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YOUNG—A. D. 1681–1765.

ON THE BEING OF A GOD.

Retire;—the world shut out; thy thoughts call Imagination's airy wing repress;– [home:— Lock up thy senses;–let no passion stir;— Wake all to reason:—let her reign alone; Then, in thy soul's deep silence, and the depth Of nature's silence, midnight, thus inquire, As I have done; and shall inquire no more. In nature's channel thus the questions run. “What am I? and from whence?—I nothing But that I am; and, since I am, conclude [know, Something eternal: had there e'er been nought, Nought still had been: eternal there must be.— But what eternal?—Why not human race? And Adam's ancestors without an end ?— That's hard to be conceiv'd; since every link Of that long-chain'd succession is so frail; Can every part depend, and not the whole? Yet grant it true; new difficulties rise; I'm still quite out at sea: nor see the shore. Whence earth, and these bright orbs?—Eternal too? Grant matter was eternal; still these orbs Would want some other father;-much design Is seen in all their motions, all their makes; Design implies intelligence, and art; That can't be from themselves—or man: that art Man scarce can comprehend, could man bestow And nothing greater yet allow'd than man— Who, motion, foreign to the smallest grain, Shot through vast masses of enormous weight? Who bid brute matter's restive lump assume Such various forms, and gave it wings to fly? Has matter innate motion then each atom, Asserting its indisputable right To dance, would form an universe of dust: }Has matter none? Then whence these glorious forms And boundless flights, from shapeless, and repos'd? Has matter more than motion? has it thought, Judgment, and genius is it deeply learn'd In mathematics? Has it fram'd such laws, Which but to guess a Newton made immortal?— : If so, how each sage atom laughs at me, ‘Who think a clod inferior to a man! If art to form; and counsel to conduct; And that with greater far, than human skill; Resides not in each block;—a Godhead reigns.— Grant then invisible eternal, mind; That granted, all is solv’d—But, granting that, Draw I not o'er me a still darker cloud: Grant I not that which I can ne'er conceive? A being without origin, or end l— Hail, human liberty l There is no God– Yet, why? on either scheme that knot subsists;

Subsist it must, in God, or human race:
If in the last, how many knots beside,
Indissoluble all?—Why choose it there,
Where, chosen, still subsist ten thousand more?
Reject it, where, that chosen, all the rest
Dispers'd leave reason's whole horizon clear?
This is not reason's dictate, reason says;
Close with the side where one grain turns the scale;
What vast preponderance is here! can reason
With louder voice exclaim—Believe a God?
And reason heard, is the sole mark of man.
What things impossible must man think true,
On any other systems and how strange
To disbelieve, through mere credulity 1"
If in this chain Lorenzo finds no flaw,
Let it for ever bind him to belief.
And where the link, in which a flaw he finds?
And, if a God there is, that God how great!

AGAINST PROCRASTINATION.

Be wise to-day; 'tis madness to defer;
Next day the fatal precedent will plead;
Thus on, till wisdom is push'd out of life.
Procrastination is the thief of time;
Year after year it steals, till all are fled,
And to the mercics of a moment leaves
The vast concerns of an eternal scene.
If not so frequent, would not this be strange?
That 'tis so frequent, this is stranger still.
Of man’s miraculous mistakes, this bears
The palm, That all men are about to live,
For ever on the brink of being born.
All pay themselves the compliment to think
They one day shall not drivel; and their pride
On this reversion takes up ready praise,
At least their own: their future selves applaud;
How excellent that life they ne'er will lead!
Time lodg'd in their own hands is folly's vails;
That lodg’d in fates, to wisdom they consign;
The thing they can't but purpose, they postpone;
"Tis not in folly, not to scorn a fool;
And scarce in human wisdom, to do more.
All promise is poor dilatory man,
And that through every stage: when young, in-
In full content we, sometimes, nobly rest,
Unanxious for ourselves; and only wish,
As duteous sons, our fathers were more wise.
At thirty man suspects himself a fool;
Knows it at forty, and reforms his plan;
At fifty chides his infamous delay,
Pushes his prudent purpose to resolve;
In all the magnanimity of thought
Resolves; and re-resolves; then dies the same.

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Wisdom, in sable garb array'd,
Immers'd in rapturous thought profound,
And melancholy, silent maid,
With leaden eye, that loves the ground,
Still on thy solemn steps attend:
Warm charity, the general friend,
With justice, to herself severe,
And pity, dropping soft the sadly-pleasing tear.
Oh, gently on thy suppliant's head,
Dread goddess, lay thy chastening hand!
Not in thy gorgon terrors clad,
Nor circled with the vengeful band
(As by the impious thou art seen)
With thundering voice, and threatening mien,
With screaming horror's funeral cry,
Despair, and fell disease, and ghastly poverty.
Thy form benign, O goddess, wear,
Thy milder influence impart,
Thy philosophic train be there
To soften, not to wound my heart.
The generous spark extinct revive,
Teach me to love and to forgive,
Exact my own defects to scan,
What others are to feel, and know myself a man.

ELEGF WRITTEN IN A country church-YARD.

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, *lowing herds wind slowly o'er theiea,

The plowman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;

Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower. The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such as, wandering near her secret bower, Molest her ancient solitary reign.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew tree's shade.
Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering her,
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,
The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing morm,
The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed,
The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or busy housewife ply her evening care:
No children run to lisp their sire's return,
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,
Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke;
How jocund did they drive their team afield!
How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdystroke

"Let not ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor;

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth eer gave,
Await alike the inevitable hour;
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,
If memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, [vault.
Where through the long drawn aisle, and fretted
The peeling anthem swells the note of praise.

Can storied urn or animated bust
Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath
Can honour's voice provoke the silent dust,
Or flattery soothe the dull cold ear of death?

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid
Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;
Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway’d,
Or wak'd to ecstacy the living lyre.

But knowledge to their eyes her ample page,
Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll;
Chill penury repress'd their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of the soul.

•Full many a gem of purest ray serene
The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear:

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Thee the voice, the dance, obey, Temper'd to thy warbled lay. O'er Idalia's velvet-green The rosy-crowned loves are seen, On Cytherea's day, With antic sports, and blue-ey'd pleasures, Frisking light in frolic measures; Now pursuing, now retreating, Now in circling troops they meet: To brisk notes in cadence beating, Glance their many-twinkling feet. Slow meltingstrains their queen's approach declare: Where'er she turns, the graces homage pay. With arms sublime, that float upon the air, In gliding state she wins her easy way: O'er her warm cheek, and rising bosom, move The bloom of young desire, and purple light of love.

Man's feeble race what ills await, Labour, and penury, the racks of pain, Disease, and sorrow's weeping train, And death, sad refuge from the storms of fate! The fond complaint, my song, disprove, And justify the laws of Jove. Say, has he given in vain the heavenly Muse? Night, and all her sickly dews, Her spectres wan, and birds of boding cry, He gives to range the dreary sky; Till down the eastern cliffs afar Hyperion's march they spy, and glittering shafts of

War.

In climes beyond the solar road, Where shaggy forms o'er ice-built mountains roam, The Muse has broke the twilight-gloom, To cheer the shivering native's dull abode. And oft, beneath the odorous shade Of Chili's boundless forests laid, She deigns to hear the savage youth repeat, In loose numbers wildly sweet, Their feather-cinctur'd chiefs, and dusky loves. Her track, where'er the goddess roves, Glory pursues, and generous shame, Th'unconquerable mind, and freedom's holy flame.

Woods, that wave o'er Delphi's steep, Isles, that crown th’ AF;ean deep, Fields, that cool Ilissus laves, Or where Maeander's amber waves In lingering labyrinths creep, How do your tuneful echoes languish Mute, but to the voice of anguish : Where each old poetic mountain Inspiration breath'd around; Every shade and hallow'd fountain Murmur'd deep a solemn sound: Till the sad Nine, in Greece's evil hour, Left their Parnassus for the Latian plains. Alike they scorn the pomp of tyrant power, And coward vice that revels in her chains. When Latium had her lofty spirit lost, They sought, oh Albion; next thy sea-encircled

Coast.

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