer Literaturgeschichte des Zeitalters Leo X gesam
melt. Seine Ausgabe von Pópe entsprach zwar dem äu-
fsern, aber nicht dem innern Werthe nach den vielleicht zu
hoch gespannten Erwartungen, welche man sich von dersel
ben gemacht hatte. Man schätzte ihn übrigens eben so
sehr wegen seiner Talente und Gelehrsamkeit, als wegen
seiner liberalen Denkungsart und seines wohlwollenden Her-
zens. Er starb den 23sten Februar 1800, im 78sten Jahre
seines Alters, zu Wickham in Hontshire als Pfarrer des Orts
und Präbendar zu Winchester, mit dem Ruhm eines sehr
achtungswürdigen Mannes.

ODE TO FANCY.

Parent of each lovely Muse,
Thy spirit o'er 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 fatling of the flock,
But flowers 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

Thro' air, and over earth and sea,
While the various landskip lies.
Conspicuous to 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,
Where never human art appear'd,

en one straw-roof'd cot was rear'd,

Nor e'en one

Where Nature seems to sit alone; atr
Majestic on a craggy, thronewoler

Tell me the path, sweet wand'rer; tell, but
To thy unknown sequester'd cell,
Where woodbines cluster round the door,
Where shells and moss o'erlay the floor,
And on whose top an hawthorn blows,
Amid whose thickly woven boughs
Some nightingale still builds her nest,
Each evening warbling thee to rest
Then lay me by the haunted stream,.
Rapt in some wild, poetic dream,
In converse while methinks I rove
With Spenser thro' a fairy grove;
Till suddenly awak'd, I hear
Strange whisper'd music in my ear,
And my glad soul in bliss is drown'd,.
By the sweetly-soothing sound!, Tand, t
Me, Goddess, by the right-hand lead,
Sometimes thro' the yellow mead,

Where Joy and white-rob'd Peace resort,
And Venus keeps her festive court,

Where Mirth and Youth each evening meet,
And lightly trip with mimble, feet, sid redid 2
Nodding their lily-crowned heads;

Where Laughter rose - lip'd, Hebe, leads; for Where echo walks steep hills among, ma' List'ning to the shepherd's song.

Yet not these flow'ry fields of joy

་

Can long my pensive mind employ:
Haste, Fancy, from these scenes of folly
To meet 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 tow'rs,
Where to avoid cold winter's show'rs,
The naked beggar shiv'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 fire,
I feel, I feel, with sudden heat,
My big tumultuous bosom beat;
The trumpet's clangors pierce mine ear,
A thousand widows' shrieks I hear;
Give me another horse, I cry,
Lo! the base Gallic squadrons fly;
Whence is this rage? - What spirit, say,
To battle hurries me away?

"Tis Fancy, in her fiery car,"

Transports me to the thickest war,

There whirls me o'er the hills of slain,
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 horrid scene
To high-arch'd walks and alleys green,
Which lovely Laura seeks, to shun'
The fervoure of the mid-day sun;"
The pangs of absence, O remove,