ONE of the sweetest of the minor poets of the beginning of the eighteenth century is Dr. Thomas Parnell. This poet was born and educated in Dublin. He embraced the ecclesiastical profession. Though originally bred a Whig, he was one of the Tory coterie of poets that comprehended Swift, Pope, and Gay. Parnell was of material assistance to Pope in his translation of Homer, and he frequently deserted his Irish living for the attractions of the society of England. The sudden death of his wife plunged him in profound affliction, from which he never recovered. He is accused of having taken refuge from his sorrow in irregular habits. The interest of Swift procured for him farther preferment in the Irish Church, but he did not enjoy it above three or four years; he died in 1718, “in some measure," says Goldsmith, "a martyr to conjugal fidelity." Parnell's poetical works consist of translations Scripture characters, epistles, songs, etc. "His praise," says Johnson, "must be derived from the easy sweetness of his diction; in his verses there is more happiness than pains; he always delights, though he never ravishes." A NIGHT-PIECE ON DEATH. By the blue taper's trembling light, How deep yon azure dyes the sky! Where orbs of gold unnumber'd lie, While through their ranks in silver pride The nether crescent seems to glide. The slumbering breeze forgets to breathe, The lake is smooth and clear beneath, Where once again the spangled show Descends to meet our eyes below. The grounds, which on the right aspire, In dimness from the view retire: The left presents a place of graves, Whose wall the silent water laves. That steeple guides thy doubtful sight Among the livid gleams of night. There pass with melancholy state By all the solemn heaps of Fate, And think, as softly-sad you tread Above the venerable dead,Time was, like thee, they life possess'd, And time shall be, that thou shalt rest. Those with bending osier bound, That nameless heave the crumbled ground, Quick to the glancing thought disclose, Where toil and poverty repose. The flat smooth stones that bear a name, The chisel's slender help to fame (Which ere our set of friends decay Their frequent steps may wear away), A middle race of mortals own, Men, half ambitious, all unknown. The marble tombs that rise on high, Whose pillars swell with sculptured stones, Who, while on earth in fame they live, Ha! while I gaze, pale Cynthia fades, And all with sober accent cry, "Think, mortal, what it is to die." Now from yon black and funeral yew, That bathes the charnel-house with dew, Methinks, I hear a voice begin; (Ye ravens, cease your croaking din, Ye tolling clocks, no time resound O'er the long lake and midnight ground!) A NIGHT-PIECE ON DEATH. It sends a peal of hollow groans, Nor can the parted body know, 293 DR. EDWARD YOUNG. YOUNG was born near Winchester, at Upham, of which his father was rector. On finishing his education at Oxford, he became, after the example of other poets of the time, an assiduous courtier, and at length, in 1725, he received a pension of £200 a year, which he retained till his death. The patronage of the "infamous Wharton" did him no honour. His youth was gay and unsettled; but his mind poured forth with untiring profusion its products, both in prose and verse. In 1728 he entered into orders, and was appointed chaplain to George II. In 1730, he received from his college the rectory of Welwyn, in Hertfordshire; and the following year, at the age of fifty, married Lady Elizabeth Lee, a daughter of the Earl of Lichfield, and widow of Colonel Lee. The deaths of his wife and her daughter by her former marriage deeply affected Young, and are commemorated in his best work, the cele brated "Night Thoughts." These were published from 1742 to 1744, and exhibit great fertility of thought and imagination. Age could not quench the indomitable activity of the poet's mind. He died almost in the midst of his literary employments, and still soliciting further preferment, at the age of eighty-four. The principal poetical works of Young, besides the "Night Thoughts," are Satires under the title of the "Love of Fame, the Universal Passion;""The Force of Religion, or Vanquished Love," founded on the story of Lady Jane Grey; three tragedies, "Busiris," "The Revenge," and "The Brothers;" "The Last Day;" a Paraphrase of part of the Book of Job; Odes and Epistles, in the usual artificial taste of the early part of the eighteenth century; and Resignation," published in 1762. The style of Young, though not to be imitated, has a fascinating originality; in general, it is hard, abrupt, and epigrammatic, yet the vivid colouring of its antithesis exerts a singular power over the mind. The terrible grandeur and gloom of the objects pictured in the Night Thoughts prevent us from feeling the strained artifice of manner and the conceits with which they abound. But they contain passages of noble poetry and exalted devotional feeling. Young is the most brilliant and witty of the religious poets. As a light and graceful satirist, and painter of modern manners, he preceded and partly inspired Pope. FROM NIGHT THOUGHTS. SLEEP. (Night I.) Tired Nature's sweet restorer, balmy sleep! Where fortune smiles; the wretched he forsakes, PROCRASTINATION. (Night I.) Be wise to-day: 'tis madness to defer; Of man's miraculous mistakes, this bears FROM NIGHT THOUGHTS. Time lodged in their own hands is folly's vails, And scarce in human wisdom, to do more. And that through every stage: when young, indeed, As duteous sons, our fathers were more wise. Resolves; and re-resolves; then, dies the same. THE PRECIOUSNESS OF DEATH. (Night III.) Toils, virtues, hopes; without it a chimera! One, in my soul; and one, in her great sire; Though the four winds were warring for my dust. 295 |