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Robert Herrick, der Sohn eines Goldschmiedes ward 1591 in London geboren, studirte zu Cambridge und widmete sich erst der Jurisprudenz, dann der Theologie. 1629 erhielt er die Pfründe zu Dean Prior in Devonshire, ward aber durch die Revolution von dort vertrieben, worauf er als Privatmann in Westminster lebte und erst durch die Thronbesteigung Karls II. wieder eingesetzt. Er erreichte ein hohes Alter; sein Todesjahr ist jedoch nicht ermittelt.

Seine Poesieen sind nur lyrischer Gattung und erschienen in zwei Sammlungen, von denen die erstere unter dem Titel Hesperides (London 1618) weltliche, die zweite aber unter dem Titel Noble Numbers (London 1620) nur geistliche Gedichte enthält; diese letzteren stehen den ersteren mit wenigen Ausnahmen weit im Werthe nach. Warmes Gefühl, Anmuth und seltener Wohllaut sind Herrick eigen, aber er schwächt diese rühmlichen Eigenschaften durch den falschen Geschmack seiner Zeit, der ihn zu Künstelei und Gesuchtheit verleitete, so dass sich nur wenige Leistungen von ihm in Andenken der Nachwelt erhalten haben.

The Night Piece. To Julia.

Her eyes the glowworme lend thee,
The shooting starres attend thee;
And the elves also,

Whose little eyes glow,
Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee!

No will-o'-th'-wispe mislight thee;
Nor snake nor slowworme bite thee;
But on, on thy way,

Not making a stay,

Since ghost there's none to affright thee!

Let not the darke thee cumber;
What though the moon does slumber,
The starres of the night
Will lend thee their light,
Like tapers cleare without number.

Then, Julia, let me wooe thee, Thus, thus, to come unto me; And when I shall meet

Thy silv'ry feet,

My soule I'll poure into thee!

To Blossoms.

Faire pledges of a fruitfull tree, Why do yee fall so fast? Your date is not so past: But you may stay yet here awhile To blush and gently smile, And go at last.

What, were yee borne to be

An houre or half's delight,

And so to bid good night? 'Twas pitie nature brought yee forth Meerly to shew your worth, And lose you quite.

But you are lovely leaves, where we May read how soon things have Their end, though ne'r so brave: And after they have shown their pride, Like you, awhile, they glide Into the grave.

To Daffadils.

Faire daffadills, we weep to see
You haste away so soone;
As yet the early-rising sun

Has not attain'd his noone:
Stay, stay,

Untill the hast'ning day
Has run

But to the even-song;
And, having pray'd together, we
Will goe with you along!

We have short time to stay, as you;
We have as short a spring,
As quick a growth to meet decay,
As you, or any thing:

We die,

As your hours doe; and drie
Away

Like to the summer's raine. Or as the pearles of morning dew, Ne'r to be found again.

Corinna going a Maying.

Get up, get up for shame; the blooming morne
Upon her wings presents the God unshorne:
See how Aurora throwes her faire
Fresh-quilted colours through the aire:
Get up, sweet slug-a-bed, and see
The dew bespangling herbe and tree:
Each flower has wept, and bow'd toward the east,
Above an houre since: yet you are not drest;
Nay, not so much as out of bed;
When all the birds have mattens said,

And sung their thankfull hymnes; 'tis sin,
Nay, profanation, to keep in;

When as a thousand virgins on this day,
Spring sooner than the lark, to fetch in May!

Rise, and put on your foliage, and be seene
To come forth like the spring time, fresh and
greene,

And sweet as Flora. Take no care

For jewels for your gowne, or haire:
Feare not, the leaves will strew
Gems in abundance upon you:
Besides, the childhood of the day has kept,
Against you come, some orient pearl unwept :
Come, and receive them while the light
Hangs on the dew-locks of the night:
And Titan on the eastern hill

Retires himselfe, or else stands still

Till you come forth. Wash, dresse, be briefe in praying

Few beads are best, when once we goe a Maying!

Come, my Corinna, come, and, comming marke
How each field turns a street, each street a parke
Made green, and trimm'd with trees, see how
Devotion gives each house a bough,

Or branch; each porch, each doore, ere this
An ark, a tabernacle is

Made up of whitethorn neatly interwove,
As if here were those cooler shades of love.

Can such delights be in the street
And open fields, and we not see't?
Come, we'll abroad; and let's obey
The proclamation made for May,
And sin no more, as we have done, by staying;
But, my Corinna, come, let's goe a Maying!

There's not a budding boy or girle this day
But is got up, and gone to bring in May:
A deale of youth, ere this, is come
Back, and with whitethorn laden home:

Some have dispatch't their cakes and creame, Before that we have left to dreame;

Or warp't, as we,

Who think it strange to see

Such pretty flow'rs, (like to orphans young,) To speak by teares before ye have a tongue.

And some have wept, and woo'd and plighted Speak, whimp'ring younglings; and make known

troth,

And chose their priest, ere we can cast off sloth:

Many a green gown has been given; Many a kisse, both odde and even: Many a glance too has been sent From out the eye, love's firmament; Many a jest told of the keyes betraying

This night, and locks pick't; yet w'are not a

Maying!

Come, let us goe, while we are in our prime,
And take the harmlesse follie of the time:
We shall grow old apace, and die
Before we know our liberty:
Our life is short, and our dayes run
As fast away as do's the sunne
And, as a vapour, or a drop of raine
Once lost, can ne'r be found againe,
So when or you, or I, are made
A fable, song, or fleeting shade,
All love, all liking, all delight

Lies drown'd with us in endlesse night. Then, while time serves, and we are but decaying,

Come, my Corinna, come, let's goe a Maying!

To Primroses, filled with Morning-Dew. Why doe ye weep, sweet babes? Can tears

Speak griefe in you,

Who were but borne
Just as the modest morne
Teem'd her refreshing dew?

Alas! you have not known that shower
That marres a flower;
Nor felt th' unkind
Breath of a blasting wind;
Nor are ye worne with yeares:

The reason why

Ye droop, and weep.

Is it for want of sleep;

Or childish lullabie?

Or, that ye have not seen as yet
The violet?

Or brought a kisse
From that sweetheart to this?
No, no; this sorrow, shown
By your teares shed

Wo'd have this lecture read,

"That things of greatest, so of meanest worth, Conceiv'd with grief are, and with teares brought

Song.

forth."

Gather ye rose - buds while ye may,
Old Time is still a flying;

And this same flower that smiles to-day,
To-morrow will be dying.

The glorious lamp of heav'n, the sun,
The higher he's a getting,
The sooner will his race be run,
And neerer he's to setting.

The age is best which is the first,

When youth and blood are warmer; But being spent, the worse and worst Times still succeed the former.

Then be not coy, but use your time,
And while ye may, goe marry;
For having lost but once your prime,
You may for ever tarry.

Quarles.

Francis Quarles ward 1592 zu Stewards bei Romford in Essex geboren, studirte in Cambridge und widmete sich dann in London der juristischen Praxis. Nachdem er eine Zeitlang Mundschenk der Königin von Böhmen, Tochter Jakob's I. und darauf Geheimschreiber des Erzbischof Usher gewesen, ernannte ihn die Stadt London 1639 zu ihrem Chronologen. Wegen seiner Gesinnungen ward er im Bürgerkriege gemishandelt und geplündert. Er starb am 8. Sept. 1644 und hinterliess viele meist religiöse Poesieen, wie z. B. Job Militant, Sion's Elegies, History of Queen Esther, Argalus and Parthenia, the Morning Muse, the Feast for Worms, Divine Emblems, eine Nachahmung der Pia Desideria des Jesuiten Hugo, welche ebenso reich an geschmacklosen artistischen Beilagen ist, wie ihr Vorbild u. A. m., die sämmtlich noch bei seinen Lebzeiten erschienen. Er besitzt grosse Kraft, Originalität und reiche Phantasie, sowie Herrschaft über Sprache und Form, aber er ist oft bombastisch und eben so oft prosaisch und flach und sein Streben, wie er sich selbst ausdrückt "die Fluthen des Jordan und des Helicon in demselben Becher zu mischen," verleiten ihn fortwährend zu Geschmacklosigkeiten, wie sie in jener Zeit vorherrschten und den Beifall der Menge gewannen.

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What if my soul should take the wings of day
And find some desert? if she springs away,

The wings of Vengeance clip as fast as they.

What if some solid rock should entertain
My frighted soul? can solid rocks restrain
The stroke of Justice and not cleare in twain?
Nor sea, nor shade, nor shield, nor rock, nor
cave,

Nor silent deserts, nor the sullen grave,
Where flame-ey'd Fury means to smite, can save.

The seas will part, groves open, rocks will split;
The shield will cleave; the frighted shadows flit:
Where Justice aims, her fiery darts must hit.

Is this that mistress, and that queen of nations? No,

Quarles'

From Divine Emblems.

O! whither shall I fly? what path untrod
Shall I seek out to 'scape the flaming rod
Of my offended, of my angry God?

Where shall I sojourn? what kind sea will hide
My head from thunder? where shall I abide,
Until his flames be quench'd or laid aside?

What if my feet should take their hasty flight,
And seek protection in the shades of night?
Alas! no shades can blind the God of light.

no,

if stern-brow'd vengeance means to
thunder,
There is no place above, beneath, or under,
So close, but will unlock, or rive in sunder.
'Tis vain to flee, 'tis neither here nor there
Can 'scape that hand, until that hand forbear;
Ah me! where is he not, that's everywhere?
'Tis vain to flee, till gentle mercy show
Her better eye; the further off we go,
The swing of Justice deals the mightier blow.

Th' ingenuous child, corrected, doth not fly
His angry mother's hand; but clings more nigh,
And quenches with his tears her flaming eye.
Shadows are faithless, and the rocks are false
No trust in brass, no trust in marble walls;
Poor cots are ev'n as safe as prince's halls.

Great God! there is no safety here below;
Thou art my fortress, thou that seem'st my foe,
"Tis thou, that strik'st the stroke, must guard
the blow.

Thou art my God! by thee I fall or stand;
Thy grace has giv'n me courage to withstand
All tortures but my conscience, and thy hand

I know thy justice is thyself; I know,
Just God, thy very self is mercy too;
If not to thee, where, whither shall I go?

Then work thy will; if passion bid me flee,
My reason shall obey; my wings shall be
Stretch'd out no further than from thee to thee.

Herbert.

George Herbert, ein Bruder des berühmten Lord Herbert of Cherbury ward 1593 zu Montgomery-Castle in Wales geboren, studirte zu Cambridge und wurde 1619 Redner der Universität. Später trat er in den geistlichen Stand und erhielt eine Pfarre zu Bemerton, wo er 1632 starb. Seine Gedichte, religiösen Inhalts erschienen 1633 zu London unter dem Titel: the Temple or Sacred Poems and Private Ejaculations, und fanden zu jener Zeit ausserordentlichen Beifall. Tiefe Frömmigkeit ist der eigenthümlichste Character derselben, aber sie offenbart sich nicht selten auf so sonderbare Weise, dass sie gerade den entgegengesetzten Eindruck hervorbringen und doch, trotz allen Verirrungen lässt sich nicht verkennen, dass H. ein grosses poetisches Talent besass.

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