by the side of his wife. By his own desire, he was followed by all the poor of the parish, without any tolling of the bells, or any person appearing at his funeral in mourning. He had caused all his manuscripts to be destroyed before his death. He left the whole of his fortune, which was pretty considerable, with the exception of a few legacies, to his son, Mr. Frederic Young, though he would never see him in his lifetime, owing to his displeasure at his imprudent conduct at college, for which he had been expelled. His character was that of the true Christian Divine; his heart was in his profession. It is reported, that, once preaching in his turn at St. James's, and being unable to gain attention, he sat down, and burst into tears. His conversation was of the same nature as his works, and showed a solemn cast of thought to be natural to him: death, futurity, judgment, eternity, were his common topics. When at home in the country, he spent many hours in the day walking among the graves in the church-yard. In his garden he had an alcove, painted as if with a bench to repose on; on approaching near enough to discover the deception, the following motto was seen: Invisibilia non decipiunt." 'The unseen things do not deceive us." In his poem of the Last Day, one of his earliest works, he calls his muse 'the Melancholy Maid, whom dismal scenes delight, • Frequent at tombs, and in the realms of night.' Grafton is said by Spence to have made him a present of a human skull, with a candle in it, to serve him for a lamp; and he is reported to have used it. Yet he promoted an assembly and bowling green in his parish, and often attended them. He would indulge in occasional sallies of wit, of which his wellknown epigram on Voltaire* is a specimen; but *Thou art so witty, profligate, and thin, Thou seem'st a Milton with his Death and Sin. perhaps there was more of indignation than pleasantry in it, as his satire was ever pointed against indecency and irreligion. His satires, entitled the Love of Fame, or the Universal Passion, is a great performance. The shafts of his wit are directed against the folly of being devoted to the fashion, We meet and aiming to appear what we are not. here with smoothness of style, pointed sentences, solid sentiments, and the sharpness of resistless truth. The Night Thoughts abound in the most exalted flights, the utmost stretch of human thought, which is the great excellence of Young's poetry. In his Night Thoughts,' says a great critic, he has exhibited a very wide display of original poetry, variegated with deep reflections and striking allusions, a wilderness of thought, in which the fertility of fancy scatters flowers of every hue and of every odour.' It must be allowed, however, that many of these fine thoughts are overcast with the gloom of melancholy, so as to have an effect rather to be dreaded by minds of a morbid hue: they paint, notwithstanding, with the most lively fancy, the feelings of the heart, the vanity of human things, its fleeting honours and enjoyments, and contain the strongest arguments in support of the immortality of the soul. THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT I. -000 ON LIFE DEATH, AND IMMORTALITY. To the Right Honourable Arthur Onslow, Esq. Speaker of the House of Commons. TIRED Nature's sweet restorer, balmy Sleep! He, like the world, his ready visit pays Where fortune smiles; the wretched he forsakes: From short (as usual) and disturb'd repose Tumultuous; where my wreck'd desponding thought From wave to wave of fancied misery 11 At random drove, her helm of reason lost : Though now restored, 'tis only change of pain, (A bitter change!) severer for severe. The day too short for my distress; and night, 15 Is sunshine to the colour of my fate. In rayless majesty, now stretches forth Night, sable goddess! from her ebon throne, 20 Her leaden sceptre o'er a slumb'ring world. And let her prophecy be soon fulfill'd: Fate! drop the curtain; I can lose no more. 25 30 From ancient Night, who nurse the tender thought The grave your kingdom: there this frame shall fall But what are ye? Thou, who didst put to flight Primeval Silence, when the morning stars, Exulting, shouted o'er the rising ball; 35 O Thou, whose word from solid darkness struck Through this opaque of nature and of soul, 45 50 The bell strikes one. We take no note of time 55 But from its loss: to give it then a tongue Is wise in man. 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 despatch: 61 How much is to be done! My hopes and fears Start up alarm'd, and o'er life's narrow verge 65 Look down-on what? A fathomless abyss; 70 Poor pensioner on the bounties of an hour? And in myself am lost. At home, a stranger, What can preserve my life? or what destroy? 75 80 85 |