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Balder's head to death is given,

He nor heaps his brooded stores, Pain can reach the sons of Heaven !

Nor all profusely pours ; Unwilling I my lips unclose :

Lord of every regal art, Leave me, leave me, to repose.

Liberal hand, and open heart. 0. Once again my call obey,

Big with hosts of mighty name, Prophetess, arise, and say,

Squadrons three against bim came; What dangers Odin's child await,

Side by side as proudly riding,
Who the author of his fate?

On her shadow long and gay
Pr. In Hoder's hand the hero's doom :

Lochlin * plows the watery way:
His brother sends him to the tomb.

There the Norman sails afar Now my weary lips I close:

Catch the winds, and join the war; Leave me, leave me, to repose.

Black and huge along they sweep 0. Prophetess, my spell obey:

Burthens of the angry deep. Once again arise, and say,

Dauntless on his native sands Who th' avenger of his guilt,

The dragon-sont of Mona stands;
By whom shall Hoder's blood be spilt ?

This the force of Eirin hiding,
Pr. In the caverns of the west,

In glittering arms and glory drest,
By Odin's fierce embrace comprest,

High he rears his ruby crest. A wondrous boy shall Rinda bear,

There the thundering strokes begin, Who ne'er shall comb his raven-hair,

There the press, and there the din; Nor wash his visage in the stream,

Talymalfra's rocky shore Nor see the Sun's departing beam:

Echoing to the battle's roar, Till he on Hoder's corse shall smile

Where his glowing eye-balls turn, Flaming on the funeral pile.

Thousand banners round him burn. Now my weary lips I close :

Where he points his purple spear, Leave me, leave me, to repose.

Hasty, hasty rout is there, 0. Yet awhile my call obey,

Marking with indignant eye Prophetess, awake, and say,

Fear to stop, and shame to fly. What virgins these, in speechless woe,

There Confusion, Terrour's child, That bend to earth their solemn brow,

Conflict fierce, and Ruin wild, That their flaxen tresses tear,

Agony, that pants for breath,
And snowy veils that float in air.

Despair and honourable Death.
Tell me whence their sorrows rose :
Then I leave thee to repose.
Pr. Ha! no traveller art thou,

EPITAPH ON MRS. MARY CLARKE. King of Men, I know thee now,

Lo! where this silent marble weeps, Mightiest of a mighty line.

A friend, a wife, a mother sleeps; 0. No boding maid of skill divine

A heart, within whose sacred cell Art thou, nor prophetess of good;

The peaceful Virtues lov'd to dwell :
But mother of the giant-brood !

Affection warm, and faith sincere,
Pr. Hie thee hence, and boast at home,

And soft humanity were there.
That never shall inquirer come

In agony, in death, resign'd, To break my iron-sleep again;

She felt the wounds she left behind. Till Lok * has burst his ten-fold chain.

Her infant image here below, Never, till substantial Night

Sits smiling on a father's woe, Has re-assum'd her ancient right;

Whom what awaits while yet he strays Till wrapp'd in flames, in ruin hurld,

Along the lonely vale of days?
Sinks the fabric of the world.

A pang, to secret sorrow dear,
A sigh, an unavailing tear,

Till time shall every grief remove,
THE TRIUMPHS OF OWEN. +

With life, with mem'ry, and with love.
A FRAGMENT.
From Mr. Evans's Specimens of the Welsh Poetry;
London, 1764, quarto.

GRAY OF HIMSELF.
OWEN's praise demands my song,

Too poor for a bribe, and too proud for importune,
Owen swift, and Owen strong;

He had not the method of making a fortune;
Fairest flower of Roderic's stem,

Could love and could hate, so 'twas thought some
Gwyneth's f shield, and Britain's gem.

thing odd;

No very great wit, he believ'd in a God: * Lok is the evil being, who continues in chains till the twi

A post or a pension he did not desire, light of the gods approaches, when he shall break his bonds;

But left church and state to Charles Townshend and the human race, the stars, and Sun, shall disappear ; the earth sink in the seas, and fire consume the skies: even Odin himself

Squire. and his kindred deities shall perish. For a further explanation of this mythology, see Mallet's Introduction to the History * Denmark. of Denmark, 1755, quarto.

+ The red dragon is the device of Cadwallader, which all + Owen succeeded his father Griffin in the principality of his descendants bore on their banners. North Wales, A. D. 112. This battle was fought near forty This lady, the wife of Dr. Clarke, physician at Epsom, years afterwards.

died April 27th, 1757, and is buried in the church of BeckenNorth Wales.

ham, Kent.

YOUNG'S NIGHT-THOUGHTS.

THE LIFE OF DR. EDWARD YOUNG.

EDWARD YOUNG, LL. D. author of the Night | his life, his very desire of it seemed to be laid aside; Thoughts, and many other excellent pieces, was the for in his Night Thoughts, he observes, that there was only son of Dr. Edward Young, an eminent, learned, one (meaning himself) in Britain born, with courtiers and judicious divine; Dean of Sarum, Fellow of Win. bred, who thought even wealth might come a day too chester College, and Rector of Upham, in Hampshire. late; however, upon the death of Dr. Hales in 1761, He was born in the year 1684, at Upham, and after he was made Clerk of the Closet to the Princess being educated at Winchester College, was chosen on Dowager of Wales. the foundation of New College at Oxford, October 13, About the year 1741, he had the unhappiness to lose 1703, when he was nineteen years of age; but, being his wife, and both her children, which she had by her disqualified on account of his youth, and there being first husband, a son and daughter, very promising no vacancy of a fellowship, he removed before the characters. They all died within a short time of each expiration of the year to Corpus Christi, where he other. That be felt greatly for their loss, as well as entered himself a Gentleman Commoner.

for that of his Lady, may easily be perceived by his In 1708, he was put into a law fellowship, at All fine poem of the Night Thoughts, occasioned by it. Souls, by Archbishop Tennison. Here he took the This was a species of poetry peculiarly his own, and degree of B.C.L. in 1714, and in 1719, D. C. L. In has been unrivalled by all who have attempted to this year he published his Tragedy of Busiris; in copy him. His applause here was deservedly great. 1721, the Revenge ; and in 1723, the Brothers ; | The unhappy bard, “ whose grief in melting numbers about this time he published his elegant Poem on flow, and melancholy joys diffuse around,” has been the Last Day; which, being wrote by a Layman, often sung by the profane as well as pious. They gave the more satisfaction. He soon after published were written, as before observed, under the recent the Force of Religion, or Vanquish'd Love, a poem ; pressure of his sorrow for the loss of his wife, his which also gave much pleasure to most who read it; daughter, and son-in-law. They are addressed to Lobut more especially to the noble family for whose en renzo, a man of pleasure and the world, and who, it is tertainment it was principally written. Some charge generally supposed (and very probably) was his own the author with a stiffness of versification in both

son, then labouring under his father's displeasure. His these poems; but they met with such success as to son-in-law is said to be characterized by Philander ; procure him the particular friendship of several of the and his daughter was certainly the person he speaks nobility, and among the rest, the patronage of the of under the appellation of Narcissa. See Night III. Duke of Wharton; which greatly helped him in his 1. 62. In her last illness, he accompanied her to Montfinances. By his Grace's recommendation he put up pelier, in the South of France, where she died soon for member of parliament for Cirencester; but did not after her arrival in that city. succeed. His noble patron honoured him with his After her death, it seems she was denied Christian company to All Souls, and, through his instance and burial,* on account of being reckoned a Heretic, by persuasion, was at the expense of erecting a consi. the inhabitants of the place; which inhumanity is derable part of the new buildings then carrying on in justly resented in the same beautiful poem.

See that college. The turn of his mind leading him to Night III. 1. 165; in which his wife also is frequently divinity, he quitted the law, which he had never prac. mentioned ; and he thus laments the loss of all three, tised; and taking orders, was appointed chaplain in in an apostrophe to death : ordinary to King George II. April, 1728.

In that year he published a Vindication of Provi " Insatiate archer! could not one suffice! dence, in quarto; and, soon after, his Estimate of

Thy shaft flew thrice, and thrice my peace was slain; Human Life, in the same size : which are thought by

And thrice, ere thrice yon moon had fill'a her horu." many to be the best of his prose performances. In He wrote his Conjectures on Original Composi1730, he was presented by bis college to the rectory tion when he was turned of eighty. If it has bleof Welwyn, in Hertfordshire, reputed worth 3001. a

mishes mixed with its beauties, it is not to be wonyear, besides the lordship of the manor annexed to it. dered at, when we consider his great age, and the He was married in 1731, to Lady Betty Lee, widow many infirmities which generally attend such an adof Colonel Lee, and daughter to the Earl of Litchfield; vanced period of life. However, the many excellent (a lady of an eminent genius, and great poetical talents) remarks this work abounds with, make it justly who brought him a son and heir not long after their esteemed as a brightening before death. The Resig

nation, a poem, the last, and the least esteemed of Though always in high esteem with many of the all Dr. Young's works, was published a short time first rank, he never rose to great preferment. He was a favourite of the Prince of Wales, his late Majesty's * The priests refusing the Doctor leave to bury his daughfather, and for some years before his death was a ter in one of their church-yards, he was obliged, with the pretty constant attendant at court; but upon the

assistance of his servant, to dig a grave in a field near Mont

pelier, where they deposited the body, without the help of Prince's decease, all his hopes of farther rising in the any of the inhabitants, who consider Protestants in the same church were at an end; and towards the latter part of light as they do brutes.

marriage.

son.

before his death; and only served to manifest the Yet, notwithstanding this gloominess of temper, he laper of genius (which had so long shone with pecu was fond of innocent sports and amusements. He in. liar brightness in him) was now glimmering in the stituted an assembly and a bowling-green in bis parish; socket. He died in his parsonage-house, at Welwyn, and often promoted the mirth of the company in

perApril 12, 1765, and was buried, according to his own His wit was ever poignant, and always levelled desire (attended by all the poor of the parish) under at those who showed any contempt for decency and the altar-piece of that church, by the side of his wife.* religion. His Epigram spoken extempore upon Vol. This altar-piece is reckoned one of the most curious taire, is well known. Voltaire happening to ridicule in the kingdom, being adorned with an elegant piece Milton's allegorical personages of Death and Sin, of needle work, by the Lady Betty Young.

Dr. Young thus addressed him :Before the Doctor died, he ordered all his manu

Thou art so witty, profligate, and thin, scripts to be burnt; those that knew how much he

Thou seem'st a Milton with his Death and Sin. expressed in a small compass, and that he never wrote

As to his character as a poet, his composition was on trivial subjects, will lament both the excess of

instinct in his youth, with as much vanity as was nehis modesty (if I may so term it) and the irreparable loss to posterity; especially when it is considered, cessary to excel in that art. . He published a collec

tion of such of his works as he thought the best, in that he was the intimate acquaintance of Addison; and was himself one of the writers of the Spectators.

1761, in four volumes duodecimo; and another was In his life-time he published two or three Sermons, published since. Among these, his Satires, intituled, one of which was preached before the House of Com- the Love of Fame, or, the Universal Passion, are mons.--He left an only son and heir, Mr. Frederick by most considered as his principal performance. Young, who had the first part of his education at Win- They are finely characteristic of thai excessive pride, chester school, and becoming a scholar upon the

or rather folly, of following prevailing fashions, and foundation, was sent, in consequence thereof, to New aiming to be more than we really are, or can possibly College in Oxford; but there being no vacancy

be. They were written in early life; and if smooth(though the society waited for one no less than two

ness of style, brilliancy of wit, and simplicity of subyears) he was admitted in the mean time in Baliol ject, can ensure applause, our author may demand it

on this occasion. College ; where he behaved so imprudently as to be forbidden the college. This misconduct disobliged

After the death of his wife, as he had never given his father so much, that he never would suffer him to

any attention to domestic affairs, so knowing his uncome into his sight afterwards: however, by his will, fitness for it, he referred the whole care and managehe bequeathed to him, after a few legacies, his whole

ment of his family to his housekeeper; to whom be

left a handsome legacy. fortune, which was considerable. As a Christian and Divine, he might be said to be

It is observed by Dean Swift, that if Dr. Young, in

his Satires, had been more merry or severe, they an example of primeval piety; he gave a remarkable

would have been more generally pleasing ; because instance of this one Sunday, when preaching in his turn at St. James's ; for though he strove to gain the

mankind are more apt to be pleased with ill-nature attention of his audience, when he found he could not

and mirth, than with solid sense and instruction. It is prevail, his pity for their folly got the better of all

also observed of his Night Thoughts, that though they decorum: he sat back in the pulpit, and burst into a

are chiefly flights of thinking almost super-human; flood of tears.

such as the description of Death, from his secret stand, The turn of his mind was naturally solemn; and he noting down the follies of a Bacchanalian Society; usually, when at home in the country, spent many issuing of Satan from his dungeon; yet these, and a

the Epitaph upon the Departed World; and the hours in a day walking among the tombs in his own church-yard. His conversation, as well as writings, great number of other remarkably fine thoughts, are had all a reference to a future life; and this turn of

sometimes overcast with an air of gloominess and mind mixed itself even with his improvements in melancholy, which have a disagreeable tendency, and gardening: he had, for instance, an alcove with a

must be unpleasing to a cheerful mind; however, it bench so well painted in it, that at a distance it must be acknowledged by all, that they evidence a seemed to be real; but upon a nearer approach, the singular genius, a lively fancy, an extensive knowdeception was perceived, and this motto appeared :

ledge of men and things, especially of the feelings of

the human heart; and paint, in the strongest colours, INVISIBILIA NON DECIPIUNT.

the vanity of life, with all its fading honours and The things unseen do not deceive us.

emoluments, the benefits of true piety, especially in

the views of death, and the most nnanswerable argu* The bell did not toll at his funeral, nor was any person

ments in support of the soul's immortality, and a allowed to be in mourning.

future state.

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93

THE COMPLAINT; or, NIGHT-THOUGHTS.

Night the first.

ON LIFE, DEATH, AND IMMORTALITY.

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

Tie'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 sansbine 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;

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 poord 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 extremnes !
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!
Whất 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 Hurld 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, unconceivd; and from an eye
Of tenderness let heavenly pity fall
On me, more justly number'd with the dead.

The

This is the desert, this the solitude:

The baleful influence of whose giddy dance How populous, how vital, is the grave!

Sheds sad vicissitude on all beneath. This is creation's melancholy vault,

Here teems with revolutions every hour; The vale funereal, the sad cypress gloom;

And rarely for the better ; or the best, The land of apparitions, empty shades!

More mortal than the common births of fate. All, all on Earth, is shadow, all beyond

Each moment has its sickle, emulous Is substance; the reverse is folly's creed :

Of Time's enormous scythe, whose ample sweep How solid all, where change shall be no more ! Strikes empires from the root; each moment plays This is the bud of being, the dim dawn,

His little weapon in the narrower sphere The twilight of our day, the vestibule :

Of sweet domestic comfort, and cuts down Life's theatre as yet is shut, and Death,

The fairest bloom of sublunary bliss. Strong Death, alone can beave the massy bar,

Bliss ! sublunary bliss !-proud words, and vain ! This gross impediment of clay remove,

Implicit treason to divine decree! And make us embryos of existence free.

A bold invasion of the rights of Heaven! From real life, but little more remote

I clasp'd the phantoms, and I found them air. Is he, not yet a candidate for light,

O had I weigh'd it ere my fond embrace! The future embryo, slumbering in his sire.

What darts of agony had miss'd my heart! Embryos we must be, till we burst the shell,

Death! great proprietor of all! 't is thine Yon ambient azare shell, and spring to life,

To tread out empire, and to quench the stars. The life of gods, O transport ! and of man.

The Sun himself by thy permission shines; Yet man, fool man! here buries all his thoughts;

And, one day, thou shalt pluck him from his sphere. Inters celestial hopes without one sigh.

Amid such mighty plunder, why exhaust Prisoner of Earth, and pent beneath the Moon,

Thy partial quiver on a mark so mean? Here pinions all his wishes; wing’d by Heaven

Why thy peculiar rancour wreak'd on me? To fly at infinite; and reach it there,

Insatiate archer! could not one suffice? Where seraphs gather immortality,

Thy shaft flew thrice; and thrice my peace was slain; On life's fair tree, fast by the throne of God.

And thrice, ere thrice yon Moon had fill'd her horn. What golden joys ambrosial clustering glow,

O Cynthia! why so pale? Dost thou lament In his full beam, and ripen for the just,

Thy wretched neighbour ? Grieve to see thy wheel Where momentary ages are no more ! Where Time, and Pain, and Chance, and Death expire! How wanes my borrow'd bliss! from fortune's smile,

Of ceaseless change outwhirl'd in human life 3 And is it in the flight of threescore years,

Precarious courtesy ! not virtue's sure, To push eternity from human thought,

Self-giving, solar ray of sound delight. And smother souls immortal in the dust?

In every vary'd posture, place, and hour, A soul immortal, spending all her fires,

How widow'd every thought of every joy! Wasting her strength in strenuous idleness,

Thought, busy thought! too busy for my peace! Thrown into tumult, raptur'd or alarm’d,

Through the dark postern of time long elaps'd, At aught this scene can threaten or indulge,

Led softly, by the stillness of the night, Resembles ocean into tempest wrought,

Led, like a murderer, (and such it proves!) To waft a feather, or to drown a fly.

Strays (wretched rover!) o'er the pleasing past; Where falls this censure? It o'erwhelms myself ;

In quest of wretchedness perversely strays; How was my heart incrusted by the world!

And finds all desert now; and meets the ghosts O how self-fetter'd was my grovelling soul!

Of my departed joys; a numerous train! How, like a worm, was I wrapt round and round

I rue the riches of my former fate; In silken thought, which reptile Fancy spun,

Sweet comfort's blasted clusters I lament; Till darken'd Reason lay quite clouded o'er

I tremble at the blessings once so dear ; With soft concert of endless comfort here,

And every pleasure pains me to the heart. Nor yet put forth her wings to reach the skies !

Yet why complain? or why complain for one ? Night-visions may befriend (as sung above ;)

Hangs out the San his lustre but for me, Our waking dreams are fatal. How I dreamt

The single man? Are angels all beside ? Of things impossible! (Could sleep do more?)

I mourn for millions : 't is the common lot; Of joys perpetual in perpetual change!

In this shape, or in that, as Fate entailid Of stable pleasures on the tossing wave!

The mother's throes on all of woman born, Eternal sunshine in the storms of life!

Not more the children, than sure heirs, of pain. How richly were my noon-tide trances hung

War, Famine, Pest, Volcano, Storm, and Fire, With gorgeous tapestries of pictur'd joys!

Intestine broils, Oppression, with her heart Joy behind joy, in endless perspective!

Wrapt up in triple brass, besiege mankind. Till at Death's toll, whose restless iron tongue

God's image disinherited of day, Calls daily for his millions at a meal,

Here, plung'd in mines, forgets a Sun was made. Starting I woke, and found myself undone.

There, beings deathless as their haughty lord,
Where now my phrenzy's pompous furniture? Are hammer'd to the galling oar for life;
The cobweb'd cottage, with its ragged wall

And plow the winter's wave, and reap despair.
Of mouldering mud, is royalty to me!

Some, for hard masters, broken under arms, The spider's most attenuated thread

In battle lopt away, with half their limbs, Is cord, is cable, to man's tender tie

Beg bitter bread through realms their valour sav'd, On earthly bliss ! it breaks at every breeze.

If so the tyrant, or his minion, doom. O ye blest scenes of permanent delight !

Want, and incurable Disease, (fell pair!) Full, above measure! lasting, beyond bound !

On hopeless multitudes remorseless seize A perpetuity of bliss is bliss.

At once; and make a refuge of the grave. Could you, so rich in rapture, fear an end,

How groaning hospitals eject their dead! That ghastly thought would drink up all your joy, What nambers groan for sad admission there ! And quite noparadise the realms of light.

What numbers, once in Fortune's lap high-fed, Safe are you lodg'd above these rolling spheres ; Solicit the cold hand of Charity!

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