poetic fire, though clouded and obfcured by thick volumes of smoke. But he has merit of the highest kind, for it is univerfally acknowledged that he is an original though unequal writer. His defects and beauties are alike his own. Of the epigrammatic tenor of his fatires there is no example, nor was he indebted to any poet, ancient or modern, for the plan of his Night Thoughts. The productions of Dr. Young have come under the critical examination of Dr. Wharton, Dr Blair, Mr. Bofwell, and Dr. Johnson. They have pointed out feverally their beauties and defects, according to their respective opinions, and upon the whole agree with Dr. Johnfon, who concludes his remarks upon the literary merit of our author, pronouncing him a man of genius and a poet.

OW let the Atheist tremble, thou alone

Canft bid his confcious heart the Godhead own. Whom fhalt thou not reform? O thou haft feen How God descends to judge the fouls of men. Thou heard'st the fentence how the guilty mourn, Driv'n out from God, and never tɔ return.

Yet more, behold ten thousand thunders fall,
And sudden vengeance wrap the flaming ball.
When Nature funk, when ev'ry bolt was hurl'd,
Thou faw'ft the boundless ruins of the world.

When guilty Sodom felt the burning rain,
And fulphur fell on the devoted plain,
The Patriarch thus the fiery tempest past,
With pious horror view'd the defart waste;
The restless smoke still wav'd its curls around,
For ever rifing from the glowing ground.

But tell me, oh! what heav'nly pleasure, tell,
To think fo greatly, and defcribe fo well!
How waft thou pleas'd the wondrous theme to try,
And find the thought of man could rise so high?
Beyond this world the labour to pursue,
And open all eternity to view?

But thou art best delighted to rehearse
Heaven's holy dictates in exalted verse.

O thou haft power the harden'd heart to warm,
To grieve, to raise, to terrify, to charm;
To fix the foul on God; to teach the mind
To know the dignity of humankind;
By ftricter rules well govern'd life to fcan,
And practise o'er the angel in the man.

Magd. Col.
uxon.

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T. WARTON.

12

VERSES TO THE AUTHOR.

TO A LADY,

WITH THE LAST DAY.

MADAM,

H

ERE facred truths, in lofty numbers told,
The profpect of a future ftate unfold;
The realms of night to mortal view display,
And the glad regions of eternal day.
This daring author fcorns, by vulgar ways
Of guilty wit, to merit worthlefs praife.
Full of her glorious theme, his tow'ring Mufe,
With gen'rous zeal a nobler fame pursues:
Religion's caufe her ravish'd heart infpires,
And with a thousand bright ideas fires;
Tranfports her quick, impatient, piercing eye,
O'er the ftrait limits of mortality

To boundless orbs, and bids her fearlefs foar,
Where only Milton gain'd renown before;
Where various fcenes alternately excite
Amazement, pity, terror, and delight.

Thus did the Mufes fing in early times,
Ere skill'd to flatter vice, and varnish crimes :
Their lyres were tun'd to virtuous fongs alone,
And the chafte poet and the priest were one :
But now, forgetful of their infant ftate
They footh the wanton pleasures of the great;
And from the prefs, and the licentious stage,
With luscious poifon taint the thoughtless age:
Deceitful charms attract our wond'ring eyes,
And fpecious ruin unfufpected lies.

So the rich foil of India's blooming fhores,
Adorn'd with lavish Nature's choiceft ftores,

Where ferpents lurk, by flow'rs conceal'd from fight, Hides fatal danger under gay delight.

Thefe purer thoughts from grofs alloys refin'd,

With heavenly raptures elevate the mind:
Not fram'd to raife a giddy, fhort liv'd joy,
Whofe falfe allurements, while they pleafe, deftroy;

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But blifs refembling that of faints above,

Sprung from the vifion of th' Almighty Love:
Firm, folid blifs, for ever great and new,

The more 'tis known, the more admir'd, like you;
Like you, fair nymph! in whom united meet
Endearing fweetnefs, unaffected wit,

And all the glories of your fparkling race,
While inward virtues heighten ev'ry grace.
By these fecur'd, you will with pleasure read
Of future judgment, and the rifing dead;

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Of time's grand period, heaven and earth o'erthrown ;
And gafping Nature's laft tremendous groan.
Thefe when the ftars and fun fhall be no more,
Shall beauty to your ravish'd form rettore :
Then fhall you fhine with an immortal ray,
Improv'd by death, and brighten'd by decay.

Pemb, Col.
Охол.

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T. TRISTRAM.

B

J4

VERSES TO THE AUTHOR.

TO THE AUTHOR,

On his Laft Day, and Univerfal Passion.

AND mult it be as thou haft fung

Celestial Bard, feraphic Young!
Will there no trace, no point be found
Of all this fpacious glorious round?
Yon lamps of light muft they decay?
On Nature's felf Deftruction prey?
Then fame, the most immortal thing
E'en thou canst hope, is on the wing.
Shall Newton's system be admir'd
When time and motion are expir'd?
Shall fouls be curious to explore
Who rul'd an orb that is no more?
Or fhall they quote the pictur'd age,
From Pope's and thy corrective page,
When vice and virtue lofe their name
In deathlefs joy or endless fhame?
While wears away the grand machine,
The works of genius thall be feen:
Beyond, what laurels can there be
For Homer, Horace, Pope, or thee?
Thro' life we chafe, with fond purfuit,
What mocks our hope, like Sodom's fruit;
And, fure, thy plan was well defign'd
To cure this madness of the mind;
First beyond time our thoughts to raise,
Then lash our love of tranfient praise;
In both we own thy doctrine just,
And fame's a breath, and men are duft.
1736.

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J. BANCKS