Ovid. Nec pes ire poteft. intra quoque vifcera faxum.
Mallet.
Flet tamen, et validi circumdata turbine venti;
In patriam rapta eft. ibi fixa cacumine montis
Liquitur, et lacrymis etiam nunc marmore manant.

Mallet.

(David Mallet, eigentlich Malloch, ein Schottlan dér, geboren um das Jahr 1700, gestorben 1765, hat sich in mehrern Gattungen als Schriftsteller; und als Dichter be fonders in der dramatischen, berühmt gemacht. Am glück lichften war er indeß in der beschreibenden und erzählenden Poesie; und das hier gelieferte Stück, welches eigentlich ein Gegenstück feiner berühmten Ballade, William and Margarei, ift, gehört zu seinen schönsten. Es liegt dabei eine wahre Geschichte zum Grunde, die im vorigen Jahrhundert zu Bowes in Yorkshire vorfiel. Der junge Mensch hieß Wrightson, und das Mädchen, Railton. Mallet's längstes erzäh; lendes Gedicht ist: Amyntor and Theodora; or the Hermit; in drei Gesängen.)

EDWIN AND EMMA.

Far in the windings of a vale

Fast by a sheltering wood,
The fafe retreat of health and peace,
A humble cottage stood.

There beauteous Emma flourish'd fair

Beneath a mother's eye,

Whofe only wifh on earth was now,
To fee her bleft, and die.

The fofteft blush, that nature spreads,
Gave colour to her cheek,

Such

Mallet.

Such orient-colour fmiles thro' heav'n,
When May's sweet mornings break.
Nor let the pride of great-ones fcorn
This charmer of the plains;

That fun, which bids their diamond blaze,
To deck our lily deigns.

Long had he fir'd each youth with love,
Each maiden with despair,
And tho' by all a wonder own'd,

Yet knew not, fhe was fair;
Till Edwin came, the pride of fwains,
A foul, that knew no art,

And from whofe eyes, ferenely mild,
Shone forth the feeling heart.
A mutual flame was quickly caught,
Was quickly too reveal'd;
For neither bofom lodg'd a wifh,
Which virtue keeps conceal'd.
What happy hours of heart-felt blifs
Did love on both beftow!
But blifs too mighty, long to last,
Where fortune proves a foe.
His fifter, who, like envy form'd,
Like her in mifchief joy'd,

To work them harm, with wicked fkill
Each darker art employ'd.
The father too, a fordid man.
Who love nor pity knew,
Was all unfeeling, as the rock,
From whence his riches grew.

Long had he feen their mutual flame,
And feen it long unmov'd,
Then with a father's frown at last
He fternly disapprov❜d.

In Edwin's gentle heart a war
Of different paffions ftrove;
His heart, which durft not difobey,
Yet could not ceafe to love.
Deny'd her fight, he oft behind
The fpreading hawthorn crept,

To

To fnatch a glance, to mark the fpot,
Where Emma walk'd and wept.
Oft too in Stanemore's wintry waste
Beneath the moonlight-fhade,
In fighs to pour his foften'd foul,
The midnight- mourner ftray'd.

His cheeks, where love with beauty glow'd,
A deadly pale o'ercaft:

So fades the fresh rofe in its prime

Before the northern blaft.

The parents now with late remorfe
Hung o'er his dying bed,

And weary'd heaven with fruitless pray'rs,
And fruitlefs forrows fhed.

'Tis paft, he cry'd; but if your fouls
Sweet mercy get can move,

Let thefe dim eyes once more behold,
What they must ever love.

She came, his cold hand foftly touch'd,
And bath'd with many a tear:
Faft falling o'er the primrose pale,
So morning-dews appear.

But oh! his fifter's jealous care
(A cruel fifter fhe!)

Forbad, what Emma came to fay:

My Edwin, live for me!

Now homeward as fhe hopeless went

The church-yard. path along

The blaft blew cold, the dark owl fcream'd
Her lovers fun'ral fong.

Amid the falling gloom of night

Her ftartling fancy found

In ev'ry bufh his hovering fhade,
His groan in every found.

Alone, appall'd, thus had fhe pass'd

The vifionary vale,

When lo! the death - bell fmote her ear,

Sad founding in the gale.

Just then she reach'd with trembling steps

Her aged mother's door:

He's

He's gone! fhe cry'd, and I fhall fee.

That angel-face no more!

I feel, I feel, this breaking heart

Beat high against my fide.

From her white arm down funk her head:

She fhiver'd, figh'd, and died.

Maller.Goldsmith.,

Goldsmith.

(Oliver Goldsmith, geboren 1729, gestorben 1774) war in England einer der glücklichften wigigen Köpfe neuerer Zeiten, durch Glücksumstände und Lebensart nur allzusehr zur Vielschreiberei verleitet. Unter seinen prosaischen Wers ken hat der auch in Deutschland zweimal nachgedruckte und zweimal überseßte Roman, The Vicar of Wakefield, den allgemeinsten Beifall erhalten. Seine Gedichte, worunter ein beschreibendes, The Deferted Village, sich am meisten auszeichnet, haben viele Schönheiten der Empfindung und des Ausdrucks, die man auch in folgendem kleinen Stücke, mehr Charakter als Erzählung, nicht vermissen wird.)

Near yonder copfe, where once the garden fmild,
And ftill where many a garden-flower grows
wild,

There, where a few torn fhrubs the place difclofe,
The village-preacher's modeft mansion rofe.
A man he was, to all the country dear,
And paffing rich with forty pounds a year:
Remote from towns, he ran his godly race,

Nor e'er had chang'd, nor wifh'd to change his

place.

Unpractis'd he to fawn, or feek for power,

Goldsmith., By doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour,
Far other aims his heart had learn'd to prize,
More fkill'd, to raise the wretched, than to rife.
His houfe was known to all the vagrant train,
He chid their wanderings, but reliev'd their pain.
The long-remember'd beggar was his guest,
Whofe beard defcending swept his aged breaft:
The ruin'd spend-thrift, now no longer proud,
Claim'd kindred there, and had his claims allow'd:
The broken foldier, kindly bade to stay,
Sate by his fire, and talk'd the night away,
Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of forrow done,
Shoulder'd his crutch, and fhew'd, how fields were

won.

Pleas'd with his guefts, the good man learn'd to
glow,

And quite forgot their vices in their woe:
Careless their merits or their faults to scan,
His pity gave, ere charity began.

Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride,
And even his failings lean'd to virtue's fide:
But in his duty prompt at every call,

He watch'd and wept, he pray'd and felt for all,
And, as a bird each fond endearment tries,
To tempt its new-fledg'd offspring to the fkies,
He try'd each art, reprov'd each dull delay,
Allur'd to brighter worlds, and led the way.

Befide the bed, where parting life was laid, And forrow, guilt and pain by turns difmay'd, The reverend champion ftood. At his controul, Defpair and anguifh fled the ftruggling foul: Comfort came down, the trembling wretch to raife,

And his last fault'ring accents whisper'd praise.

At church with meek and unaffected

grace

His looks adorn'd the venerable place:
Truth from his lips prevail'd with double fway,

And