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Just his conceptions, natural and great:
His feelings strong, his words enforc'd with weight.
Was speech-fam'd Quin himself to hear him speak,
Envy would drive the color from his cheek:
But stepdame Nature, niggard of her grace,
Denied the social pow'rs of voice and face.
Fix'd in one frame of features, glare of eye
Passions, like chaos, in confusion lie:
In vain the wonders of his skill are tried
To form distinctions Nature hath denied.
His voice no touch of harmony admits,
Irregularly deep and shrill by fits:
The two extremes appear like man and wife,
Coupled together for the sake of strife.
His action's always strong, but sometimes such,
That candor must declare he acts too much.
Why must impatience fall three paces back?
Why paces three return to the attack?
Why is the right leg too forbid to stir,
Unless in motion semicircular?
But, only us'd in proper time and place,
Severest judgment must allow them grace.
If bunglers, form'd on Imitation's plan,
Just in the way that monkeys mimic man,
Their copied scene with mangled arts disgrace,
And pause and start with the same vacant face;
We join the critic laugh; whose tricks we scorn,
Which spoil the scenes they mean them to adorn.
But when, from Nature's pure and genuine source
These strokes of acting flow with gen'rous force,
When in the features all the soul's portray'd,
And passions, such as Garrick's, are display'd,
To me they seem from quickest feelings caught:
Each start is Nature; and each pause is Thought.
When Reason yields to Passion's wild alarms,
And the whole state of man is up in arms;
What but a critic could condemn the play'r,
For pausing here, when Cool-Sense pauses there ?
Whilst, working from the heart, the fire I trace,
And mark it strongly flaming to the face;
Whilst, in each sound, I hear the very man;
I can't catch words, and pity those who can.
Let wits, like spiders, from the tortur'd brain,
Fine-draw the critic-web with curious pain:
The gods,—a kindness I with thanks must pay,-
Have form'd me of a coarser kind of clay;
Not stung with envy, nor with pain diseas'd,
A poor dull creature, still with Nature pleas'd;
Hence to thy praises, Garrick, I agree,
And, pleas'd with Nature, must be pleas'd with thee
Now I might tell, how silence reign'd throughou
And deep attention hush'd the rabble rout
How ev'ry claimant, tortur'd with desire,
Was pale as ashes, or as red as fire:
But, loose to fame, the Muse more simply acts
Rejects all flourish, and relates mere facts.
Last Garrick came.-Behind him throng a train
Of snarling critics, ignorant as vain.
The judges, as the several parties came, [ciaim,
One finds out,-"He's of stature somewhat With temper heard, with judgment weigh'd each
And, in their sentence happily agreed,
Why must the hero with the Nailor vie,
And hurl the close-clench'd fist at nose or eye?
In royal John, with Philip angry grown,
I thought he would have knock'd poor Davies down.
Inhuman tyrant! was it not a shame,
To fright a king so harmless and so tame?
But, spite of all defects, his glories rise;
And Art, by Judgment form'd, with Nature vies:
Behold him sound the depth of Hubert's soul,
Whilst in his own contending passions roll;
View the whole scene, with critic judgment scan,
And then deny him merit if you can.
Where he falls short, 'tis Nature's fault alone;
Where he succeeds, the merit's all his own.
Your hero always should be tall, you know.-
True nat'ral greatness all consists in height."
Produce your voucher, Critic.-"Sergeant Kite."
Another can't forgive the paltry arts
By which he makes his way to shallow hearts;
Mere pieces of finesse, traps for applause-
"Avaunt, unnat'ral start, affected pause."
For me, by Nature form'd to judge with phlegm,
I can't acquit by wholesale, nor condemn.
The best things carried to excess are wrong:
The start may be too frequent, pause too long;
In name of both, great Shakspeare thus decreed.
"If manly sense; if Nature link'd with Art;
If thorough knowledge of the human heart;
If pow'rs of acting vast and unconfin'd;
If fewest faults with greatest beauties join'd;
If strong expression, and strange pow'rs which lie
Within the magic circle of the eye;
If feelings which few hearts, like his, can know,
And which no face so well as his can show,
Deserve the pref'rence-Garrick, take the chair;
Nor quit it-till thou place an equal there."
EDWARD YOUNG, a poet of considerable celebrity, this year that he commenced his famous poem, the was the only son of Dr. Edward Young, fellow of Night Thoughts." This production is truly original Winchester College, and rector of Upham, Hamp-in design and execution: it imitates none, and has shire. He was born at his father's living, in 1684, no imitators. Its spirit is, indeed, gloomy and seand was educated at Winchester school, whence he vere, and its theology awful and overwhelming. It was removed to New-College, and afterwards to seems designed to pluck up by the roots every conCorpus-Christi College, Oxford. By the favor of solation for human evils, except that founded on the Archbishop Tenison, he obtained a law-fellowship scheme of Christianity which the writer adopted; at All-Souls. At this time his chief pursuit appears yet it presents reflections which are inculcated with to have been poetry; and it is little to his credit, a force of language, and sublimity of imagination, with respect to his choice of patrons, that he has almost unparalleled. It abounds with the faults sought them through all the political changes of the characteristic of the writer, and is spun out to a time. Tragedy was one of his favorite pursuits, in tedious length, that of nine books; but if not often which his "Revenge," dedicated in 1721 to the read through, it will never sink into neglect. It Duke of Wharton, was regarded as his principal was evidently the favorite work of the author, who effort. Many other performances, however, took their ever after wished to be known as the composer of turn, of which the most noted at this time were his the "Night Thoughts." The numerous editions of "Paraphrase on Part of the Book of Job;" and "The the work sufficiently prove the hold which it has Love of Fame, or the Universal Passion." taken of the public mind.
Young, now in his forty-fourth year, having given The lyric attempts of Young were singularly unup his prospects as a layman, took orders, and was fortunate, not one of his pieces of that class having nominated one of the Royal Chaplains. He pub- a claim for perusal; and, indeed, many of his other lished some prose works as the fruits of his new poetical writings display inequalities, and defects of profession, of which were, The True Estimate of taste and judgment, very extraordinary for a writer Human Life," representing only its dark side; and of his rank. In an edition of his works, published "An Apology for Princes, or the Reverence due to during his life, in four vols. 8vo., he himself exGovernment," a sermon, well suited to a court cluded several compositions, which he thought of chaplain. In 1730 he was presented, by his col- inferior merit, and expunged many dedications, of lege, to the rectory of Welwyn, in Hertfordshire; which he was doubtless ashamed. A letter to him, and in the following year he married Lady Eliza- from Archbishop Secker, proves, however, that at a beth Lee, widow of Colonel Lee, and daughter of late period of life he had not ceased to solicit prethe Earl of Lichfield. This lady he lost in 1741, ferment. He latterly fell under domestic sway, and after she had borne him one son. Other affecting was entirely subdued to the control of a housekeeper. family losses occurred about that period, and aggra- Young continued to exist till April 1765, when he vated his disposition to melancholy; and it was in expired in his 84th year.
PART OF THE BOOK OF JOB.
THRICE-HAPPY Job long liv'd in regal state,
Nor saw the sumptuous East a prince so great;
Whose worldly stores in such abundance flow'd,
Whose heart with such exalted virtue glow'd.
At length misfortunes take their turn to reign,
And ills on ills succeed! a dreadful train!
What now but deaths, and poverty, and wrong,
The sword wide-wasting, the reproachful tongue,
And spotted plagues, that mark'd his limbs all o'er
So thick with pains, they wanted room for more!
A change so sad what mortal here could bear?
Exhausted woe had left him nought to fear;
But gave him all to grief. Low earth he press'd,
Wept in the dust, and sorely smote his breast.
His friends around the deep affliction mourn'd,
Felt all his pangs, and groan for groan return'd;
In anguish of their hearts their mantles rent,
And seven long days in solemn silence spent!
A debt of reverence to distress so great!
Then JOB contain'd no more; but curs'd his fate
His day of birth, its inauspicious light,
He wishes sunk in shades of endless night,
And blotted from the year; nor fears to crave
Death, instant death; impatient for the grave,
That seat of peace, that mansion of repose,
Where rest and mortals are no longer foes;
Where counsellors are hush'd, and mighty kings
(Oh happy turn!) no more are wretched things.
His words were daring, and displeas'd his friends;
His conduct they reprove, and he defends;
And now they kindled into warm debate,
And sentiments oppos'd with equal heat;
Fix'd in opinion, both refuse to yield,
And summon all their reason to the field:
So high at length their arguments were wrought,
They reach'd the last extent of human thought:
A pause ensued-When, lo! Heaven interpos'd,
And awfully the long contention clos'd.
Full o'er their heads, with terrible surprise,
A sudden whirlwind blacken'd all the skies:
(They saw, and trembled !) from the darkness broke
A dreadful voice, and thus th' Almighty spoke :
Who gives his tongue a loose so bold and vain, Censures my conduct, and reproves my reign; Lifts up his thought against me from the dust, And tells the World's Creator what is just? Of late so brave, now lift a dauntless eye, Face my demand, and give it a reply: Where didst thou dwell at Nature's early birth? Who laid foundations for the spacious Earth? Who on its surface did extend the line, Its form determine, and its bulk confine? Who fix'd the corner-stone? What hand, declare, Hung it on nought, and fasten'd it on air; When the bright morning stars in concert sung, When Heaven's high arch with loud hosannas rung, When shouting sons of God the triumph crown'd, And the wide concave thunder'd with the sound? Earth's numerous kingdoms, hast thou view'd them all?
Are mists begotten? Who their father knew?
From whom descend the pearly drops of dew?
To bind the stream by night, what hand can boast,
Or whiten morning with the hoary frost?
Whose powerful breath, from northern regions blown,
Touches the sea, and turns it into stone:
A sudden desert spreads o'er realms defac'd,
And lays one-half of the creation waste?
"Thou know'st me not; thy blindness cannot see
How vast a distance parts thy God from thee.
Canst thou in whirlwinds mount aloft? Canst thou
In clouds and darkness wrap thy awful brow?
And, when day triumphs in meridian light,
Put forth thy hand, and shade the world with night?
"Who lanch'd the clouds in air, and bid them
And can thy span of knowledge grasp the ball? Who heav'd the mountain, which sublimely stands, And casts its shadow into distant lands?
"Who, stretching forth his sceptre o'er the deep, Can that wide world in due subjection keep? I broke the globe, I scoop'd its hollow side, And did a bason for the floods provide ;
Suspended seas aloft, from pole to pole?
Who can refresh the burning sandy plain,
| And quench the summer with a waste of rain?
Who, in rough deserts far from human toil,
Made rocks bring forth, and desolation smile?
There blooms the rose, where human face ne'er shone,
And spreads its beauties to the Sun alone.
"To check the shower, who lifts his hand on high, And shuts the sluices of th' exhausted sky, When Earth no longer mourns her gaping veins, Her naked mountains, and her russet plains; But, new in life, a cheerful prospect yields Of shining rivers, and of verdant fields; When groves and forests lavish all their bloom, And Earth and Heaven are fill'd with rich perfume!
Hast thou e'er scal'd my wintry skies, and seen Of hail and snows my northern magazine? These the dread treasures of mine anger are, My funds of vengeance for the day of war, When clouds rain death, and storms at my command Rage through the world, or waste a guilty land.
"Who taught the rapid winds to fly so fast, Or shakes the centre with his eastern blast? Who from the skies can a whole deluge pour? Who strikes through Nature with the solemn roar Of dreadful thunder, points it where to fall, And in fierce lightning wraps the flying ball? Not he who trembles at the darted fires, Falls at the sound, and in the flash expires.
I chain'd them with my word; the boiling sea,
Work'd up in tempests, hears my great decree
Thus far, thy floating tide shall be convey'd;
And here, O main, be thy proud billows stay'd.'
Hast thou explor'd the secrets of the deep,
Where, shut from use, unnumber'd treasures sleep?
Where, down a thousand fathoms from the day,
Springs the great fountain, mother of the sea?
Those gloomy paths did thy bold foot e'er tread,
Whole worlds of waters rolling o'er thy head?
"Hath the cleft centre open'd wide to thee?
Death's inmost chambers didst thou ever see
E'er knock at his tremendous gate, and wade
To the black portal through th' incumbent shade?
Deep are those shades; but shades still deeper hide
My counsels from the ken of human pride.
Where dwells the light? In what refulgent dome?
And where has darkness made her dismal home? Thou know'st, no doubt, since thy large heart is fraught
With ripen'd wisdom, through long ages brought;
Since Nature was call'd forth when thou wast by,
And into beng rose beneath thine eye!
Who drew the comet out to such a size, And pour'd his flaming train o'er half the skies? Did thy resentment hang him out? Does he Glare on the nation, and denounce, from thee? Who on low Earth can moderate the rein. That guides the stars along th' ethereal plain? Appoint their seasons, and direct their course, Their lustre brighten, and supply their force? Canst thou the skies' benevolence restrain, And cause the Pleiades to shine in vain? Or, when Orion sparkles from his sphere, Thaw the cold season, and unbind the year? Bid Mazzaroth his destin'd station know, And teach the bright Arcturus where to glow! pour Mine is the night, with all her stars; Myriads, and myriads I reserve in store. "Dost thou, pronounce where day-light shall be And draw the purple curtain of the morn; Awake the Sun, and bid him come away, And glad thy world with his obsequious ray? Hast thou, enthron'd in flaming glory, driven Triumphant round the spacious ring of Heaven? That pomp of light, what hand so far displays, That distant Earth lies basking in the blaze?
Who did the soul with her rich powers invest, Did thy command her yellow pinion lift
And light up reason in the human breast?
To shine, with fresh increase of lustre bright,
When stars and Sun are set in endless night?
To these my various questions make reply."
Th' Almighty spoke; and, speaking, shook the sky.
What then, Chaldæan sire, was thy surprise!
Thus thou, with trembling heart and downcast
"Can that arm measure with an arm divine?
And canst thou thunder with a voice like mine?
Or in the hollow of thy hand contain
The bulk of waters, the wide-spreading main,
When, mad with tempests, all the billows rise
In all their rage, and dash the distant skies?
Come forth, in beauty's excellence array'd;
And be the grandeur of thy power display'd;
Put on omnipotence, and, frowning, make
The spacious round of the creation shake;
Dispatch thy vengeance, bid it overthrow
Triumphant vice, lay lofty tyrants low,
And crumble them to dust. When this is done,
I grant thy safety lodg'd in thee alone;
Of thee thou art, and may'st undaunted stand
Behind the buckler of thine own right-hand.
"Fond man! the vision of a moment made! Dream of a dream! and shadow of a shade! What worlds hast thou produc'd, what creatures fram'd;
"Will the tall reem, which knows no Lord but me,
Low at the crib, and ask an alms of thee?
Submit his unworn shoulder to the yoke,
Break the stiff clod, and o'er thy furrow smoke?
Since great his strength, go trust him, void of care;
Lay on his neck the toil of all the year;
Bid him bring home the seasons to thy doors,
And cast his load among thy gather'd stores.
"Didst thou from service the wild ass discharge,
And break his bonds, and bid him live at large,
Through the wide waste, his ample mansion, roam
And lose himself in his unbounded home?
By Nature's hand magnificently fed,
His meal is on the range of mountains spread;
As in pure air aloft he bounds along,
He sees in distant smoke the city throng;
Conscious of freedom, scorns the smother'd train,
The threatening driver, and the servile rein.
Who in the stupid ostrich has subdued
A parent's care, and fond inquietude?
While far she flies, her scatter'd eggs are found,
Without an owner, on the sandy ground;
Cast out on fortune, they at mercy lie,
And borrow life from an indulgent sky:
Adopted by the Sun, in blaze of day,
They ripen under his prolific ray.
Unmindful she, that some unhappy tread
May crush her young in their neglected bed.
What time she skims along the field with speed,
She scorns the rider, and pursuing steed.
Survey the warlike horse! didst thou invest
With thunder his robust distended chest?
No sense of fear his dauntless soul allays;
"Tis dreadful to behold his nostrils blaze;
To paw the vale he proudly takes delight,
And triumphs in the fullness of his might;
High-rais'd he snuffs the battle from afar,
And burns to plunge amid the raging wer;
And mocks at death, and throws his foum around
And in a storm of fury shakes the ground.
How does his firm, his rising heart advance
Full on the brandish'd sword, and shaken lance:
While his fix'd eyeballs meet the dazzling shield,
Gaze, and return the lightning of the field!
He sinks the sense of pain in generous pride,
Nor feels the shaft that trembles in his side;
But neighs to the shrill trumpet's dreadful blast
"How rich the peacock! what bright glories run Till death; and when he groans, he groans his last From plume to plume, and vary in the Sun! He proudly spreads them to the golden ray, Gives all his colors, and adorns the day; With conscious state the spacious round displays, And slowly moves amid the waving blaze.
"Who taught the hawk to find, in seasons wise, Perpetual summer, and a change of skies? When clouds deform the year, she mounts the wind, Shoots to the south, nor fears the storm behind; The Sun returning, she returns again, Lives in his beams, and leaves ill days to men. “Though strong the hawk, though practis'd well to fly,
What insects cherish'd, that thy God is blam'd?
When pain'd with hunger, the wild raven's brood
Loud calls on God, importunate for food:
Who hears their cry, who grants their hoarse request,
And stills the clamor of the craving nest?
An eagle drops her in a lower sky;
An eagle, when, deserting human sight,
She seeks the Sun in her unwearied flight:
So high in air, and set her on the clift,
Where far above thy world she dwells alone,
And proudly makes the strength of rocks her own
Thence wide o'er Nature takes her dread survey,
And with a glance predestinates her prey?
She feasts her young with blood; and, hovering o'er
Th' unslaughter'd host, enjoys the promis'd gore.
Know'st thou how many moons, by me assign'd,
Roll o'er the mountain goat, and forest hind,
While pregnant they a mother's load sustain ?
They bend in anguish, and cast forth their pain.
Hale are their young, from human frailties freed;
Walk unsustain'd, and unassisted feed;
They live at once; forsake the dam's warm side;
Take the wide world, with Nature for their guide,
Bound o'er the lawn, or seek the distant glade;
And find a home in each delightful shade.
But, fiercer still, the lordly lion stalks,
Grimly majestic in his lonely walks ;
When round he glares, all living creatures fly;
He clears the desert with his rolling eye.
Say, mortal, does he rouse at thy command,
And roar to thee, and live upon thy hand?
Dost thou for him in forests bend thy bow,
And to his gloomy den the morsel throw,
Where bent on death lie hid his tawny brood,
And, couch'd in dreadful ambush, pant for blood;
Or, stretch'd on broken limbs, consume the day,
In darkness wrapt, and slumber o'er their prey?
By the pale Moon they take their destin'd round,
And lash their sides, and furious tear the ground.
Now shrieks and dying groans the desert fill;
They rage, they rend; their ravenous jaws distil
With crimson foam; and, when the banquet's o'er,
They stride away, and paint their steps with gore;
In flight alone the shepherd puts his trust,
And shudders at the talon in the dust.
"Mild is my behemoth, though large his frame;
Smooth is his temper, and represt his flame,
While unprovok'd. This native of the flood
Lifts his broad foot, and puts ashore for food;
Earth sinks beneath him, as he moves along
To seek the herbs, and mingle with the throng.
See with what strength his harden'd loins are bound,
All over proof, and shut against a wound.
How like a mountain cedar moves his tail!
Nor can his complicated sinews fail.
Built high and wide, his solid bones surpass
The bars of steel; his ribs are ribs of brass;
His port majestic and his armed jaw
Give the wide forest, and the mountain, law.
The mountains feed him; there the beasts admire
The mighty stranger, and in dread retire;
At length his greatness nearer they survey,
Graze in his shadow, and his eye obey.
The fens and marshes are his cool retreat,
His noontide shelter from the burning heat;
Their sedgy bosoms his wide couch are made,
And groves of willows give him all their shade.
His eye drinks Jordan up, when fir'd with
He trusts to turn its current down his throat;
In lessen'd waves it creeps along the plain :
He sinks a river, and he thirsts again.
"Go to the Nile, and, from its fruitful side,
Cast forth thy line into the swelling tide :
With slender hair leviathan command,
And stretch his vastness on the loaded strand.
Will he become thy servant? Will he own
Thy lordly nod, and tremble at thy frown?
Or with his sport amuse thy leisure day,
And, bound in silk, with thy soft maidens play?
"Shall pompous banquets swell with such a prize?
And the bowl journey round his ample size?
Or the debating merchants share the prey,
And various limbs to various marts convey?
Through his firm skull what steel its way can win?
What forceful engine can subdue his skin?
Fly far, and live; tempt not his matchless might:
The bravest shrink to cowards in his sight;
The rashest dare not rouse him up: Who then
Shall turn on me, among the sons of men?
"Am I a debtor? Hast thou ever heard Whence come the gifts that are on me conferr'd? My lavish fruit a thousand valleys fills,
And mine the herds that graze a thousand hills:
Earth, sea, and air, all Nature is my own;
And stars and Sun are dust beneath my throne.
And dar'st thou with the World's great Father vie,
Thou, who dost tremble at my creature's eye?
"At full my large leviathan shall rise, Boast all his strength, and spread his wondrous size. Who, great in arms, e'er stripp'd his shining mail,
Or crown'd his triumph with a single scale?
Whose heart sustains him to draw near? Behold,
Destruction yawns; his spacious jaws unfold,
And marshal'd round the wide expanse, disclose
Teeth edg'd with death, and crowding rows on rows:
What hideous fangs on either side arise!
And what a deep abyss between them lies!
Mete with thy lance, and with thy plummet sound,
The one how long, the other how profound.
His bulk is charg'd with such a furious soul,
That clouds of smoke from his spread nostrils roll,
As from a furnace; and, when rous'd his ire,
Fate issues from his jaws in streams of fire.
The rage of tempests, and the roar of seas,
Thy terror, this thy great superior please;
Strength on his ample shoulder sits in state;
His well-join'd limbs are dreadfully complete ;
His flakes of solid flesh are slow to part;
As steel his nerves; as adamant his heart.
"When, late awak'd, he rears him from the floods, And, stretching forth his stature to the clouds, Writhes in the Sun aloft his scaly height, And strikes the distant hills with transient light, Far round are fatal damps of terror spread, The mighty fear, nor blush to own their dread.
Large is his front; and, when his burnish'd eyes Lift their broad lids, the morning seems to rise.
"In vain may death in various shapes invade, The swift-wing'd arrow, the descending blade; His naked breast their impotence defies; The dart rebounds, the brittle falchion flies. Shut in himself, the war without he hears, Safe in the tempest of their rattling spears; The cumber'd strand their wasted volleys strow; His sport, the rage and labor of the foe.
His pastimes like a caldron boil the flood, And blacken ocean with the rising mud; The billows feel him, as he works his way; His hoary footsteps shine along the sea; The foam high-wrought with white divides the green. And distant sailors point where Death has been.
His like Earth bears not on her spacious face;
Alone in Nature stands his dauntless race,
For utter ignorance of fear renown'd,
In wrath he rolls his baleful eye around;
Makes every swoln, disdainful heart subside,
And holds dominion o'er the sons of pride."
Then the Chaldæan eas'd his laboring breast,
With full conviction of his crime opprest.
Thou canst accomplish all things, Lord of
And every thought is naked to thy sight.
But, oh!' thy ways are wonderful, and lie
Beyond the deepest reach of mortal eye.
Oft have I heard of thine almighty power;
But never saw thee till this dreadful hour.
O'erwhelm'd with shame, the Lord of Life I see,
Abhor myself, and give my soul to thee.
Nor shall my weakness tempt thine anger more:
Man is not made to question, but adore."