manner. The duke also prevailed on Young, as a scribes, must be true ; but they did not permanently political supporter, to come forward as a candidate influence his conduct. He was not weaned from the for the representation of the borough of Cirencester world till age had incapacitated him for its pur

in parliament, and he gave him a bond for £600 to suits ; and the epigrammatic point and wit of his 1. defray the expenses. Young was defeated, Whar · Night Thoughts, with the gloomy views it pre

sents of life and religion, show the poetical artist
fully as much as the humble and penitent Christian.
His works are numerous; but the best are the
• Night Thoughts,' the Universal Passion,' and
the tragedy of Revenge. The foundation of his
great poem was family misfortune, coloured and
exaggerated for poetical effect-
Insatiate archer! could not one suffice ?
Thy shafts flew thrice, and thrice my peace was slain;
And thrice, ere thrice yon moon had filled her horn.
This rapid succession of bereavements was a poeti-
cal license; for in one of the cases there was an
interval of four years, and in another of seven
months. The profligate character of Lorenzo has
been supposed to indicate Young's own son. It
seems to us a mere fancy sketch. Like the charac-
ter of Childe Harold, in the hands of Byron, it
afforded the poet scope for dark and powerful paint-
ing, and was made the vehicle for bursts of indig-
nant virtue, sorrow, regret, and admonition. This
artificial character pervades the whole poem, and is
essentially a part of its structure. But it still leaves
to our admiration many noble and sublime passages,
where the poet speaks as from inspiration with the
voice of one crying in the wilderness of life, death,
and immortality. The truths of religion are en-

forced with a commanding energy and persuasion. Edward Young.

Epigram and repartee are then forgotten by the 1 ton died, and the court of chancery decided against poet; fancy yields to feeling; and where imagery is

the validity of the bond. The poet, being now quali-employed, it is select, nervous, and suitable. In fied by experience, published a satire on the Uni- this sustained and impressive style Young seldom versal Passion—the Love of Fame, which is at once remains long at a time; his desire to say witty and keen and powerful, and the nearest approach we smart things, to load his pic ire with supernumehave to the polished satire of Pope. When upwards rary horrors, and conduct his personages to their of fifty, Young entered the church, wrote a pane- sulphureous or ambrosial seats,' soon converts the gyric on the king, and was made one of his majesty's great poet into the painter and epigrammatist. The chaplains. Swift has said that the poet was com

| ingenuity of his second style is in some respects as pelled to

wonderful as the first, but it is of a vastly inferior

order of poetry. Mr Southey thinks, that when - torture his invention

Johnson said (in his Life of Milton') that the To flatter knaves, or lose his pension.

good and evil of eternity were too ponderous for the But it does not appear that there was any other wings of wit,' he forgot Young. The moral critic reward than the appointment as chaplain. In 1730, could not, however, but have condemned even witty Young obtained from his college the living of Wel- | thoughts and sparkling metaphors, which are so inwyn, in Hertfordshire, where he was destined to congruous and misplaced. The Night Thoughts,' close his days. He was eager to obtain further pre- like Hudibras,' is too pointed, and too full of comferment, but having in his poetry professed a strong pressed reflection and illustration, to be read conlove of retirement, the ministry seized upon this as tinuously with pleasure. Nothing can atone for the a pretext for keeping him out of a bishopric. The want of simplicity and connection in a long poem. poet made a noble alliance with the daughter of the In Young there is no plot or progressive interest. Earl of Lichfield, widow of Colonel Lee, which Each of the nine books is independent of the other. lasted ten years, and proved a happier union than The general reader, therefore, seeks out favourite the titled marriages of Dryden and Addison. The passages for perusal, or contents himself with a lady had two children by her first marriage, to single excursion into his wide and variegated field. whom Young was warmly attached. Both died; But the more carefully it is studied, the more exand when the mother also followed, Young com- traordinary and magnificent will the entire poem posed his “Night Thoughts.' Sixty years had appear. The fertility of his fancy, the pregnancy strengthened and enriched his genius, and aug of his wit and knowledge, the striking and felicitous mented even the brilliancy of his fancy. In 1761 combinations everywhere presented, are indeed rethe poet was made clerk of the closet to the markable. Sound sense is united to poetical ima. Princess Dowager of Wales, and died four years gery; maxims of the highest practical value, and afterwards, in April 1765, at the advanced age of passages of great force, tenderness, and everlasting eighty-four.

truth, are constantly rising, like sunshine, over the A life of so much action and worldly anxiety has quaint and gloomy recesses of the poet's inaginararely been united to so much literary industry and tiongenius. In his youth, Young was gay and dissipated, and all his life he was an indefatigable cour

The glorious fragments of a fire immortal, tier. In his poetry he is a severe moralist and

With rubbish mixed, and glittering in the dust. ascetic divine." That he felt the emotions he de- | After all his bustling toils and ambition, how finely

does Young advert to the quiet retirement of his And fondly dream each wind and star our friend; country life

All in some darling enterprise embarked : Blest be that hand divine, which gently laid

But where is he can fathom its event ?

Amid a multitude of artless hands,
My heart at rest beneath this humble shade!

Ruin's sure perquisite, her lawful prize!
The world's a stately bark, on dangerous seas,
With pleasure seen, but boarded at our peril;

Some steer aright, but the black blast blows hard,

And puffs them wide of hope: with hearts of proof Here, on a single plank, thrown safe ashore,

Full against wind and tide, some win their way, I hear the tumult of the distant throng,

And when strong effort has deserved the port,
As that of seas remote, or dying storms;

And tugged it into view, 'tis won ! 'tis lost !
And meditate on scenes more silent still;
Pursue my theme, and fight the fear of death.

Though strong their oar, still stronger is their fate :

They strike ! and while they triumph they expire. Here like a shepherd, gazing from his hut,

In stress of weather most, some sink outright: Touching his reed, or leaning on his staff,

O'er them, and o'er their names the billows close; Eager ambition's fiery chase I see;

To-morrow knows not they were ever born. I see the circling hunt of noisy men

Others a short memorial leave behind, Burst law's enclosure, leap the mounds of right,

Like a flag floating when the bark's ingulfed ; Pursuing and pursued, each other's prey;

It floats a moinent, and is seen no more. As wolves for rapine; as the fox for wiles ;

| One Caesar lives ; a thousand are forgot. Till death, that mighty hunter, earths them all.

How few beneath auspicious planets born Why all this toil for triumphs of an hour ?

(Darlings of Providence! fond Fate's elect !) What though we wade in wealth, or soar in fame,

With swelling sails make good the promised port, Earth's highest station ends in here he lies,'

With all their wishes freighted ! yet even these, And 'dust to dust' concludes her noblest song.

Freighted with all their wishes, soon complain; And when he argues in favour of the immortality of | Free from misfortune, not from nature free, man from the analogies of nature, with what ex- | They still are men, and when is man secure? quisite taste and melody does he characterise the As fatal time, as storm ! the rush of years changes and varied appearances of creation

Beats down their strength, their numberless escapes Look nature through, 'tis revolution all;

In ruin end. And now their proud success All change, no death; day follows night, and night

But plants new terrors on the victor's brow: The dying day; stars rise and set, and set and rise:

What pain to quit the world, just made their own, Earth takes the example. See, the Summer gay,

Their nest so deeply downed, and built so high ! With her green chaplet and ambrosial flowers,

Too low they build, who build beneath the stars. Droops into pallid Autumn: Winter gray,

With such a throng of poetical imagery, bursts of Horrid with frost and turbulent with storm,

sentiment, and rays of fancy, does the poet-divine Blows Autumn and his golden fruits away,

clothe the trite and simple truths, that all is vanity, Then melts into the Spring: soft Spring, with breath

and that man is born to die! Favonian, from warm chambers of the south, Recalls the first. All, to reflourish, fades :

These thoughts, O Night ! are thine; As in a wheel, all sinks to reascend:

From thee they came like lovers' secret sighs, Emblems of man, who passes, not expires.

While others slept. So Cynthia, poets feign,

In shadows veiled, soft, sliding from her sphere,
He thus moralises on human life-

Her shepherd cheered ; of her enamoured less
Life speeds away

Than I of thee. And art thou still unsung,
From point to point, though seeming to stand still. Beneath whose brow, and by whose aid, I sing !
The cunning fugitive is swift by stealth,

Immortal silence! where shall I begin? Too subtle is the movement to be seen;

Where end ? or how steal music from the spheres Yet soon man's hour is up, and we are gone.

To soothe their goddess ? Warnings point out our danger; gnomons, time;

O majestic Night! As these are useless when the sun is set,

Nature's great ancestor ! Day's elder born ! So those, but when more glorious reason shines. And fated to survive the transient sun ! Reason should judge in all; in reason's eye

By mortals and immortals seen with awe! That sedentary shadow travels hard.

A starry crown thy raven brow adorns, But such our gravitation to the wrong,

An azure zone thy waist; clouds, in heaven's loom So prone our hearts to whisper that we wish,

Wrought through varieties of shape and shade, 'Tis later with the wise than he's aware :

In ample folds of drapery divine, A Wilmington' goes slower than the sun :

Thy flowing mantle form, ånd, heaven throughout, And all mankind mistake their time of day;

Voluminously pour thy pompous train : Even age itself. Fresh hopes are hourly sown

Thy gloomy grandeurs-Nature's most august, In furrowed brows. To gentle life's descent

Inspiring aspect !-claim a grateful verse; We shut our eyes, and think it is a plain.

And, like a sable curtain starred with gold, We take fair days in winter for the spring,

Drawn o'er my labours past, shall clothe the scene. And turn our blessings into bane. Since oft

This magnificent apostrophe has scarcely been Man must compute that age he cannot feel,

equalled in our poetry since the epic strains of He scarce believes he's older for his years.

Milton.
Thus, at life's latest eve, we keep in store
One disappointment sure, to crown the rest

On Life, Death, and Immortality.
The disappointment of a promised hour.

Tired Nature's sweet restorer, balmy Sleep! And again in a still nobler strain, where he com- | He, like the world, his ready visit pays pares human life to the sea

Where Fortune smiles; the wretched he forsakes: Self-flattered, unexperienced, high in hope,

Swift on his downy pinion flies from wo, When young, with sanguine cheer and streamers gay, And lights on lids unsullied with a tear. Ve cut our cable, launch into the world,

From short (as usual) and disturbed repose

I wake: how happy they who wake no more ! 1 Lord Wilmington.

Yet that were vain, if dreams infest the grave.

Part with it as with life, reluctant; big

Lorenzo! no: on the long destined hour,
With holy hope of nobler time to come;

From everlasting ages growing ripe,
Time higher aimed, still nearer the great mark That memorable hour of wondrous birth,
Of men and angels, virtue more divine.

When the Dread Sire, on emanation bent,

And big with nature, rising in his might, On all important time, through every age,

Called forth creation (for then time was born) Though much, and warm, the wise have urged, the man

By Godhead streaming through a thousand worlds ; Is yet unborn who duly weighs an hour.

Not on those terms, from the great days of heaven, “I've lost a day'—the prince who nobly cried,

From old eternity's mysterious orb Had been an emperor without his crown.

Was time cut off, and cast beneath the skies ; Of Rome? say, rather, lord of human race:

The skies, which watch him in his new abode, He spoke as if deputed by mankind.

Measuring his motions by revolving spheres, So should all speak; so reason speaks in all :

That horologe machinery divine. From the soft whispers of that God in man,

Hours, days, and months, and years, his children play, Why fly to folly, why to frenzy fly,

Like numerous wings, around him, as he flies ; For rescue from the blessings we possess ?

Or rather, as unequal plumes, they shape Time, the supreme !--Time is eternity;

His ample pinions, swift as darted flame, Pregnant with all that makes archangels smile.

To gain his goal, to reach his ancient rest, Who murders Time, he crushes in the birth

And join anew eternity, his sire : A power ethereal, only not adored.

In his immutability to nest, Ah ! how unjust to nature and himself

When worlds that count his circles now, unhinged, Is thoughtless, thankless, inconsistent man!

(Fate the loud signal sounding) headlong rush Like children babbling nonsense in their sports,

To timeless night and chaos, whence they rose.
We censure Nature for a span too short ;
That span too short we tax as tedious too;

But why on time so lavish is my song:
Torture invention, all expedients tire,

On this great theme kind Nature keeps a school To lash the lingering moments into speed,

To teach her sons herself. Each night we die And whirl us (happy riddance) from ourselves. Each morn are born anew; each day a life;

And shall we kill each day? If trifling kills, Time, in advance, behind him hides his wings,

Sure vice must butcher. O what heaps of slain And seems to creep, decrepit with his age.

Cry out for vengeance on us ! time destroyed
Behold him when passed by; what then is seen

Is suicide, where more than blood is spilt.
But his broad pinions swifter than the winds?
And all mankind, in contradiction strong,

Throw years away?
Rucful, aghast, cry out on his career.

Throw empires, and be blameless : moments seize;

Heaven's on their wing: a moment we may wish, We waste, not use our time; we breathe, not live;

When worlds want wealth to buy. Bid day stand still, Time wasted is existence; used, is life:

Bid him drive back his car and re-impart And bare existence man, to live ordained,

The period past, re-give the given hour. Wrings and oppresses with enormous weight.

Lorenzo ! more than miracles we want.
And why? since time was given for use, not waste,

Lorenzo ! O for yesterdays to come!
Enjoined to fly, with tempest, tide, and stars,
To keep his speed, nor ever wait for man.

[The Man whose Thoughts are not of this world.] Time's use was doomed a pleasure, waste a pain, That man might feel his error if unseen,

Some angel guide my pencil, while I draw, And, feeling, fly to labour for his cure;

What nothing less than angel can exceed, Not blundering, split on idleness for ease.

A man on earth devoted to the skies;

Like ships in seas, while in, above the world. We push time from us, and we wish him back;

With aspect mild, and elevated eye, Life we think long and short ; death seek and shun.

Behold him seated on a mount serene, Oh the dark days of vanity! while

Above the fogs of sense, and passion's storm; Here, how tasteless! and how terrible when gone!

All the black cares and tumults of this life, Gone ? they ne'er go ; when past, they haunt us

Like harmless thunders, breaking at his feet, still:

Excite his pity, not impair his peace. The spirit walks of every day deceased,

Earth's genuine sons, the sceptred and the slave, And smiles an angel, or a fury frowns.

A mingled mob! a wandering herd! he sees, Nor death nor life delight us. If time past,

Bewildered in the vale; in all unlike! And time possessed, both pain us, what can please ?

His full reverse in all! what higher praise ? That which the Deity to please ordained,

What stronger demonstration of the right? Time used. The man who consecrates his hours

The present all their care, the future his. By vigorous effort, and an honest aim,

When public welfare calls, or private want, At once he draws the sting of life and death :

They give to Fame; his bounty he conceals. He walks with nature, and her paths are peace. Their virtues varnish Nature, his exalt. 'Tis greatly wise to talk with our past hours,

Mankind's esteem they court, and he his own. And ask them what report they bore to heaven,

Theirs the wild chase of false felicities; And how they might have borne more welcome news.

His the composed possession of the true. Their answers form what men experience call;

Alike throughout is his consistent peace, If wisdom's friend her best, if not, worst foe.

All of one colour, and an even thread;

| While party-coloured shreds of happiness, All-sensual man, because untouched, unseen,

With hideous gaps between, patch up for them He looks on time as nothing. Nothing else

A madman's robe; each puff of Fortune blows Is truly man's ; 'tis fortune's. Time's a god.

The tatters by, and shows their nakedness. Hast thou ne'er heard of Time's omnipotence ?

He sees with other eyes than theirs : where they For, or against, what wonders can he do!

Behold a sun, he spies a Deity. And will: to stand blank neuter he disdains. What makes them only smile, makes him adore. Not on those terms was time (heaven's stranger !) sent | Where they see mountains, he but atoms sees. On his important embassy to man.

| An empire in his balance weighs a grain.

They things terrestrial worship as divine;
His hopes, immortal, blow them by as dust

[From the Love of Fame.]
That dims his sight, and shortens his survey,
Which longs, in infinite, to lose all bound.

Not all on books their criticism waste;
Titles and honours (if they prove his fate)

The genius of a dish some justly taste,
He lays aside to find his dignity;
No dignity they find in aught besides.

And eat their way to fame! with anxious thought

The salmon is refused, the turbot bought. They triumph in externals (which conceal

Impatient Art rebukes the sun's delay, Man's real glory), proud of an eclipse :

And bids December yield the fruits of May. ! Himself too much he prizes to be proud, And nothing thinks so great in man as man.

Their various cares in one great point combine

The business of their lives, that is, to dine;
Too dear be holds his interest to neglect
Another's welfare, or his right invade:

Half of their precious day they give the feast,

And to a kind digestion spare the rest.
Their interest, like a lion, lives on prey.
They kindle at the shadow of a wrong;

Apicius here, the taster of the town,
Wrong he sustains with temper, looks on heaven,

Feeds twice a-week, to settle their renown. Nor stoops to think his injurer his foe.

These worthies of the palate guard with care Nought but what wounds his virtue wounds his peace.

The sacred annals of their bills of fare; A covered heart their character defends;

In those choice books their panegyrics read, A covered heart denies him half his praise.

And scorn the creatures that for hunger feed; With nakedness his innocence agrees,

If man, by feeding well, commences great, While their broad foliage testifies their fall.

Much more the worm, to whom that man is meat. Their no-joys end where his full feast begins; His joys create, theirs murder future bliss.

Belus with solid glory will be crowned ; To triumph in existence his alone;

He buys no phantom, no vain empty sound, And his alone triumphantly to think

But builds himself a name; and to be great, His true existence is not yet begun.

Sinks in a quarry an immense estate ; His glorious course was yesterday complete ;

In cost and grandeur Chandos he'll outdo;
Death then was welcome, yet life still is sweet.

And, Burlington, thy taste is not so true;
The pile is finished, every toil is past,

And full perfection is arrived at last;
[Procrastination.]

When lo! my lord to some small corner runs, Be wise to-day; 'tis madness to defer :

And leaves state-rooms to strangers and to duns. Next day the fatal precedent will plead;

The man who builds, and wants wherewith to pay Thus on, till wisdom is pushed out of life.

Provides a home, from which to run away. Procrastination is the thief of time;

In Britain what is many a lordly seat,
Year after year it steals, till all are fied,

But a discharge in full for an estate ?
And to the mercies of a moment leaves
The vast concerns of an eternal scene.

Some for renown on scraps of learning dote,

And think they grow immortal as they quote, If not so frequent, would not this be strange? That 'tis so frequent, this is stranger still.

To patch-work learned quotations are allied ;
Of man's miraculous mistakes, this bears

Both strive to make our poverty our pride.
The palm, . That all men are about to live,'
For ever on the brink of being born :

Let high birth triumph ! what can be more great ? All pay themselves the compliment to think

Nothing---but merit in a low estate. They one day shall not drivel, and their pride

To Virtue's humblest son let none prefer On this reversion takes up ready praise ;

Vice, though descended from the Conqueror. At least their own; their future selves applaud;

Shall men, like figures, pass for high or base, How excellent that life they ne'er will lead !

Slight or important only by their place ? Time lodged in their own hands is Folly's vails;

Titles are marks of honest men, and wise ; That lodged in Fate's to wisdom they consign;

The fool or knave that wears a title, lies. The thing they can't but purpose, they postpone.

They that on glorious ancestors enlarge, 'Tis not in folly not to scorn a fool,

Produce their debt instead of their discharge. And scarce in human wisdom to do more. All promise is poor dilatory man,

[The Emptiness of Riches.] And that through every stage. When young, indeed, In full content we sometimes nobly rest,

Can gold calm passion, or make reason shine! Unanxious for ourselves, and only wish,

Can we dig peace or wisdom from the mine? As duteous sons, our fathers were more wise.

Wisdom to gold prefer, for 'tis much less At thirty man suspects himself a fool ;

To make our fortune than our happiness : Knows it at forty, and reforms his plan;

That happiness which great ones often see, | At fifty chides his infamous delay,

With rage and wonder, in a low degree, Pushes his prudent purpose to resolve;

Themselves unblessed. The poor are only poor. In all the magnanimity of thought

But what are they who droop amid their store ? Resolves, and re-resolves; then dies the same.

Nothing is meaner than a wretch of state.
And why? because he thinks himself immortal. The happy only are the truly great.
All men think all men mortal but themselves; Peasants enjoy like appetites with kings,
Themselves, when some alarming shock of fate

And those best satisfied with cheapest things. Strikes through their wounded hearts the sudden dread: | Could both our Indies buy but one new sense, ! But their hearts wounded, like the wounded air, Our envy would be due to large expense;

Soon close; where past the shaft no trace is found, Since not, those pomps which to the great belong, As from the wing no scar the sky retains,

Are but poor arts to mark them from the throng. The parted wave no furrow from the keel,

See how they beg an alms of Flattery:
So dies in human hearts the thought of death : They languish! oh, support them with a lie!
E'en with the tender tear which nature sheds

A decent competence we fully taste;
O'er those we love, we drop it in their grave.

| It strikes our sense, and gives a constant feast;