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Balder's head to death is given,

Pain can reach the sons of Heaven!
Unwilling I my lips unclose:
Leave me, leave me, to repose.

0. Once again my call obey,
Prophetess, arise, and say,
What dangers Odin's child await,
Who the author of his fate?

Pr. In Hoder's hand the hero's doom:

His brother sends him to the tomb.

Now my weary lips I close:
Leave me, leave me, to repose.

O. Prophetess, my spell obey:
Once again arise, and say,
Who th' avenger of his guilt,

By whom shall Hoder's blood be spilt?
Pr. In the caverns of the west,
By Odin's fierce embrace comprest,
A wondrous boy shall Rinda bear,
Who ne'er shall comb his raven-hair,
Nor wash his visage in the stream,
Nor see the Sun's departing beam:
Till he on Hoder's corse shall smile
Flaming on the funeral pile.
Now my weary lips I close:
Leave me, leave me, to repose.

O. Yet awhile my call obey,
Prophetess, awake, and say,
What virgins these, in speechless woe,
That bend to earth their solemn brow,
That their flaxen tresses tear,
And snowy veils that float in air.
Tell me whence their sorrows rose:
Then I leave thee to repose.

Pr. Ha! no traveller art thou,
King of Men, I know thee now,
Mightiest of a mighty line.-

O. No boding maid of skill divine Art thou, nor prophetess of good; But mother of the giant-brood!

Pr. Hie thee hence, and boast at home,

That never shall inquirer come

To break my iron-sleep again;

Till Lok has burst his ten-fold chain.

Never, till substantial Night

Has re-assum'd her ancient right;

Till wrapp'd in flames, in ruin hurl'd,

Sinks the fabric of the world.

THE TRIUMPHS OF OWEN. +

A FRAGMENT.

From Mr. Evans's Specimens of the Welsh Poetry;

London, 1764, quarto.

OWEN's praise demands my song,
Owen swift, and Owen strong;
Fairest flower of Roderic's stem,
Gwyneth's shield, and Britain's gem.

* Lok is the evil being, who continues in chains till the twilight of the gods approaches, when he shall break his bonds; the human race, the stars, and Sun, shall disappear; the earth sink in the seas, and fire consume the skies: even Odin himself and his kindred deities shall perish. For a further explanation of this mythology, see Mallet's Introduction to the History of Denmark, 1755, quarto.

+ Owen succeeded his father Griffin in the principality of North Wales, A. D. 112. This battle was fought near forty years afterwards.

↑ North Wales.

He nor heaps his brooded stores,
Nor all profusely pours;
Lord of every regal art,
Liberal hand, and open heart.

Big with hosts of mighty name,
Squadrons three against him came;
Side by side as proudly riding,
On her shadow long and gay
Lochlin plows the watery way:
There the Norman sails afar

Catch the winds, and join the war; Black and huge along they sweep Burthens of the angry deep.

Dauntless on his native sands The dragon-son+ of Mona stands; This the force of Eirin hiding, In glittering arms and glory drest, High he rears his ruby crest, There the thundering strokes begin, There the press, and there the din; Talymalfra's rocky shore Echoing to the battle's roar, Where his glowing eye-balls turn, Thousand banners round him burn. Where he points his purple spear, Hasty, hasty rout is there, Marking with indignant eye Fear to stop, and shame to fly. There Confusion, Terrour's child, Conflict fierce, and Ruin wild, Agony, that pants for breath, Despair and honourable Death.

EPITAPH ON MRS. MARY CLARKE.‡

Lo! where this silent marble weeps,
A friend, a wife, a mother sleeps;
A heart, within whose sacred cell
The peaceful Virtues lov'd to dwell:
Affection warm, and faith sincere,
And soft humanity were there.
In agony, in death, resign'd,

She felt the wounds she left behind.

Her infant image here below,

Sits smiling on a father's woe,

Whom what awaits while yet he strays

Along the lonely vale of days?

A pang, to secret sorrow dear,

A sigh, an unavailing tear,

Till time shall every grief remove,

With life, with mem'ry, and with love.

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YOUNG'S NIGHT-THOUGHTS.

THE LIFE OF DR. EDWARD YOUNG.

EDWARD YOUNG, LL. D. author of the Night Thoughts, and many other excellent pieces, was the only son of Dr. Edward Young, an eminent, learned, and judicious divine; Dean of Sarum, Fellow of Winchester College, and Rector of Upham, in Hampshire. He was born in the year 1684, at Upham, and after being educated at Winchester College, was chosen on the foundation of New College at Oxford, October 13, 1703, when he was nineteen years of age; but, being disqualified on account of his youth, and there being no vacancy of a fellowship, he removed before the expiration of the year to Corpus Christi, where he entered himself a Gentleman Commoner.

In 1708, he was put into a law fellowship, at All Souls, by Archbishop Tennison. Here he took the degree of B. C. L. in 1714, and in 1719, D. C. L. In this year he published his Tragedy of Busiris; in 1721, the Revenge; and in 1723, the Brothers; about this time he published his elegant Poem on the Last Day; which, being wrote by a Layman, gave the more satisfaction. He soon after published the Force of Religion, or Vanquish'd Love, a poem; which also gave much pleasure to most who read it; but more especially to the noble family for whose entertainment it was principally written. Some charge the author with a stiffness of versification in both these poems; but they met with such success as to procure him the particular friendship of several of the nobility, and among the rest, the patronage of the Duke of Wharton; which greatly helped him in his finances. By his Grace's recommendation he put up for member of parliament for Cirencester; but did not succeed. His noble patron honoured him with his company to All Souls, and, through his instance and persuasion, was at the expense of erecting a considerable part of the new buildings then carrying on in that college. The turn of his mind leading him to divinity, he quitted the law, which he had never practised; and taking orders, was appointed chaplain in ordinary to King George II. April, 1728.

In that year he published a Vindication of Providence, in quarto; and, soon after, his Estimate of Human Life, in the same size: which are thought by many to be the best of his prose performances. In 1730, he was presented by his college to the rectory of Welwyn, in Hertfordshire, reputed worth 300%. a besides the lordship of the manor annexed to it. He was married in 1731, to Lady Betty Lee, widow of Colonel Lee, and daughter to the Earl of Litchfield; (a lady of an eminent genius, and great poetical talents) who brought him a son and heir not long after their marriage.

year,

Though always in high esteem with many of the first rank, he never rose to great preferment. He was a favourite of the Prince of Wales, his late Majesty's father, and for some years before his death was a pretty constant attendant at court; but upon the Prince's decease, all his hopes of farther rising in the church were at an end; and towards the latter part of

| his life, his very desire of it seemed to be laid aside; for in his Night Thoughts, he observes, that there was one (meaning himself) in Britain born, with courtiers bred, who thought even wealth might come a day too late; however, upon the death of Dr. Hales in 1761, he was made Clerk of the Closet to the Princess Dowager of Wales.

About the year 1741, he had the unhappiness to lose his wife, and both her children, which she had by her first husband, a son and daughter, very promising characters. They all died within a short time of each other. That he felt greatly for their loss, as well as for that of his Lady, may easily be perceived by his fine poem of the Night Thoughts, occasioned by it. This was a species of poetry peculiarly his own, and has been unrivalled by all who have attempted to copy him. His applause here was deservedly great. The unhappy bard, "whose grief in melting numbers flow, and melancholy joys diffuse around," has been often sung by the profane as well as pious. They were written, as before observed, under the recent pressure of his sorrow for the loss of his wife, his daughter, and son-in-law. They are addressed to Lorenzo, a man of pleasure and the world, and who, it is generally supposed (and very probably) was his own son, then labouring under his father's displeasure. His son-in-law is said to be characterized by Philander; and his daughter was certainly the person he speaks of under the appellation of Narcissa. See Night III. 1. 62. In her last illness, he accompanied her to Montpelier, in the South of France, where she died soon after her arrival in that city.

After her death, it seems she was denied Christian burial, on account of being reckoned a Heretic, by the inhabitants of the place; which inhumanity is justly resented in the same beautiful poem. See Night III. 1. 165; in which his wife also is frequently mentioned; and he thus laments the loss of all three, in an apostrophe to death:

"Insatiate archer! could not one suffice?

Thy shaft flew thrice, and thrice my peace was slain;
And thrice, ere thrice yon moon had fill'd her horn."

He wrote his Conjectures on Original Composition when he was turned of eighty. If it has blemishes mixed with its beauties, it is not to be wondered at, when we consider his great age, and the many infirmities which generally attend such an advanced period of life. However, the many excellent remarks this work abounds with, make it justly esteemed as a brightening before death. The Resignation, a poem, the last, and the least esteemed of all Dr. Young's works, was published a short time

*The priests refusing the Doctor leave to bury his daughter in one of their church-yards, he was obliged, with the assistance of his servant, to dig a grave in a field near Montpelier, where they deposited the body, without the help of

any of the inhabitants, who consider Protestants in the same light as they do brutes.

before his death; and only served to manifest the taper of genius (which had so long shone with peculiar brightness in him) was now glimmering in the socket. He died in his parsonage-house, at Welwyn, April 12, 1765, and was buried, according to his own desire (attended by all the poor of the parish) under the altar-piece of that church, by the side of his wife.* This altar-piece is reckoned one of the most curious in the kingdom, being adorned with an elegant piece of needle work, by the Lady Betty Young.

Before the Doctor died, he ordered all his manuscripts to be burnt; those that knew how much he expressed in a small compass, and that he never wrote on trivial subjects, will lament both the excess of his modesty (if I may so term it) and the irreparable loss to posterity; especially when it is considered, that he was the intimate acquaintance of Addison; and was himself one of the writers of the Spectators. In his life-time he published two or three Sermons, one of which was preached before the House of Commons. He left an only son and heir, Mr. Frederick Young, who had the first part of his education at Winchester school, and becoming a scholar upon the foundation, was sent, in consequence thereof, to New College in Oxford; but there being no vacancy (though the society waited for one no less than two years) he was admitted in the mean time in Baliol College; where he behaved so imprudently as to be forbidden the college. This misconduct disobliged his father so much, that he never would suffer him to come into his sight afterwards: however, by his will, he bequeathed to him, after a few legacies, his whole fortune, which was considerable.

As a Christian and Divine, he might be said to be an example of primeval piety; he gave a remarkable instance of this one Sunday, when preaching in his turn at St. James's; for though he strove to gain the attention of his audience, when he found he could not prevail, his pity for their folly got the better of all decorum: he sat back in the pulpit, and burst into a flood of tears.

The turn of his mind was naturally solemn; and he usually, when at home in the country, spent many hours in a day walking among the tombs in his own church-yard. His conversation, as well as writings,

had all a reference to a future life; and this turn of

mind mixed itself even with his improvements in gardening: he had, for instance, an alcove with a bench so well painted in it, that at a distance it seemed to be real; but upon a nearer approach, the deception was perceived, and this motto appeared:

INVISIBILIA NON DECIPIUNT.
The things unseen do not deceive us.

* The bell did not toll at his funeral, nor was any person allowed to be in mourning.

son.

Yet, notwithstanding this gloominess of temper, he was fond of innocent sports and amusements. He instituted an assembly and a bowling-green in his parish; and often promoted the mirth of the company in perHis wit was ever poignant, and always levelled at those who showed any contempt for decency and religion. His Epigram spoken extempore upon Voltaire, is well known. Voltaire happening to ridicule Milton's allegorical personages of Death and Sin, Dr. Young thus addressed him :—

Thou art so witty, profligate, and thin,

Thou seem'st a Milton with his Death and Sin.

As to his character as a poet, his composition was instinct in his youth, with as much vanity as was necessary to excel in that art. He published a collection of such of his works as he thought the best, in 1761, in four volumes duodecimo; and another was published since. Among these, his Satires, intituled, the Love of Fame, or, the Universal Passion, are by most considered as his principal performance. They are finely characteristic of that excessive pride, or rather folly, of following prevailing fashions, and aiming to be more than we really are, or can possibly be. They were written in early life; and if smoothness of style, brilliancy of wit, and simplicity of subject, can ensure applause, our author may demand it

on this occasion.

After the death of his wife, as he had never given any attention to domestic affairs, so knowing his unfitness for it, he referred the whole care and management of his family to his housekeeper; to whom he left a handsome legacy.

It is observed by Dean Swift, that if Dr. Young, in his Satires, had been more merry or severe, they would have been more generally pleasing; because mankind are more apt to be pleased with ill-nature and mirth, than with solid sense and instruction. It is also observed of his Night Thoughts, that though they are chiefly flights of thinking almost super-human; such as the description of Death, from his secret stand, noting down the follies of a Bacchanalian Society; issuing of Satan from his dungeon; yet these, and a the Epitaph upon the Departed World; and the great number of other remarkably fine thoughts, are sometimes overcast with an air of gloominess and melancholy, which have a disagreeable tendency, and must be unpleasing to a cheerful mind; however, it must be acknowledged by all, that they evidence a singular genius, a lively fancy, an extensive knowledge of men and things, especially of the feelings of the human heart; and paint, in the strongest colours, the vanity of life, with all its fading honours and emoluments, the benefits of true piety, especially in the views of death, and the most unanswerable arguments in support of the soul's immortality, and a future state.

93

THE COMPLAINT; OR, NIGHT-THOUGHTS.

Right the First.

ON LIFE, DEATH, AND IMMORTALITY.

DEDICATED TO THE RIGHT HON. ARTHUR ONSLOW, SPEAKER OF THE HOUSE OF COMMONS.

TIR'D Nature's sweet restorer, balmy Sleep!

He, like the world, his ready visit pays

Where fortune smiles; the wretched he forsakes;
Swift on his downy pinion flies from woe,
And lights on lids unsullied with a tear.

From short (as usual) and disturb'd repose,
I wake: How happy they, who wake no more!
Yet that were vain, if dreams infest the grave.
I wake, emerging from a sea of dreams
Tumultuous; where my wreck'd desponding thought,
From wave to wave of fancied misery,
At random drove, her helm of reason lost.
Though now restor'd, 't is only change of pain,
(A bitter change!) severer for severe.

The Day too short for my distress; and Night,
E'en in the zenith of her dark domain,
Is sunshine to the colour of my fate.

Night, sable goddess! from her ebon throne,
In rayless majesty, now stretches forth
Her leaden sceptre o'er a slumbering world.
Silence, how dead! and darkness, how profound!
Nor eye, nor listening ear, an object finds;
Creation sleeps. 'T is, as the general pulse
Of life stood still, and Nature made a pause;
An aweful pause! prophetic of her end.
And let her prophecy be soon fulfill'd;
Fate! drop the curtain; I can lose no more.

Silence and Darkness! solemn sisters! twins From ancient Night, who nurse the tender thought To reason, and on reason build resolve,

(That column of true majesty in man,)

Assist me: I will thank you in the grave;
The

grave, your kingdom: there this frame shall fall A victim sacred to your dreary shrine.

But what are ye?—

Thou, who didst put to flight

Primeval Silence, when the morning stars,
Exulting, shouted o'er the rising ball!

O thou, whose word from solid darkness struck
That spark, the Sun; strike wisdom from my soul;
My soul, which flies to thee, her trust, her treasure,
As misers to their gold, while others rest.

Through this opaque of Nature, and of soul, This double night, transmit one pitying ray, To lighten, and to cheer. O lead my mind, (A mind that fain would wander from its woe,) Lead it through various scenes of life and death; And from each scene, the noblest truths inspire. Nor less inspire my conduct, than my song; Teach my best reason, reason; my best will Teach rectitude; and fix my firm resolve Wisdom to wed, and pay her long arrear: Nor let the phial of thy vengeance, pour'd On this devoted head, be pour'd in vain.

The bell strikes one. We take no note of time But from its loss. To give it then a tongue, Is wise in man. As if an angel spoke,

I feel the solemn sound. If heard aright,

It is the knell of my departed hours:

Where are they? With the years beyond the flood.

It is the signal that demands dispatch;
How much is to be done? my hopes and fears,
Start up alarm'd, and o'er life's narrow verge
Look down-On what? a fathomless abyss!
A dread eternity! how surely mine!
And can eternity belong to me,
Poor pensioner on the bounties of an hour?
How poor,
how rich, how abject, how august,
How complicate, how wonderful, is man!
How passing wonder He, who made him such!
Who centered in our make such strange extremes !
From different natures marvellously mixt,
Connection exquisite of distant worlds!
Distinguish'd link in being's endless chain !
Midway from nothing to the Deity!
A beam ethereal, sully'd and absorpt!
Though sully'd and dishonour'd, still divine!
Dim miniature of greatness absolute!
An heir of glory! a frail child of dust;
Helpless immortal! insect infinite!
A worm! a god!-I tremble at myself,
And in myself am lost! at home a stranger,
Thought wanders up and down, surpris'd, aghast,
And wondering at her own: How Reason reels!
O what a miracle to man is man,

Triumphantly distress'd! what joy, what dread!
Alternately transported, and alarm'd!

What can preserve my life? or what destroy?
An angel's arm can't snatch me from the grave;
Legions of angels can't confine me there.

'T is past conjecture; all things rise in proof:
While o'er my limbs sleep's soft dominion spread,
What though my soul fantastic measures trod
O'er fairy fields; or mourn'd along the gloom
Of pathless woods; or, down the craggy steep
Hurl'd headlong, swam with pain the mantled pool;
Or scal'd the cliff; or danc'd on hollow winds,
With antic shapes, wild natives of the brain?
Her ceaseless flight, though devious, speaks her nature
Of subtler essence than the trodden clod;
Active, aërial, towering, unconfin'd,
Unfetter'd with her gross companion's fall.
E'en silent night proclaims my soul immortal:
E'en silent night proclaims eternal day.
For human weal, Heaven husbands all events;
Dull sleep instructs, nor sport vain dreams in vain.
Why then their loss deplore, that are not lost?
Why wanders wretched thought their tombs around,
In infidel distress? Are angels there?
Slumbers, rak'd up in dust, ethereal fire?
They live! they greatly live a life on Earth
Unkindled, unconceiv'd; and from an eye
Of tenderness let heavenly pity fall

On me, more justly number'd with the dead.

This is the desert, this the solitude:
How populous, how vital, is the grave!
This is creation's melancholy vault,
The vale funereal, the sad cypress gloom;
The land of apparitions, empty shades!
All, all on Earth, is shadow, all beyond
Is substance; the reverse is folly's creed:
How solid all, where change shall be no more!
This is the bud of being, the dim dawn,
The twilight of our day, the vestibule :
Life's theatre as yet is shut, and Death,
Strong Death, alone can heave the massy bar,
This gross impediment of clay remove,
And make us embryos of existence free.
From real life, but little more remote
Is he, not yet a candidate for light,
The future embryo, slumbering in his sire.
Embryos we must be, till we burst the shell,
Yon ambient azure shell, and spring to life,
The life of gods, O transport! and of man.

Yet man, fool man! here buries all his thoughts;
Inters celestial hopes without one sigh.
Prisoner of Earth, and pent beneath the Moon,
Here pinions all his wishes; wing'd by Heaven
To fly at infinite; and reach it there,
Where seraphs gather immortality,

On life's fair tree, fast by the throne of God.
What golden joys ambrosial clustering glow,
In his full beam, and ripen for the just,
Where momentary ages are no more!

The baleful influence of whose giddy dance
Sheds sad vicissitude on all beneath.
Here teems with revolutions every hour;
And rarely for the better; or the best,
More mortal than the common births of fate.
Each moment has its sickle, emulous

Of Time's enormous scythe, whose ample sweep
Strikes empires from the root; each moment plays
His little weapon in the narrower sphere

Of sweet domestic comfort, and cuts down
The fairest bloom of sublunary bliss.

Bliss! sublunary bliss!—proud words, and vain! Implicit treason to divine decree!

A bold invasion of the rights of Heaven!

I clasp'd the phantoms, and I found them air.
O had I weigh'd it ere my fond embrace!
What darts of agony had miss'd my heart!

Death! great proprietor of all! 't is thine
To tread out empire, and to quench the stars.
The Sun himself by thy permission shines;
And, one day, thou shalt pluck him from his sphere.
Amid such mighty plunder, why exhaust
Thy partial quiver on a mark so mean?
Why thy peculiar rancour wreak'd on me?
Insatiate archer! could not one suffice?

Thy shaft flew thrice; and thrice my peace was slain;
And thrice, ere thrice yon Moon had fill'd her horn.
O Cynthia! why so pale? Dost thou lament
Thy wretched neighbour? Grieve to see thy wheel
Of ceaseless change outwhirl'd in human life?

Precarious courtesy ! not virtue's sure, Self-giving, solar ray of sound delight.

Where Time, and Pain, and Chance, and Death expire! How wanes my borrow'd bliss! from fortune's smile,
And is it in the flight of threescore years,
To push eternity from human thought,
And smother souls immortal in the dust?
A soul immortal, spending all her fires,
Wasting her strength in strenuous idleness,
Thrown into tumult, raptur'd or alarm'd,
At aught this scene can threaten or indulge,
Resembles ocean into tempest wrought,
To waft a feather, or to drown a fly.

Where falls this censure? It o'erwhelms myself;
How was my heart incrusted by the world!
O how self-fetter'd was my grovelling soul!
How, like a worm, was I wrapt round and round
In silken thought, which reptile Fancy spun,
Till darken'd Reason lay quite clouded o'er
With soft conceit of endless comfort here,
Nor yet put forth her wings to reach the skies!
Night-visions may befriend (as sung above ;)
Our waking dreams are fatal. How I dreamt
Of things impossible! (Could sleep do more?)
Of joys perpetual in perpetual change!
Of stable pleasures on the tossing wave!
Eternal sunshine in the storms of life!
How richly were my noon-tide trances hung
With gorgeous tapestries of pictur'd joys!
Joy behind joy, in endless perspective!
Till at Death's toll, whose restless iron tongue
Calls daily for his millions at a meal,
Starting I woke, and found myself undone.
Where now my phrenzy's pompous furniture?
The cobweb'd cottage, with its ragged wall
Of mouldering mud, is royalty to me!
The spider's most attenuated thread
Is cord, is cable, to man's tender tie

On earthly bliss! it breaks at every breeze.
O ye
blest scenes of permanent delight!
Full, above measure! lasting, beyond bound!
A perpetuity of bliss is bliss.

Could you, so rich in rapture, fear an end,
That ghastly thought would drink up all your joy,
And quite unparadise the realms of light.

Safe are you lodg'd above these rolling spheres ;

In every vary'd posture, place, and hour, How widow'd every thought of every joy! Thought, busy thought! too busy for my peace! Through the dark postern of time long elaps'd, Led softly, by the stillness of the night, Led, like a murderer, (and such it proves!) Strays (wretched rover!) o'er the pleasing past; In quest of wretchedness perversely strays; And finds all desert now; and meets the ghosts Of my departed joys; a numerous train! I rue the riches of my former fate; Sweet comfort's blasted clusters I lament; I tremble at the blessings once so dear; And every pleasure pains me to the heart.

Yet why complain? or why complain for one?
Hangs out the Sun his lustre but for me,
The single man? Are angels all beside?

I mourn for millions: 't is the common lot;
In this shape, or in that, as Fate entail'd
The mother's throes on all of woman born,
Not more the children, than sure heirs, of pain.
War, Famine, Pest, Volcano, Storm, and Fire,
Intestine broils, Oppression, with her heart
Wrapt up in triple brass, besiege mankind.
God's image disinherited of day,

Here, plung'd in mines, forgets a Sun was made.
There, beings deathless as their haughty lord,
Are hammer'd to the galling oar for life;
And plow the winter's wave, and reap despair.
Some, for hard masters, broken under arms,
In battle lopt away, with half their limbs,
Beg bitter bread through realms their valour sav'd,
If so the tyrant, or his minion, doom.
Want, and incurable Disease, (fell pair!)
On hopeless multitudes remorseless seize
At once; and make a refuge of the grave.
How groaning hospitals eject their dead!
What numbers groan for sad admission there!
What numbers, once in Fortune's lap high-fed,
Solicit the cold hand of Charity!

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