auf seine Kosten begraben lassen und erst sechszig Jahre später liess ihm der reiche Buchdrucker Barber, damals Mayor von London ein Denkmal in der Westminsterabtei errichten.

Die beste Ausgabe des Hudibras ist die von Zach. Grey besorgte, London 1744, 2 Bde in 8, ihr zunächst kommt die von N. E. Nash. London 1793, 3 Bde in 4. Seine übrigen Schriften sammelte R. Thyer, London 1759, 2 Bde in 8. Die sämmtlichen Werke sind seitdem öfter wieder aufgelegt worden.

Das komische Epos Hudibras blieb unvollendet. Es schildert die Kreuz und Querzüge eines fanatischen presbyterianischen Richters und seines Begleiters des Squire Ralph, so wie der Abenteuer, die sie erleben und ist offenbar eine Nachahmung des Don Quijote, jedoch mit weit geringerer Erfindungsgabe ausgestattet, und zu gedehnt in den poetischen Beschreibungen. Dagegen sprudelt es aber von schlagendem energischem Witz, der der bitteren und scharfen Satyre Kraft und Nachdruck verleiht, welche die originelle Form und der eigenthümliche Styl noch erhöhen. Dieselben Eigenschaften herrschen auch in Butlers vermischten Poesieen, die sämmtlich satyrisch sind, vor. Vom Hudibras hat D. W. Soltau eine treffliche deutsche Uebersetzung (Königsberg 1798) geliefert. Wir haben, da der mehr als kecke Ton dieses Gedichtes die Sitte nur zu oft verletzt uns mit dem folgenden Auszuge begnügen müssen und uns selbst nicht gestatten dürfen, diesen ohne Unterbrechung mitzutheilen.

oner

From Hudibras.

For none are like to do it soon
An heroical epistle of Hudibras to his Than those who're nicest of their honour:
lady.

The other, for base gain and pay,
Selected passages.

Forswear and perjure by the day,

And make th' exposing and retailing I who was once as great as Caesar,

Their souls, and consciences, a calling. Am now reduc'd to Nebuchadnezzar;

It is no scandal nor aspersion, And from as fam'd a conqueror

Upon a great and noble person, As ever took degree in war,

To say he nat'rally abhorr'd Or did his exercise in battle,

Th' old-fashion'd trick, to keep his word, By you turn'd out to graze with cattle.

Though 'tis perfidiousness and shame, For since I am deny'd access

In meaner men, to do the same: To all my earthly happiness,

For to be able to forget, Am fall'n from the paradise

Is found more useful, to the great, Of your good graces, and fair eyes;

Than gout, or deafness, or bad eyes, Lost to the world, and you, I'm sent

To make 'em pass for wondrous wise. To everlasting banishment,

But though the law, on perjurers, Where all the hopes I had to have won

Inflicts the forfeiture of ears, Your heart, being dash'd, will break my own. It is not just, that does exempt Yet if you were not so severe

The guilty, and punish the innocent; To pass your doom before you hear,

To make the ears repair the wrong, You'd find, upon my just defence,

Committed by th' ungoverned tongue; How much y' have wrong'd my innocence. And, when one member is forsworn, That once I made a vow to you,

Another to be cropt or torn. Which yet is unperform'd 'tis true; But not, because it is unpaid, "Tis violated, though delay'd: Or, if it were, it is no fault, · So heinous as you'd have it thought; To undergo the loss of ears,

Love, that's the world's preservative, Like vulgar hackney perjurers :

That keeps all souls of things alive; For there's a difference in the case,

Controls the mighty pow'r of Fate, Between the noble and the base;

And gives mankiud a longer date; Who always are observ'd t'have done 't

The lite of nature, that restores, Upon as different an account;'

As fast as Time and Death devours, The one for great and weighty cause,

To whose free gift the world does owe To salve, in honour, ugly flaws;

Not only earth, but heaven too:

She first considered which was better:
To send it back, or burn the letter:
But guessing that it might import,
Though nothig else, at least her sport,
She open'd it, and read it out,

With many a smile and leering fout;

Resolv'd to answer it in kind,
And thus perform'd what she design'd.

Crashaw.

Richard Crashaw wurde wahrscheinlich zu London'um 1615, wo sein Vater ein hohes geistliches Amt bekleidete, geboren. Er studirte in Cambridge, wo er sich dem geistlichen Stande widmete und als Prediger auszeichnete, aber 1644 durch die Armee des Parlaments vertrieben wurde. Nach Frankreich geflüchtet, trat er zum katholischen Glauben über und ward hier von Cowley im äussersten Elend gefunden und der verbannten Königin Henriette Marie empfohlen, die ihm den Rath gab, in Italien sein Glück zu versuchen. Es gelang ihm auch in Rom Geheimschreiber des Cardinal Palotta und später Canonicus an der Lorettokirche zu werden. Er starb daselbst 1650.

Seine Gedichte erschienen zuerst London 1646, sind später öfter wieder aufgelegt worden und zum grössten Theil religiösen Inhalts. Sie zeichnen sich durch Begeisterung, reiche Phantasie, Kraft und Anmuth aus, sind aber, im falschen Geschmack jener Zeit, nicht frei von Künstelei und Gesuchtheit.

The Hymn.
O gloriosa domina!

'Tis gratitude to forgett that other,
And call the maiden Eve their mother.

Yee redeem'd nations farr and near,
Applaud your happy selves in her,
(All you to whom this love belongs)
And keep't alive with lasting songs.

Let hearts and lippes speak lowd, and say,
Hail, door was shutt, the fountain seal'd;
Yet light was seen and life reveal'd;
The fountain seal'd, yet life found way.

Glory to thee, great virgin's Son,
In bosom of thy Father's blisse:

The same to thee, sweet Spirit be done;
As ever shall be, was, and is,

Amen.

Hail most high, most humble one!
Above the world; below thy Son,
Whose blush the moon beauteously marres,
And staines the timerous light of starres.
He that made all things had not done,
Till he had made himself thy Son.
The whole world's host would be thy guest,
And board himself at thy rich brest;
O boundless hospitality!
The feast of all things feeds on thee.

The first Ere, mother of our fall,
E're she bore any one, slew all.
Of her unkind gift might we have
The inheritance of a hasty grave;
Quick buryed in the wanton tomb

Ot one forbidden bitt;
Had not a better fruit forbidden it;

Had not thy healthfull womb
The world's new eastern window bin,
And given us heaven again in giving him.
Thine was the rosy dawn that sprung the day,
Which renders all the starres she stole away.

Let then the aged world be wise, and all
Prove nobly, here, unnaturall:

An Ode, which was prefixed to a Prayer
Booke given to a young gentlewoman.

Loe, here a little volume, but great booke,
A nest of new-borne sweetes,

Whose native fires disdaining
To lye thus folded and complaining

Of these ignoble sheetes,

Affect more comely bands

Spheare of sweet, and sugred lies, (Faire one) from thy kind hands,

Some slippery paire,
And confidently looke

Of false perhaps, as fair,
To find the rest

Flattering, but forswearing eyes;
Of a rich binding in your brest.

Doubtlesse some other heart

Will get the start,
It is in one choice handfull, heaven, and all And stepping in before,

Heaven's royall hvast, encampt thus small; Will take possession of the sacred store
To prove that true, schooles use to tell,

Of hidden sweets, and holy joyes;
Ten thousand angells in one point can dwell. Words which are not heard with ears,
It is Love's great artyllery,

(Those tumultuous shops of noise), Which here contracts itself, and comes to ly Effectuall whispers, whose still voice, Close couch't in your white bosome, and from The soul itselte more feeles than heares.

thence, As from a snowy fortresse of defence,

Amorous languishments, luminous trances, Against the ghostly foe to take your part;

Sights which are not seen with eyes, And fortifie the hold of your chast heart. Spirituall, and soule piercing glances,

Whose pure and subtle lightning tives It is an armory of light;

Home to the heart, and sets the house on fire, Let constant use but keep it bright,

And melts it downe in sweet desire;
You'l find it yields

Yet doth not stay
To holy hands and humble hearts,

To aske the windowes leave to passe that way.
More swords and shields,
Than sinne hath snares, or hell hath darts. Delicious deaths, soft exhalations;

Of soule, deare and divine annihilations;
Onely be sure

A thousand unknowne rites;
The hands be pure

O joyes and rarify'd delights!
That hold these weapons, and the eyes
Those of turtles, chast, and true,

A hundred thousand goods, glories, and graces,
Wakefull, and wise;

And many a mistic thing, Here is a friend shall fight for you;

Which the divine embraces Hold but this book before your heart,

Of the deare Spouse of Spirits, with them will Let prayer alone to play its part.

bring,

For which it is no shame, But 0 the heart

That dull mortality must not know a name. That studies this high art, Must be a sure house-keeper,

Of all this store And yet no sleeper.

Of blessings and ten thousand more; Deare soule be strong,

(If, when he come,

IIe find the heart from home),
Mercy will come ere long,

Doubtlesse he will unload
And bring its bosome full of blessings;
Flowers of never-fading graces,

Himselfe some other where,
To make immortall dressings

And powre abroad

His precious sweets,
For worthy soules, whose wise embraces

On the faire soule whom first he meets.
Store up themselves for him, who is alone
The spouse of virgins, and the Virgin's Son.

O faire! O fortunate! () rich! O deare!
But if the noble Bridegroome, when he come, O happy! and thrice happy shee,
Shall find the loyt'ring heart from home,

Selected dove,
Leaving its chast abode,

Whoe're sbe bee,
To gad abroad,

Whose early love
Amongst the gay mates of the god of flyes;

With winged vowes, To take her pleasure, and to play,

Makes hast to meet her morning spouse And keep the devill's holyday :

And close with bis immortall kisses. To dance i' th' sunne-shine of some smiling Happie indeed who never misses, But beguiling

To improve that precious howre,

And every day

Seize her sweet prey:
All fresh and fragrant as he rises,
Dropping with a balmy showre
A delicious dew of spices.

She shall have power

To rifle and deflower
The rich and roseall spring of those rare sweets,
Which with a swelling bosome there she meets.
Boundlesse and infinite bottomlesse treasures,

Of pure inebriating pleasures.
Happy proofe! she shall discover

What joy, what blisse,
How many heav'ns at once it is,
To have her God become her lover.

() let the blisseful heart hold fast
Her heav'nly armeful, she shall tast,
At once ten thousand paradices;

Denham.

Sir John Denham ward 1615 zu Dublin, wo sein Vater Chief Baron of the Irish Exchequer war, geboren, erhielt seine Erziehung in London und Oxford und widmete sich dann der Rechtsgelehrsamkeit. Das Spiel war seine vorherrschende Leidenschaft; um seinen Vater zu versöhnen schrieb er schon früh eine Abhandlung gegen dasselbe, liess aber doch nicht von ihm ab. 1641 trat er zu Aller Erstaunen mit einer Tragödie “The Sophy" hervor, die von seinen glänzenden Fähigkeiten zeugte. Bald nachher wurde er Gouverneur von Farnham-Castle und zeigte sich überhaupt sein ganzes Leben hindurch als entschiedener Loyalist. Die Entdeckung einer geheimen Correspondenz mit Cowley zwang ihn zu Karl II. zu fliehen, mit dem er später in sein Vaterland zurückkehrte. Er ward Oberaufseher der königlichen Gebäude und Ritter des Bathordens. Eine unglückliche Ehe beraubte ihn eine Zeit lang des Verstandes, doch ward er wieder gänzlich hergestellt. Er starb 1668 und erhielt ein Begräbniss in der Westminster-Abtei.

Eine vollstiindige Ausgabe seiner poetischen Werke erschien London 1684 und nochmals 1704 in 8. Sie finden sich ferner im 5. Bande von Anderson's Sammlung. Von den englischen Kritikern wird er als einer der älteren Klassiker sehr gefeiert. Seine bedeutendste Leistung ist das descriptive Gedicht Cooper's hill, mit dem er die Landschaftsmalerei zuerst in die englische Poesie einführte. Er zeichnet sich durch geistreiche Eleganz aus, doch witzelt er zu gern und es fehlt ihm an Tiefe des Gefühls und Kraft der Phantasie. Von minderem Werthe sind seine übrigen Dichtungen, unter denen die Elegic auf Cowley's Tod als die gelungenste erscheint.

From.Cooper's bill.

And hatches plenty for th' ensuing spring;
Description of the Thames.

Nor then destroys it with too fond a stay,

Like mothers which their infants overlay; My eye descending from the Hill, surveys

Nor with a sudden and impetuous wave, Where Thames among the wanton vallies strays. Like profuse kings, resumes the wealth he gave. Thames! the most lov'd of all the Ocean's sons, No unexpected inundations spoil By his old sire, to his embraces runs,

The mower's hopes, or mock the ploughman's Hasting to pay his tribute to the sea,

toil; Like mortal life to meet eternity;

But God-like his unweary'd bounty flows; Though with those streams he no resemblance First loves to do, then loves the good he does.

hold,

Nor are his blessings to his banks confin'd, Whose foam is amber, and their gravel gold:

But free and common as the sea or wind; His genuine and less guilty wealth t explore, When he, to boast or to disperse his stores, Search not his bottom, but survey his shore, Full of the tributes of his grateful shores, O’er which he kindly spreads his spacious wing, Visits the world, and in his flying tow'rs