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P. S. This account of Young was seen by you in manuscript, you know, sir ; and, though I could not prevail on you to make any alteration, you insisted on striking out one passage, because it said, that, if I did not wish you to live long for your sake, I did for the sake of myself and of the world. But this postscript you will not see before the printing of it; and I will say here, in spite of you, how I feel myself honoured and bettered by your friendship: and that, if I do credit to the church, after which I always longed, and for which I am now going to give in exchange the bar, though not at so late a period of life as Young took orders, it will be owing, in no small measure, to my having had the happiness of calling the author of The Rambler my friend. Oxford, Oct. 1782.

H. C.

Of Young's Poems it is difficult to give any general character; for he has no uni. formity of manner: one of his pieces has no great esemblance to another. He began to write early, and continued long; and at different times had different modes of poetical excellence in view. His numbers are sometimes smooth, and sometimes rugged ; his style is sometimes concatenated, and sometimes abrupt; sometimes diffusive, and sometimes concise. His plan seems to have started in his mind at the present moment; and his thoughts appear the effect of chance, sometimes adverse, and sometimes lucky, with very little operation of judgment.

He was not one of those, writers whom experience improves, and who, observ. ing their own faults, become gradually correct. His poem on the Last Day, his first great performance, has an equability and propriety, which he afterwards either never endeavoured or never attained. Many paragraphs are noble, and few are mean, yet the whole is languid; the plan is too much extended, and a succession of images divides and weakens the general conception : but the great reason why the reader is disappointed is, that the thought of the Last Day makes every man more than poetical, by spreading over his mind a general obscurity of sacred horrour, that oppresses distinction, and disdains expression.

His story of Jane Grey was never popular. It is written with elegance enough ; but Jane is too heroic to be pitied.

The Universal Passion is indeed a very great performance. It is said to be a series of epigrams ; but, if it be, it is what the author intended : his endeavour was at the production of striking distichs and pointed sentences; and his distichs have the weight of solid sentiment, and his points the sharpness of resistless tru th.

His characters are often selected with discernment, and drawn with nicety; his illustrations were often happy, and his reflections often just. His species of satire is between those of Horace and Juvenal; and he has the gaiety of Horace without his laxity of numbers, and the morality of Juvenal with greater variation of images. He plays, indeed, only on the surface of life; he never penetrates the recesses of the mind, and therefore the whole power of his poetry is exhausted by a single perusal; his conceits please only when they surprise.

To translate he never condescended, unless his Paraphrase on Job may be consi. dered as a version : in which he has not, I think, been unsuccessful ; he indeed favoured himself, by choosing those parts which most easily admit the ornaments of English poetry.

He had least success in his lyric attempts, in which he seems to have been under some malignant influence : he is always labouring to be great, and at last is only targid.

In his Night Thoughts 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. This is one of the few poems in which blank verse could not be changed for rhyme but with disadvantage. The wild diffusion of the sentiments, and the digressive sallies of imagination, would have been compressed and restrained by confinement to rhyme. The excellence of this work is not exactness, but copiousness ; particular lines are not to be regarded; the power is in the whole ; and in the whole there is a magnificence like that ascribed to Chinese plantation, the magnificence of vast extent and endless diversity.

His last poem was Resignation ; in which he made, as he was accustomed, an experiment of a new mode of writing, and succeeded better than in his Ocean or his Merchant. It was very falsely represented as a proof of decayed faculties. There is Young in every stanza, such as he often was in the highest vigour.

His Tragedies, not making part of the collection, I had forgotten, till Mr. Steevens recalled them to my thoughts by remarking, that he seemed to have one favourite catastrophe, as his three plays all concluded with lavish suicide ; a method by which, as Dryden remarked, a poet easily rids his scene of persons whom he wants not to keep alive. In Busiris there are the greatest ebullitions of imagination : but the pride of Busiris is such as no other man can have, and the whole is too remote from known life to raise either grief, terrour, or indignation. The Revenge approaches much nearer to human practices and manners, and therefore keeps possession of the stage : the first design seems suggested by Othello; but the reflections, the incidents, and the diction, are original. The moral observations are so introduced, and so expressed, as to have all the novelty that can be required. Of The Brothers I may be allowed to say nothing, since nothing was ever said of it by the public.

It must be allowed of Young's poetry that it abounds in thought, but without much accuracy or selection. When he lays hold of an illustration, he pursues it beyond expectation, sometimes happily, as in his parallel of quicksilver with plea. sure, which I have heard repeated with approbation by a lady, of whose praise he would have been justly proud, and which is very ingenious, very subtle, and almost exact; but sometimes he is less lucky, as when, in his Vight Thoughts, hav. ing it dropped into his mind, that the orbs, floating in space, might be called the cluster of creation, he thinks on a cluster of grapes, and says, that they all hang on the great vine, drinkiug the “nectareous juice of immortal life.”

His conceits are sometimes yet less valuable. In The Last Day he hopes to illustrate the re-assembly of the atoms that compose the human body at the “ trump of Doom” by the coilection of bees into a swarm at the tinkling of a pan.

The prophet says of Tyre, that her merchants are princes. Young says of Tyre in his Merchant,

Her merchants princes, and each deck a throne. Let burlesque try to go beyond him.

He has the trick of joining the turgid and familiar : to buy the alliance of Britain, c climes were paid down.” Antithesis is his favourite, “ They for kindness hate :" and “ because she's right, she's ever in the wrong.”

His versification is his own; neither his blank nor his rhyming lines have any resemblance to those of former writers; he picks up no hemistichs, he copies no favourite expressions ; he seems to have laid up no stores of thought or diction, but to owe all to the fortuitous suggestions of the present moment. Yet I have reason to believe that, when once he had formed a new design, he then laboured it with very patient industry ; and that he composed with great labour, and frequent revisions.

Ilis verses are formed by no certain model; he is no more like himself in his dif. ferent productions than he is like others. Ile seems never to have studied prosody, nor to have had any direction but from his own ear. But with all his defects, he was a man of genius and a poet.

VERSES TO THE AUTHOR.

TO DR. YOUNG.

Where various scenes alternately excite Now let the atheist tremble; thou alone

Amazement, pity, terrour, and delight.

Thus did the Muses sing in early times, Can bid his conscious heart the Godhead own.

Ere skill'd to fatter Vice and varnish crimes: Whom shalt thou not reform? O thou hast seen, Their lyres were tun'd to virtuous songs alone, How God descends to judge the souls of men.

And the chaste poet, and the priest, were one. Thou heard'st the sentence how the guilty mourn,

But now, forgetful of their infant state, Driven out from God, and never must return.

They sooth the wanton pleasures of the great ; Yet more, behold ten thousand thunders fall,

And from the press, and the licentious stage, And sudden vengeance wrap the flaming ball:

With luscious poison taint the thoughtless age; When Nature sunk, when every bolt was hurld,

Deceitful charms attract our wondering eyes, Thou saw'st the boundless ruins of the world.

And specious Ruin unsuspected lies. When guilty Sodom felt the burning rain,

So the rich soil of India's blooming shores, And sulphur fell on the devoted plain;

Adorı'd with lavish Nature's choicest stores, The patriarch thus, thc fiery tempest past,

Where serpents lurk, by flowers conceal'd from sight, With pious horrour view'd the desert waste;

Hides fatal danger under gay delight. The restless smoke still war'd its curls around,

These purer thoughts from gross alloys refin'd, For ever rising from the glowing ground.

With heavenly raptures elevate the mind :
But tell me, oh! what heavenly pleasure, tell,

Not fram'd to raise a giddy short-liv'd joy,
To think so greatly, and describe so well!
How wast thou pleas'd the wondrous theme to try, But bliss resembling that of saints above,

Whose false allurements, while they please, destroy;
And find the thought of man could rise so high !
Beyond this world the labour to pursue,

Sprung from the vision of th' Almighty Love:

Firm, solid bliss, for ever great and new, And open all ETERNITY to view !

The more 't is known, the more admir'd, like you; But thou art best delighted to rehearse

Like you, fair nymph, in whom united meet Heaven's holy dictates in exalted verse:

Endearing sweetness, unaffected wit, O thou hast power the harden'd heart to warm,

And all the glories of your sparkling race, To grieve, to raise, to terrify, to charm;

While inward virtues heighten every grace. To fix the soul on God; to teach the mind

By these securd, you will with pleasure read To know the dignity of human-kind;

Of future judgment, and the rising dead;
By stricter rules well-gorern'd life to scan,
And practise o'er the angel in the man.

Of time's grand period, Heaven and Earth o'er.

thrown; Magd. Coll.

And gasping Nature's last tremendous groan.”
Oxon.

These, when the stars and Sun shall be no more,
Shall beauty to your ravag'd form restore:
Then shall you shine with an immortal ray,

Improv'd by death, and brighten'd by decay.
TO A LADY, WITH THE LAST DAY.

MADAM,
HERE, sacred truths, in lofty numbers told,
The prospect of a future state unfold:
The realms of night to mortal view display,

TO THE AUTHOR,
And the glad regions of eternal day.
This daring author scorns, by vulgar ways

ON HIS LAST DAY AND UNIVERSAL PASSION.
Of guilty wit, to merit worthless praise.
Full of her glorious theme, his towering Muse, And must it be as thou hast sung,
With gen'rous zeal, a nobler fame pursues : Celestial bard, seraphic Young ?
Religion's cause her ravish'd heart inspires, Will there no trace, no point be found,
And with a thousand bright ideas fires;

Of all this spacious glorions round?
Transports her quick, impatient, piercing eye, Yon lamps of light, must they decay?
O'er the strait limits of mortality,

On Nature's self, Destruction prey? To boundless orbs, and bids her fearless soar, Then Fan.e, the most immortal thing Where only Milton gain'd renown before ; E'en thou canst hope, is on the wing.

T. WARTON,

T. TRISTAM.

Shall Newton's system be admir'd,

Through sife we chase, with fond pursuit. When Time and Motion are expir'd?

What mocks our hope, like Sodom': fruit : Shall souls be curious to explore

And sure, thy plan was well design'd, Who rul'd an orb that is no more?

To cure this madness of the mind; Or shall they quote the pictur'd age,

First, beyond time our thoughts to raise ; From Pope's and thy corrective page,

Then lash our love of transient praise. When Vice and Virtue lose their name :

In both we own thy doctrine just;
In deathless joy, or endless shame?

And Fame's a breath, and men are dust.
While wears away the grand machine,
The works of Genius shall be seen:

1736.
Beyond, what laurd's can there be,
For Homer, Horace, Pope, or thee?

J. BANCES,

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