Ovid. Mialler.

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

M a Ile t.

(David Miallet, eigentlich miatloch, ein Schottlans der, geboren um das Jahr 1700, gestorben 1765, hat sich in mehrern Gattungen als Schriftsteller, und als Dichter be: sonders 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 Gegenftůck seiner berühmten Ballade, William and Margaret, ift, gehårt zu feinen schönsten. Es liegt dabei eine wahre Ges schichte zum Grunde, die im vorigen Jahrhundert zu Bowes in Yorkshire vorfiel. Der junge Mensch hieß Wrightson, und das Mädchen, Nailton. Tiallet's långftes erzäh; lendes Gedicht ist: Amyntor and Theodora; or the Hernit; in drei Gesången.)

EDWIN AND EMMA.

Far in the windings of a vale

Fast by a sheltering wood,
The safe retreat of health and peace

A humble cottage stood.
There beauteous Emma flourish'd fair
Beneath a mother's

eye,
Whose only wish on earth was now,

To lee her bleft, and die.
The softest blush, that nature spreads,

Gave.colour to her cheek,

Such

Miallet.

Such orient-colour smiles 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 1 he fir'd each youth with love,

Each maiden with despair,
And tho' by all a wonder own'd,

Yet knew not, she was fair;
Till Edwin came, the pride of fwains,

A foul, that knew no art,
And from whose eyes, serenely mild,

Shone forth the feeling heart.
A mutual fame was quickly caught,

Was quickly too reveald;
For neither bosom lodg'd a wish,

Which virtue keeps conceal'd.
What happy hours of heart - felt bliss

Did love on both bestow!
But bliss too mighty, long to last,

Where fortune proves a foe.
His fifter, who, like envy formd,

Like her in mischief joy'd,
To work them harm, with wicked skill

Each darker art employ'd.
The father too, a sordid man,

Who love nor pity knew, Was all unfeeling, as the rock,

From whence his riches grew.
Long had he seen their mutual flame,

And seen it long unmov'd,
Then with a father's frown at last

He sternly disapprov'd.
In Edwin's gentle heart a war

Of different passions ftrove;
His heart, which durst not disobey,

Yét could not cease to love.
Deny'd her fight, he oft behind

The spreading hawthora crept,

To

Waller.

To snatch a glance, to mark the spot,

Where Emma walk'd and wept.
Oft too in Stanemore's wintry waste

Beneath the moonlight-shade,
In fighs to pour his foften'd foul,

The midnight.mourner stray'd.
His cheeks, where love with beauty glow'd,

A deadly pale o'ercast:
So fades the fresh rose in its prime

Before the northern blast.
The parents now with late remorse

Hung o'er his dying bed,
And weary'd heaven with fruitless pray’rs,

And fruitless forrows shed.
'Tis past, he cry'd: but if your souls

Sweet mercy get can move,
Let these dim eyes.once more behold,

What they must ever love.
She came, his cold hand softly touch’d,

And bath'd with many a tear:
Faft falling o'er the primrose pale,

So morning-dews appear.
But oh! his lister's jealous care

(A cruel sister she!)
Forbad, whát Emma came to say:

My Edwin, live for me!
Now homeward as the hopeless went

The church - yard. path along
The blast blew cold, the dark owl scream'd

Her lovers fun’ral song.
Amid the falling gloom of night

Her startling fancy found
In ev'ry bush his hovering fhade,

His groan in every found.
Alone, appall’d, thus had she pass'd

The visionary vale,
When lo! the death - bell smote her ear,

Sad sounding in the gale.
Just then she reach'd with trembling steps

Her aged mother's door:

He's Maller.Goldsmith.

He's gone! she cry'd, and I shall fee.

That angel - face no more!
I feel, I feel, this breaking heart

Beat high against my fide.
From her white arm down sunk her head :

She shiver'd, figh’d, and died.

Golom it h.

(Oliver Goldsmith, geboren 1729, gestorben 1774, war in England einer der glücklichften witzigen Kodpfe neuerer Zeiten, durch Glücksumstände und Lebensart nur allzii sehr zur Vielschreiberei verleitet. Unter seinen prosaischen Wers ken hat der auch in Deutschland zweimal nachgedruckte und zweimal übersente Roman, The Vicar of Wakefield, den alls gemeinßen Beifall erhalten. Seine Gedichte, worunter ein beschreibendes, The Deserted Village, fich am meisten ause zeichnet, haben viele Schönheiten der Empfindung und des Ausdrucks, die man auch in folgendem kleinen Stücke, mehr Charakter als Eng&hlung, nicht vermissen wird.)

THE COUNTRY - CLERGYMAN.

Near yonder cople, where once the garden (mild,
And still where many a garden-flower grows

wild,
There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose,
The village - preacher's modest mansion rose.
A man he was, to all the country dear,
And passing rich with forty pounds a year:
Remote from towns, he ran his godly race,
Nor e’er had chang'd, nor wish'd to change his

place.
Unpractis'd he to fawn, or seek for power,
Beisp. S. 1. B.

By

Goldsmith). By doctrines fashion’d to the varying hour,

Far other aims his heart had learn’d to prize,
More skill'd, to raise the wretched, than to rise.
His house was known to all the vagrant train,
He chid their wanderings, but reliev'd their pain.
The long-remember'd beggar was his guest,
Whose beard descending 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 sorrow done,
Shoulder'd his crutch, and shew'd, how fields were

won.

Pleas'd with his guests, 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 side:
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 skies,
He try'd each art, reprov'd each dull delay,
Allurd to brighter worlds, and led the way.

Beside the bed, where parting life was laid,
And sorrow, guilt and pain by turns dismay'd,
The reverend champion stood. At his controul,
Despair and anguish fled the struggling foul:
Comfort came down, the trembling wretch ta

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 prevaild with double sway,

And