Of the Night Thoughts, which were published from 1742 to 1744, Young's favorite and most finished poem, it may be said that they show a mind stored with reading and reflection, purified by virtuous feelings, and supported by religious hope. There are in them great fertility of thought and luxuriance of imagination, uncommon originality in style, and an accumulation of argument and illustration which seems almost boundless.1 "In this poem,” says Dr. Johnson, "Young 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 odor." In 1756 Dr. Joseph Warton paid a very just and elegant tribute to the poetical reputation of Young, by dedicating to him his most learned and instructive Essay on the Genius and Writings of Pope." Young was at that time the only survivor of that brotherhood of poets who had adorned and delighted the preceding age, and among whom Pope shone with such unrivalled lustre. In 1762, when he was upwards of fourscore, Young printed his poem of "Resignation," in which, for the first time, a decay of his powers is nanifested. In April, 1765, he closed his long, useful, and virtuous life. He had performed no duty for the last three or four years, but he retained his intellects to the last. In his personal manners, Young is said to have been a man of very social habits, and the animating soul of every company with whom he mixed. Nobody ever said more brilliant things in conversation. Dr. Warton, who knew him well, says that he was one of the most amiable and benevolent of men, most exemplary in his life and sincere in his religion. If he stooped below the dignity of his high profession, in courting worldly favor and applause, as without doubt he did, no one has more convincingly shown how utterly worthless was the object of this inconsistent ambition. As a poet, if he ranks not in the first class, he takes a very high place in the second. If his taste be not the purest, or his judgment not always the best, he has an exuberance, a vigor, and an originality of genius, which amply atone for all his defects. As respects the moral influence of his poetry, there has been and can be but one opinion. No one can rise from the studious reading of the Night Thoughts, without feeling more the value of time, and the importance of improving it aright, both for the life that now is, and for that which is to come. It is a book full of the purest and noblest sentiments, which, if followed, cannot fail of making us wiser and better. INTRODUCTION TO THE NIGHT THOUGHTS. THE VALUE OF TIME. Tired Nature's sweet restorer, balmy Sleep! Where Fortune smiles; the wretched he forsakes; And lights on lids unsullied with a tear. From short (as usual) and disturb'd repose, I wake: How happy they, who wake no more! 1 See Life, by Rev. J. Mitford. Read, also, his Life by Dr. Johnson-a biographical sketch in Drake's Essays—and another in the sixth volume of Campbell's Specimens. The criticisms of the latter, however, I cannot consider just. I wake, emerging from a sea of dreams Tumultuous; where my wreck'd, desponding thought, From wave to wave of fancied misery, At random drove, her helm of reason lost. Though now restored, 'tis only change of pain The Day too short for my distress; and Night, Is sunshine to the color of my fate. Night, sable goddess! from her ebon throne, Her leaden sceptre o'er a slumbering world. The bell strikes one. We take no note of time I feel the solemn sound. If heard aright, Where are they? With the years beyond the flood. How much is to be done! My hopes and fears 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! Triumphantly distress'd! what joy, what dread: What can preserve my life! or what destroy! 'Tis past conjecture; all things rise in proof: Her ceaseless flight, though devious, speaks her nature Unfetter'd with her gross companion's fall. They live! they greatly live a life on earth On me, more justly number'd with the dead. Is Substance; the reverse is folly's creed: Yet man, fool man! here buries all his thoughts; Inters celestial hopes without one sigh. Prisoner of earth, and pent beneath the moon, Where seraphs gather immortality, On life's fair tree, fast by the throne of God. What golden joys ambrosial clustering glow, In His full beam, and ripen for the just, Where momentary ages are no more! Where time, and pain, and chance, and death expire! To push eternity from human thought, MAN'S RESOLUTIONS TO REFORM. Of man's miraculous mistakes, this bears All pay themselves the compliment to think And scarce in human wisdom, to do more. All promise is poor dilatory man, And that through every stage: when young, indeed, In full content we, sometimes, nobly rest, Unanxious for ourselves; and only wish, As duteous sons, our fathers were more wise. Resolves; and re-resolves; then dies the same. And why? Because he thinks himself immortal. All men think all men mortal but themselves; Themselves, when some alarming shock of fate Strikes through their wounded hearts the sudden dread; But their hearts wounded, like the wounded air, Soon close; where, past the shaft, no trace is found. As from the wing, no scar the sky retains; The parted wave no furrow from the keel; So dies in human hearts the thought of death: E'en with the tender tear which nature sheds O'er those we love, we drop it in their grave. LIFE AND DEATH. Life makes the soul dependent on the dust; All eye, all ear, the disembodied power. DYING RICH. Why all this toil for triumphs of an hour? Earth's highest station ends in "Here he lies," One, though in Britain born, with courtiers bred, Guilt's blunder! and the loudest laugh of hell! SOCIETY NECESSARY FOR HAPPINESS. Wisdom, though richer than Peruvian mines, Friendship, the means of wisdom, richly gives Denies, or damps, an undivided joy: Joy is an import; joy is an exchange; Joy flies monopolists: it calls for Two; Rich fruit! heaven-planted! never pluck'd by One. Needful auxiliars are our friends, to give To social man true relish of himself. Full on ourselves, descending in a line, INSUFFICIENCY OF GENIUS AND STATION WITHOUT VIRTUE. Genius and art, ambition's boasted wings, Great ill is an achievement of great powers. |