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A port of calms, a state to ease
From the rough rage of swelling seas."
Why then thy flowing sable stoles,
Deep pendent cypress, mourning poles,
Loose scarfs to fall athwart thy weeds,
Long palls, drawn hearses, cover'd steeds,
And plumes of black, that, as they tread,
Nod o'er the escutcheons of the dead?
Nor can the parted body know,
Nor wants the soul these forms of woe;
As men who long in prison dwell,
With lamps that glimmer round the cell,
Whene'er their suffering years are run,
Spring forth to greet the glittering Sun:
Such joy, though far transcending sense,
Have pious souls at parting hence.
On Earth, and in the body plac'd,
A few, and evil years, they waste:
But when their chains are cast aside,
See the glad scene unfolding wide,
Clap the glad wing, and tower away,
And mingle with the blaze of day.

THE HERMIT.

FAR in a wild, unknown to public view,
From youth to age a reverend hermit grew;
The moss his bed, the cave his humble cell,
His food the fruits, his drink the crystal well:
Remote from men, with God he pass'd the days,
Prayer all his business, all his pleasure praise.

A life so sacred, such serene repose,
Seem'd Heaven itself, till one suggestion rose;
That Vice should triumph, Virtue, Vice obey,
This sprung some doubt of Providence's sway:
His hopes no more a certain prospect boast,
And all the tenor of his soul is lost:
So when a smooth expanse receives imprest
Calm Nature's image on its watery breast,
Down bend the banks, the trees depending grow,
And skies beneath with answering colors glow:
But if a stone the gentle sea divide,
Swift ruffling circles curl on every side,
And glimmering fragments of a broken Sun,
Banks, trees, and skies, in thick disorder run.
To clear this doubt, to know the world by sight,
To find if books, or swains, report it right,
(For yet by swains alone the world he knew,
Whose feet came wandering o'er the nightly dew)
He quits his cell; the pilgrim-staff he bore,
And fix'd the scallop in his hat before;
Then with the Sun a rising journey went,
Sedate to think, and watching each event.

The morn was wasted in the pathless grass,
And long and lonesome was the wild to pass;
But when the southern Sun had warm'd the day,
A youth came posting o'er a crossing way;
His raiment decent, his complexion fair,
And soft in graceful ringlets way'd his hair.
Then near approaching, "Father, hail!" he cried,
"And hail, my son," the reverend sire replied;
Words follow'd words, from question answer flow'd,
And talk of various kind deceiv'd the road;
Till each with other pleas'd, and loth to part,
While in their age they differ, join in heart.
Thus stands an aged elm in ivy bound,
Thus youthful ivy clasps an elm around.

Now sunk the Sun; the closing hour of day
Came onward, mantled o'er with sober grey;
Nature in silence bid the world repose;

When near the road a stately palace rose :
There by the Moon through ranks of trees they pass
Whose verdure crown'd their sloping sides of grass.
It chanc'd the noble master of the dome
Still made his house the wandering stranger's home:
Yet still the kindness, from a thirst of praise,
Prov'd the vain flourish of expensive ease.
The pair arrive: the liv'ried servants wait;
Their lord receives them at the pompous gate.
The table groans with costly piles of food.
And all is more than hospitably good.
Then led to rest, the day's long toil they drown,
Deep sunk in sleep, and silk, and heaps of down.
At length 'tis morn, and at the dawn of day,
Along the wide canals the zephyrs play:
Fresh o'er the gay parterres the breezes creep,
And shake the neighboring wood to banish sleep.
Up rise the guests, obedient to the call:
An early banquet deck'd the splendid hall;
Rich luscious wine a golden goblet grac'd,
Which the kind master forc'd the guests to taste.
Then, pleas'd and thankful, from the porch they go;
And, but the landlord, none had cause of woe:
His
cup was vanish'd; for in secret guise
The younger guest purloin'd the glittering prize.
As one who spies a serpent in his way,
Glistening and basking in the summer ray,
Disorder'd stops to shun the danger near,
Then walks with faintness on, and looks with fear,
So seem'd the sire; when far upon the road,
The shining spoil his wily partner show'd.
He stopp'd with silence, walk'd with trembling heart,
And much he wish'd, but durst not ask to part:
Murmuring he lifts his eyes, and thinks it hard,
That generous actions meet a base reward.

While thus they pass, the Sun his glory shrouds
The changing skies hang out their sable clouds;
A sound in air presag'd approaching rain,
And beasts to covert scud across the plain.
Warn'd by the signs, the wandering pair retreat,
To seek for shelter at a neighboring seat.
'Twas built with turrets on a rising ground,
And strong, and large, and unimprov'd around;
Its owner's temper, timorous and severe,
Unkind and griping, caus'd a desert there.

As near the miser's heavy doors they drew,
Fierce rising gusts with sudden fury blew;
The nimble lightning mix'd with showers began,
And o'er their heads loud rolling thunders ran.
Here long they knock, but knock or call in vain,
Driven by the wind, and batter'd by the rain.
At length some pity warm'd the master's breast,
('Twas then his threshold first receiv'd a guest);
Slow creaking turns the door with jealous care,
And half he welcomes in the shivering pair;
One frugal fagot lights the naked walls,
And Nature's fervor through their limbs recalls.
Bread of the coarsest sort, with eager wine,
(Each hardly granted) serv'd them both to dire
And when the tempest first appear'd to cease,
A ready warning bid them part in peace.
With still remark the pondering hermit view d.
In one so rich, a life so poor and rude;

And why should such," within himself he cried
"Lock the lost wealth a thousand want beside?"
But what new marks of wonder soon take place
In every settling feature of his face;

When from his vest the young companion bore
That cup, the generous landlord own'd before,
And paid profusely with the precious bowl
The stinted kindness of this churlish soul.
But now the clouds in airy tumult fly!
The Sun emerging opes an azure sky;
A fresher green the smelling leaves display,
And, glittering as they tremble, cheer the day:
The weather courts them from the poor retreat,
And the glad master bolts the wary gate.

While hence they walk, the pilgrim's bosom
wrought

With all the travel of uncertain thought;
His partner's acts without their cause appear,
"Twas there a vice, and seem'd a madness here:
Detesting that, and pitying this, he goes,
Lost and confounded with the various shows.

Now Night's dim shades again involve the sky,
Again the wanderers want a place to lie,
Again they search, and find a lodging nigh,
The soil improv'd around, the mansion neat,
And neither poorly low, nor idly great:
It seem'd to speak its master's turn of mind,
Content, and not to praise, but virtue kind.

Hither the walkers turn with weary feet,
Then bless the mansion, and the master greet:
Their greeting fair, bestow'd with modest guise,
The courteous master hears, and thus replies:
"Without a vain, without a grudging heart,
To him who gives us all, I yield a part;
From him you come, for him accept it here,
A frank and sober, more than costly cheer."
He spoke, and bid the welcome table spread,
Then talk of virtue till the time of bed,
When the grave household round his hall repair,
Warr'd by a bell, and close the hours with prayer.

At length the world, renew'd by calm repose,
Was strong for toil, the dappled Morn arose;
Before the pilgrims part, the younger crept
Near the clos'd cradle where an infant slept,
And writh'd his neck: the landlord's little pride,
Ostrange return! grew black, and gasp'd, and died.
Horror of horrors! what! his only son!

How look'd our hermit when the fact was done;
Not Hell, though Hell's black jaws in sunder part,
And breathe blue fire, could more assault his heart.
Confus'd, and struck with silence at the deed,
He flies, but trembling, fails to fly with speed.
His steps the youth pursues; the country lay
Perplex'd with roads, a servant show'd the way:
Anver cross'd the path; the passage o'er
Was nice to find; the servant trod before;
Long arms of oaks an open bridge supplied,
And deep the waves beneath the bending glide.
The youth, who seem'd to watch a time to sin,
Approach'd the careless guide, and thrust him in;
Plunging he falls, and rising lifts his head,
Then flashing turns, and sinks among the dead.
Wild, sparkling rage inflames the father's eyes,
He bursts the bands of fear, and madly cries,
“Detested wretch!"-But scarce his speech began,
When the strange partner seem'd no longer man:
His youthful face grew more serenely sweet;
His robe turn'd white, and flow'd upon his feet;
Fair rounds of radiant points invest his hair;
Celestial odors breathe through purpled air;
And wings, whose colors glitter'd on the day,
Wide at his back their gradual plumes display.
The form ethereal burst upon his sight,
And moves in all the majesty of light

Though loud at first the pilgrim's passion grew,
Sudden he gaz'd, and wist not what to do;
Surprise in secret chains his words suspends,
And in a calm his settling temper ends.
But silence here the beauteous angel broke
(The voice of music ravish'd as he spoke.)

"Thy prayer, thy praise, thy life to vice unknown,
In sweet memorial rise before the throne:
These charms, success in our bright region find,
And force an angel down, to calm thy mind;
For this, commission'd, I forsook the sky,
Nay, cease to kneel-thy fellow-servant I.
"Then know the truth of government divine,
And let these scruples be no longer thine.

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The Maker justly claims that world he made,
In this the right of Providence is laid;
Its sacred majesty through all depends
On using second means to work his ends:
'Tis thus, withdrawn in state from human eye,
The power exerts his attributes on high,
Your actions uses, nor controls your will,
And bids the doubting sons of men be still.

"What strange events can strike with more sur-
prise,

Than those which lately struck thy wondering eyes?
Yet, taught by these, confess th' Almighty just,
And where you can't unriddle, learn to trust!

"The great, vain man, who far'd on costly food,
Whose life was too luxurious to be good;
Who made his ivory stands with goblets shine,
And forc'd his guests to morning draughts of wine,
Has, with the cup, the graceless custom lost,

And still he welcomes, but with less of cost.

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The mean, suspicious wretch, whose bolted door
Ne'er mov'd in duty to the wandering poor;
With him I left the cup, to teach his mind

That Heaven can bless, if mortals will be kind.
Conscious of wanting worth, he views the bowl,
And feels compassion touch his grateful soul.
Thus artists melt the sullen ore of lead,
With heaping coals of fire upon his head;
In the kind warmth the metal learns to glow,

And loose from dross the silver runs below.

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Long had our pious friend in virtue trod,
But now the child half-wean'd his heart from

God;

(Child of his age) for him he liv'd in pain,
And measur'd back his steps to Earth again.
To what excesses had his dotage run?
But God, to save the father, took the son.
To all but thee, in fits he seem'd to go,
(And 'twas my ministry to deal the blow,)
The poor fond parent, humbled in the dust,
Now owns in tears the punishment was just.

"But now had all his fortune felt a wrack,

Had that false servant sped in safety back;
This night his treasur'd heaps he meant to steal.
And what a fund of charity would fail!
Thus Heaven instructs thy mind: this trial o'er,
Depart in peace, resign, and sin no more."

On sounding pinions here the youth withdrew,
The sage stood wondering as the seraph flew.
Thus look'd Elisha when, to mount on high,
His master took the chariot of the sky;
The fiery pomp ascending left to view;
The prophet gaz'd, and wish'd to follow too.

The bending hermit here a prayer begun,
"Lord! as in Heaven, on Earth thy will be done.
Then gladly turning sought his ancient place,
And pass'd a life of piety and peace.

A port of calms, a state to ease
From the rough rage of swelling seas."
Why then thy flowing sable stoles,
Deep pendent cypress, mourning poles,
Loose scarfs to fall athwart thy weeds,
Long palls, drawn hearses, cover'd steeds,
And plumes of black, that, as they tread,
Nod o'er the escutcheons of the dead?
Nor can the parted body know,
Nor wants the soul these forms of woe;
As men who long in prison dwell,
With lamps that glimmer round the cell,
Whene'er their suffering years are run,
Spring forth to greet the glittering Sun:
Such joy, though far transcending sense,
Have pious souls at parting hence.
On Earth, and in the body plac'd,
A few, and evil years, they waste:
But when their chains are cast aside,
See the glad scene unfolding wide,
Clap the glad wing, and tower away,
And mingle with the blaze of day.

Now sunk the

Came onward
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e night, transmit one pitying ray,

n. and to cheer. O lead my mind,

d that fain would wander from its woe.) ad 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 སྙ་ Wisdom to wed, and pay her long arrear: Fund Nor let the phial of thy vengeance, pour'd which On this devoted head, be pour'd in vain.

ire of it.

of poetry, short morals.

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

Is wise in man.

Is short, and I feel the solemn sound. If heard aright, the bulk of the It is the knell of my departed hours:

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e moral reflections

AF FIRST.

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AND IMMORTALITY.

IN. ARTHUR ONSLOW, SPEAKER

1. HOUSE OF COMMONS.

sweet restorer, balmy Sleep! wl. his ready visit pays

smiles; the wretched he forsakes; downy pinion flies from woe,

's on lids unsullied with a tear.

a short (as usual) and disturb'd repose, se: How happy they, who wake no more!

Yet dat were vain, if dreams infest the grave.

I wake, emerging from a sea of dreams

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 center'd in our make such strange extremes
From different natures marvellously mixt,
Connexion exquisite of distant worlds!
Distinguish'd link in being's endless chain!
Midway from nothing to the Deity!
A beam ethereal, sullied and absorpt!
Though sullied and dishonor'd, still divine.
Dim miniature of greatness absolute!
An heir of glory! a frail child of dust!

Tevultuous; where my wreck'd desponding thought, Helpless immortal! insect infinite!

From wave to wave of fancied misery,
At random drove, her helm of reason lost.
Though now restor'd, 'tis only change of pain,
(A bitter change!) severer for severe.

The Day too short for my distress; and Night,
Een in the zenith of her dark domain,
is sun-shine to the color of my fate.

Night, sable goddess! from her ebon throne
la 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. "Tis, as the general pulse
Of life stood still, and Nature made a pause;
An awful paus! prophetic of her end.
And let her propnecy 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

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.

"Tis 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.

grave, your kingdom: there this frame shall fall E'en silent night proclaims my soul immortal:

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,

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

EDWARD YOUNG.

EDWARD YOUNG was born at Upham, Hampshire, where his father was rector, in 1684. He was educated at Winchester School and at Oxford, and in 1708 obtained a law fellowship in All Souls College. He was made D. C. L. in 1719, but really had very little to do with the profession of law.

Though he is now known almost solely by his "Night Thoughts," he was a prolific writer, and produced tragedies, satires, lyrical poems, and a few prose works. His first publication was a versified "Epistle to George, Lord Lansdowne," on the occasion of his being raised to the peerage, 1713. This seems to have been the key-note to much of his literary labor, for he was a most persistent seeker after patronage, and several times brought his poetical powers into play to obtain it.

In 1713 he also published two long poems, "The Last Day," and "The Force of Religion, or Vanquished Love." In 1714 he published "A Poem on the Death of Queen Anne." These effusions gave him some reputation, and he then turned his attention to writing for the stage. In 1719 his tragedy, "Busiris," was brought out at Drury Lane. It was fairly successful, and brought its author to the notice of the Duke of Wharton, whom, next year, Young accompanied in travelling abroad." After the duke's death, Young presented a claim against the estate, and recovered an annuity of £200.

In 1721 "The Revenge," a tragedy, was brought out. It was not very well received at first, but gradually attained a moderate success, and is now the only play of this author that ever appears on the boards.

Between 1725 and 1728 he published his satires, under the general title, "The Love of Fame, the Universal Passion.' They were very successful, and brought their author considerable money. Preceding Pope's, they are sometimes thought to have furnished their model; but, though they contain many fine lines, Young is not to be compared with the author of "The Dunciad" as a satirist. Swift said they should have been either more merry or more angry. Some passages from them, notably

"The Languid Lady," are still current in collections of extracts.

In 1726 was published "The Instalment," a poem addressed to Sir Robert Walpole on his receiving the Order of the Garter, and soon after a pension was granted to Young. The next year, wishing to be made one of the royal chaplains, he took orders and secured the appointment. In 1730 he became rector of Welwyn, Hertfordshire.

In 1731 he married Lady Elizabeth Lee, a daughter of the Earl of Lichfield, with whem he is said to have led a very happy life for ten years. It was her loss that suggested the "Night Thoughts," which were published in 1742-'46.

Young's strength as a poet lies in the plentifulness of his epigrammatic passages. The "Night Thoughts," abounding in these, has enriched the language with many current quotations that have passed into proverbs. Without these, it would be little more than a theological discourse, too long to be readable, and too gloomy to be sufferable; with them, it has held its own against all criticism, while the other works of its author have gone to oblivion, and perennially renews its youth in numberless editions. It has also been translated into several' Continental languages. It was to the poetry of its own age what Tennyson's "In Memoriam," written just a century later, is to that of ours

Young wrote several other works, of which the very names are now forgotten, excepting his tragedy of "The Brothers," produced in 1753. In 1762 he edited a collected edition of his writings, in four volumes, and had the good taste to suppress some of the fulsome dedications and worthless lyrics. His latter years were not altogether happy. He died April 12, 1765.

In spite of his lamentable weakness for preferment, he is believed to have been sincerely pious, leading a blameless private life. If the

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Night Thoughts" are often run out into fanciful and even absurd extremes, it is only because elaborated grief must always be to some extent artificial and overstrained.

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