S. B. 1. S. 33. 414. --- Man findet zwölf poetische Episteln unter seinen vermischten Gedichten, die stellenweise viel Verdienst haben, ob sie gleich im Ganzen etwas zu kalt und einförmig find. Folgende ist eine der besten.
TO BERNARD LINTOTT.
On a Mifcellany of Poems.
Ipfa varietate tentamus efficere, vt alia aliis, quaedam fortaffe omnibus placeant,
As when fome fkilful cook, to please each
güeft,
Would in one mixture comprehend a Feast,
With due proportion and judicious care
He fills his difh with diff'rent forts of fare,
Fifhes and fowls delicioufly unite,
To feast at once the taste, the fmell, and fight;
So, Bernard! muft a Miscellany be
Compounded of all kinds of poetry;
The Mufe's olio, which all taftes may fit,
And treat each reader with his darling wit.
Wouldst thou for Mifcellanies raife thy fame,
And bravely rival Jacob's mighty name,
Let all the Mufes in the piece confpire;
The lyric Bard muft ftrike th' harmonious lyre;
Heroic ftrains muft here and there be found,
And nervous fense be fung in lofty found:
Let Elegy in moving numbers flow,
And fill fome pages with melodious woe;
Let not your am'rous fongs too num'rous prove,
Nor glut thy reader with abundant love:
Satire muft interfere, whofe pointed rage
May lafh the madness of a vicious age;
Satire, the Mufe that never fails to hit,
For if there's fcandal, to be fure there's wit.
Tire not our patience with Pindaric lays,
Thofe fwell the piece, but very rarely please;
Let fhort-breath'd Epigram its force confine,
And ftrike at follies in a fingle line:
Translations fhould throughout the work be fown
And Homer's goldlike Mufe be made our own:
Horace in useful numbers should be fung,
And Virgil's thoughts adorn the British tongue:
Let Ovid tell Corinna's hard disdain,
And at her door in melting notes complain:
His tender accents pitying virgins move,
And charm the lift'ning ear with tales of love.
Let ev'ry claffic in the volume shine,
And each contribute to the great design:
Thro' various fübjects let the reader range,
And raise his fancy with a grateful change;
Variety's the fource of joy below,
From whence ftill frefh-revolving pleafures flow.
In books and love the mind one end pursues,
And only change th' expiring flame renews.
Where Buckingham will condefcend to give,
That honour'd piece to distant times must live:
When noble Sheffield ftrikes the trembling ftrings;
The little Loves rejoice, and clap their wings:
Anacreon lives, they cry: th' harmonious fwain
Retunes the lyre, and tries his wonted ftrain;
'Tis he! Our loft Anacreon lives again.
But when th' illuftrious poet foars above
The sportive revels of the God of Love,
Like Maro's Mufe he takes a loftier flight,
And tow'rs beyond the wond'ring Cupid's fight.
If thou wouldst have thy volume stand the teft,
And of all others be reputed beft,
Let Congreve teach the lift'ning groves to mourn,
As when he wept o'er fair Paftora's urn.
Let Prior's Mufe with foft'ning accents
Soft as the ftrains of conftant Emma's love;
Or let his fancy chufe fome jovial theme,
As when he told Hans Carvel's jealous dream:
Prior th' admiring reader entertains
With Chaucer's humour, and with Spenser's
ftrains.
Waller in Granville lives: when Mira fings,
With Waller's hand he strikes the founding strings;
With sprightly turns his noble genius shines,
And manly fenfe adorns his eafy lines.
On Addison's fweet lays Attention waits, And Silence guards the place while he repeats; His Mufe alike on ev'ry subject charms, Whether fhe paints the god of Love or Arms: In him pathetic Ovid fings again,
And Homer's Iliad fhines in his Campaign.
Whenever Garth fhall raile his fprightly
fong,
Senfe flows in eafy numbers from his tongue;
Great Phoebus in his learned fon we fee,
Alike in phyfic as in poetry.
When Pope's harmonious Mufe with pleasure
Amidft the plains, the murm'ring ftreams and gro
Attentive Echo pleas'd to hear his fongs.
Thro' the glad fhade each warbling note prolongs;
His various numbers charm our ravifh'd ears,
His steady judgment far outfhoots his years,
And early in the youth the god appears.
From thefe fuccefsful bards collect thy ftrains,
And praise with profit fhall 'reward thy pains:
Then, while calves'-leather binding bears the fway,
And fheep-fkin to its fleeker glofs gives way,
While neat old Elzevir is reckon'd better
Then Pirate Hill's brown fheets and fcurvy letter,
While print-admirers careful Aldus chufe
Before John Morphew, or the weekly news,
So long fhall live thy praise in books of Fame,
And Tonfon yield to Lintott's lofty name.
George Lord Lyttelton, geb. 1709, geft. 1773. erwarb fich zwar als Dichter nicht so ausgezeichnetes Ansehen, als durch die Ehrenstellen, die er bekleidete, und durch seine Ges schichte Heinrichs II. Seine Gedichte verdienen indeß ims mer noch Aufmerksamkeit; und in den darunter befindlichen Episteln herrscht, wie Dr. Johnson sich ausdrückte, eine ges wisse sanfte Gleichmüthigkeit, die nicht sehr ermüden kann, weil sie kurz sind, wenn gleich der Geist des Lesers selten das Durch erhoben oder überrascht wird.
Immortal Bard! for whom each Mufe has wove
The fairest garlands of th' Aonian grove,
Preferv'd, our drooping genius to restore,
When Addifon and Congreve are no more,
After so many stars extinct in night,
The darken'd age's last remaining light!
To thee from Latian realms this verfe is writ,
Infpir'd by memory of ancient wit:
For now no more these climes their influence boast,
Fall'n is their glory, and their virtue loft;
From tyrants and from priests the Mufes fly,
Daughters of Reafon and of Liberty.
Nor Bajae now, nor Umbria's plain they love,
Nor on the banks of Nar or Mincio rove;
To Thames's flow'ry borders they retire,
And kindle in thy breast the Roman fire.
So in the fhades where cheer'd with fummer rays
Melodious linnets warbled sprightly lays,
Soon as the faded falling leaves complain
Of gloomy Winter's inaufpicious reign,
No tuneful voice is heard of joy or love,
But mournful filence faddens all the grove.
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