NIGHT THOUGHTS.

BY DR. YOUNG.

These feem to be the beft of the collection; from whence only the two first are taken. They are spoken of differently, either with exaggerated applause or contempt, as the reader's difpofition is either turned to mirth or melancholy.

NIGHT THE FIRST.

ON

LIFE, DEATH, AND IMMORTALITY.

IR'D Nature's fweet reftorer, balmy Sleep!

THe, like the world, his ready vifit pays

Where Fortune fmiles; the wretched he forfakes:
Swift on his downy pinions flies from woe,
And lights on lids unfully'd with a tear.

From fhort (as ufual) and disturb'd repose,
I wake: how happy they, who wake no more!
Yet that were vain, if dreams infeft the grave,
I wake, emerging from a fea of dreams

Tumultuous; where my wreck'd desponding thought,
From wave to wave of fancy'd misery,

At random drove, her helm of Reafon loft:

Tho'

Tho' now reftor'd, 'tis only change of pain,
(A bitter change!) feverer for severe,

The Day too fhort for my diftrefs; and Night,
Ev'n in the zenith of her dark domain,
Is funfhine, to the colour of my fate.
Night, fable goddefs! from her ebon throne,
In raylefs majefly, now ftretches forth
Her leaden fceptre o'er a flumb'ring world.
Silence, how dead! and Darkness, how profound!
Nor eye, nor lift'ning ear, an object finds;
Creation fleeps. 'Tis as the gen'ral pulfe
Of Life flood ftill, and Nature made a paufe ;
An awful pause! prophetic of her end.
And let her prophecy be foon fulfill'd:

Fate! drop the curtain: I can lose no more.
Silence and Darkness! folemn fifters! twins
From antient Night, who nurse the tender thought
To Reason, and on Reafon build Refolve,

(That column of true majesty in man)
Affift me: I will thank you in the grave;

The grave, your kingdom: there this frame fhall fall A victim facred to your dreary fhrine.

But what are ye ?

Thou, who didft put to flight

Primæval Silence, when the morning stars,
Exulting, fhouted o'er the rifing ball:

O thou, whofe word from folid Darkness ftruck
That spark, the fun, ftrike wisdom from my foul;
My foul, which flies to thee, her truft, her treasure,
As mifers to their gold, while others reft.

Thro❜

Thro' this opaque of Nature, and of Soul, This double night, tranfmit one pitying ray, To lighten, and to chear. O lead my mind, (A mind that fain would wander from its woe) Lead it thro' various fcenes of life and death; And, from each scene, the noblest truths infpire. Nor less infpire my conduct than my fong; Teach my best reafon, reafon; my best will Teach rectitude; and fix my firm refolve 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 ftrikes One. We take no note of time, But from its lofs. To give it, then, a tongue, Is wife in man. As if an an angel fpoke, I feel the folemn found. If heard aright, It is the knell of my departed hours:

Where are they? With the years beyond the flood.
It is the fignal that demands difpatch:

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 abyfs;
A dread eternity! How furely mine!
And can eternity belong to me,

Poor penfioner on the bounties of an hour?
How poor, how rich, how abject, how auguft,
How complicate, how wonderful, is man?
How paffing wonder He, who made him fuch?
Who centred in our make such strange extremes?
From diff'rent natures, marvelously mixt,

VOL. II.

F

Connexion

Connexion exquifite, of diftant worlds!
Diftinguisht link in Being's endless chain!
Midway from Nothing to the Deity!
A beam ethereal, fully'd, and absorpt!
Tho' fully'd, and dishonour'd, still divine!
Dim miniature of greatness absolute!
An heir of glory! A frail child of duft!
Helpless immortal! Infect infinite!

A worm! a God!I tremble at myself,
And in myself am loft! At home, a stranger;
Thought wanders up and down, furpriz'd, aghaft,
And wond'ring at her own: how Reason reels!
O what a miracle to man is man,

Triumphantly diftrefs'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.

"Tis past conjecture; all things rise in proof : While o'er my limbs Sleep's foft dominion fpread, What tho' my foul phantaftic measures trod O'er fairy fields; or mourn'd along the gloom Of pathlefs woods; or down the craggy steep Hurl'd headlong, swam with pain the mantled pool; Or fcal'd the cliff; or danc'd on hollow winds, With antic shapes, wild natives of the brain? Her ceaseless flight, tho' devious, speaks her nature, Of subtler effence than the trodden clod; Active, aërial, tow'ring, unconfin'd, Unfetter'd with her grofs companion's fall.