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[From The Grave.]

SELF-MURDER.

Self-Murder! name it not our island's shame,
That makes her the reproach of neighbouring states
Shall nature, swerving from her earliest dictate,
Self-preservation, fall by her own act?

Forbid it, Heaven !-let not upon disgust
The shameless hand be foully crimsoned o'er
With blood of its own lord.-Dreadful attempt !
Just reeking from self-slaughter, in a rage,
To rush into the presence of our Judge

As if we challenged him to do his worst

And mattered not his wrath: unheard-of tortures
Must be reserved for these, these herd together,
The common damned shun their society,
And look upon themselves as fiends less foul.
Our time is fix'd and all our days are numbered,
How long, how short we know not; this we know,
Duty requires we calmly wait the summons,
Nor dare to stir till Heaven shall give permission,
Like sentries that must keep their destined stand
And wait the appointed hour till they're relieved.
Those only are the brave that keep their ground,
And keep it to the last. To run away
Is but a coward's trick. To run away
From this world's ills, that at the very worst
Will soon blow o'er, thinking to mend ourselves
By boldly venturing on a world unknown
And plunging headlong in the dark-'tis mad,
No phrenzy half so desperate as this.

OMNES EODEM COGIMUR.

On this side and on that men see their friends
Drop off like leaves in autumn, yet launch out

Into fantastic schemes, which the long livers
In the world's hale and undegenerate days
Could scarce have leisure for. Fools that we are,
Never to think of death and of ourselves

At the same time: as if to learn to die
Were no concern of ours.

Oh! more than sottish
For creatures of a day in gamesome mood
To frolic on Eternity's dread brink

Unapprehensive, when, for aught we know,
The very first swoln surge shall sweep us in
Think we or think we not, time hurries on
With a resistless unremitting stream,

Yet treads more soft than e'er did midnight thief
That slides his hand under the miser's pillow
And carries off his prize. What is this world?
What but a spacious burial-field unwalled
Strewed with death's spoils, the spoils of animals
Savage and tame, and full of dead men's bones.
The very turf on which we tread once lived,
And we that live must lend our carcases
To cover our own offspring; in their turns
They too must cover theirs-'tis here all meet.
The shivering Icelander and sunburnt Moor,
Men of all climes who never met before,

And of all creeds, the Jew, the Turk, the Christian.
Here the proud prince, and favourite yet prouder,
His sovereign's keeper and the people's scourge,
Are huddled out of sight.-Here lie abashed

The great negotiators of the earth,

And celebrated masters of the balance,

Deep read in stratagems and wiles of courts;
Now vain their treaty skill.-Death scorns to treat.
Here the o'erloaded slave flings down his burden
From his galled shoulders, and when the stern tyrant.
With all his guards and tools of power about him
Is meditating new unheard-of hardships,
Mocks his short arm, and quick as thought escapes
Where tyrants vex not and the weary rest.

THE RESURRECTION.

Nor shall it hope in vain: the time draws on
When not a single spot of burial earth,
Whether on land or in the spacious sea,
But must give back its long committed trust
Inviolate, and faithfully shall these

Make up the full account, not the least atom
Embezzled or mislaid of the whole tale.

Each soul shall have a body ready furnished,
And each shall have his own. Hence, ye profane!
Ask not how this can be. Sure the same power
That reared the piece at first and took it down
Can reassemble the loose scattered parts
And put them as they were. Almighty God
Has done much more, nor is his arm impaired
With length of days, and what he can he will.
His faithfulness stands bound to see it done.
When the dread trumpet sounds, the slumbering dust,
Not unattentive to the call, shall wake,

And every joint possess its proper place
With a new elegance of form unknown

To its first state. Nor shall the conscious soul
Mistake its partner, but, amidst the crowd

Singling its other half, into its arms

Shall rush with all the impatience of a man

That's new come home, who having long been absent
With haste runs over ev'ry different room

In pain to see the whole. Thrice happy meeting!
Nor time nor death shall part them ever more.
'Tis but a night, a long and moonless night,
We make the grave our bed, and then are gone.

Thus at the shut of even the weary bird
Leaves the wide air and, in some lonely brake,
Cowers down and dozes till the dawn of day,
Then claps his well-fledged wings and bears away.

EDWARD YOUNG.

[THE author of the Night Thoughts was born at Upham in Hampshire in 1684, and died on the 12th of April 1765. The Last Day was published in 1713, and was soon followed by The Force of Religion. Young's unlucky tendency to flattery and toadyism early showed itself in many small pieces to persons of rank which cannot be said to have been regularly published until long afterwards. In 1719 Busiris, his first tragedy, was performed; and in the same year the Letter to Tickell on the Death of Addison and the l'araphrase of the Book of Job appeared. The Revenge followed in 1721. The satires composing The Universal Passion made their appearance during the course of 1725 and the following three years. In 1728 they were collectively published. Meanwhile the accession of George II had been hailed with the so called Odes to Ocean, &c. The Brothers, a tragedy, coincided pretty nearly with this. In 1730 appeared the Imperium Pelagi, and two Epistles to Pope. Some more Pindarics followed. The first Night Thought was published in 1742, the last in 1744. Of Young's remaining works, Resignation, which appeared th.ee years before his death, need alone be mentioned.]

Except Wordsworth, Young is probably the most unequal of. English poets. The difference between his best work and his worst is so great as to be almost unintelligible, and it is fair to him to say that he seems to have been aware of this. When his collected poems were reprinted, a large number were by his express direction left out. Publication however constitutes, as it has been well observed, in one sense an unpardonable sin; and in estimating Young it is necessary to take the Odes and the Imperium Pelagi into consideration as well as the Night Thoughts and the Last Day. Of the class represented by the first-named works it may be said that hardly any worse poetry has ever been written. There is scarcely a stanza of the so-called Odes which does not read like an admir

able and intentional burlesque. The author seems by his rhymes to have had no ear at all, and his gross and fulsome flattery is unspeakably nauseous. Of this latter peculiarity indeed even his best work contains but too many instances. The fine passage, soon to be quoted, from the Last Day is disfigured by the insertion in the midst of it of a clumsy and foolish panegyric on Queen Anne, which any one but an eighteenth-century divine would have felt to be not only intrinsically in bad taste, but hopelessly inappropriate to the case.

The depths to which Young sinks at his worst are however compensated by the heights at which at his best he arrives. If poetry and poets could be judged by single lines, there are few save the highest who could safely challenge comparison with Young. He had an astonishing fertility of thought of a certain kind, and a corresponding richness of expression. Nor were his powers confined, as it has been asserted, to the production of 'gloomy epigram.' He stands pre-eminent among artists of blank verse, and a critic might well have asked him, as Jeffrey asked Macaulay, where he got his style from. The earlier eighteenth century is indeed remarkable for its mould of blank verse. Considering that though Young was a much older man than Thomson he did not produce his great work until many years after the appearance of Winter, it may be that The Seasons exercised some influencc over him; but the influence was scarcely that of imitation. The different uses to which the two instruments were put may perhaps in some measure account for the difference of their sound. Both have in common the tendency to florid language and to antithesis which the Popian couplet had made popular, both use and indeed abuse the effect of strongly contrasted lights and shades. But Young, probably owing to his dramatic studies, is much more rhetorical than Thomson. Not a few passages in the Night Thoughts, especially that remarkable one in the Third Night about dying friends, where the confusion of metaphors does not obscure the grandeur of the verse, are of the finest tragic mould. It was inevitable that in the hands of a man of such uncritical taste as Young this tragic quality should often degenerate into mere declamation. The inequality indeed which is so characteristic of him exists even in detached passages of very smail extent, so that it is difficult if not impossible to select any in which the taste shall not be offended. The Night Thoughts has accordingly long ceased to be the popular book it once was. As a poet of moral ideas however Young will always deserve attention,

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