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image? Then here is one and on its That intensifies the idea and its wings you may either sink or soar. emotion—and no poet need speak “ To man's false optics (from his folly unless he chooses—of a sun-dial again. false),
But Young is not done with the Time, in advance, behind him hides his image or rather the image is not wings,
done with Young—it haunts him still, And seems to creep, decrepit with his age; and tells him Behold him when past by; what then is " That all mankind mistake the time of seen,
day, But his broad pinions swifter than the
Even age itself." wind?"
And then he illustrates that truth told Oh! the dark days of vanity ! cries him by the gnomon, in simpler lanthe Poet; while here how tasteless—and guage and less scientific, the originahow terrible when gone! You-!- ting idea of the whole recurring soany one could have said that—but that lemnly at the close. is prose—not poetry—the poetry is to “ Fresh hopes are hourly sown come and here it comes -
In furrowed brows. To gentle life's de" When gone !
scent Gone ! they ne'er go; when past, they We shut our eyes, and think it is a plain. haunt us still ;
We take fair days in winter for a spring, The spirit walks of every day deceased ; And turn our blessing into bane, Since And smiles an Angel, or a Fury frowns.”
oft We live in a world of spirits—for He scarce believes he's older for his
Man must compute that age he cannot feel, there are three hundred and sixty-five
years.” ghosts in the year. But hour is an angel-a mes.
The world used to have by heart every
one celebrated passage on friendship senger.
--and we shall not quote, as we hope “ 'Tis greatly wise to talk with our past she has not forgotten it; but we call hours ;
on single lines—though we trust she And ask them what report they bore to
remembers them tooHeaven,
“ Poor is the friendless master of a world." And how they might have borne more welcome news.
Almost as immens as Shakspeare'sTheir answers form what men experience “ One touch of nature makes the whole call.”
world kin." There can be no experience, worth Do this and be happythe name, without communion with
Judge before friendship, then confide heaven. The worldly-wise man is a till death." mere mole-or at the best a bat.
“ When such friends part, “ Should not each dial strike us as we 'Tis the survivor dies."
pass, Portentous, as
Friendship has been called many the written wall which
million times a flower-and it is a struck, O'er midnight bowls, the proud Assyrian
flower; but Young asks you for whom it blossoms ? and seeing you hesitate
-in the multitude of the thoughts Many men might have said that, within him he sums up them all in but few could have said this —
“ Abroad they find who cherish it at “ That solar shadow, as it measures life, home." It life resembles too; life speeds away
Who was Philander ? We know From point to point, though seeming to
not. stand still.
But how the poet must have The cunning fugitive is swift by stealth :
loved him, who thus lamented his Too subtle is the moment to be
seen, Yet soon man's hour is up, and we are
“ Thy last sigh gone."
Dissolved the charm; the disenchanted What more could be said ? No earth more ?--Ay-listen
Lost all her lustre. Where her glittering
towers ? “ In reason's eye
Her golden mountains where ? All darkThat sedentary shadow travels hard."
To naked waste ; a dreary vale of tears; Or turn from that august spectacle The great magician's dead !”
to this—the saddest—and but for the The great poet is true to nature
written promise unsupportablehere—if too often-and we fear it is “ And oh! the last-last what ? Can somhe plays her false—and wilfully words express ? follows phantasies when imaginations Thought reach it ? the last silence of a were ready to crowd into his arms.
friend." And true to her is he in another place
These are the speechless griefs that - far away from the above-but hal- justify the Poet in sayinglowed by the same spirit of grief.
“ Scorn the proud man that is ashamed to " I loved him much, but now I love him weep." Like birds, whose beauties languish, half.
And we now call to mind another concealed ;
strain, in which he sings of some Till, mounted on the wing, their glossy strange, wild, sudden accumulation of plumes
sorrows_such as often befalls the chilExpanded shine with azure, green and
dren of men and when heard of gold ;
strike us all with dismay—“ because How blessings brighten as they take their that we have all one human heart." flight !”
“ This hoary cheek a train of tears bedews; Call not that image fanciful_but And eac tear mourns its own distinct if it affects you not as assuredly it af.. distress ; fected the Poet, sympathize with the And each distress, distinctly shown, deawe that for a while held him back mands from depicting the deathbed of such a Of grief still more, as heightened by the friend.
whole. "6 Yet am I struck; as struck the soul,
A grief like this proprietors excludes ;
Not friends alone such obsequies deplore ; beneath
They make mankind the mourner ; carry Aērial groves' impenetrable gloom';
sighs Or, in some mighty ruin's solemn shade ;
Far as the fatal fame can wing her way; Or, gazing by pale lamps on high-born
And turn the gayest thought of gayest age dust,
Down the right channel through the vale In vaults ; thin courts of poor unflattered of death."
kings ; Or at the midnight altar's hallowed flame.
From whom of all our living Poets Is it religion to proceed? I pause
could we select such pregnant lines as And enter, awed, the temple of my theme. many of the above? We glance over Is it his deathbed ? No: it is his shrine; the pages, and how thick the gems ! Behold him there just rising to a God.”
“ When gross guilt interposes, labouring earth,
“ The world's infectious ; few bring back at eve, Immaculate, the manners of the morn." “ How wretched is the man who never mourned.". " Truth shows the real estimate of things, Which no man, unafflicted, ever saw." “ But some reject this sustenance divine ; To beggarly vile appetites descend ; Ask alms of earth for guests that come from heaven." “ Irrationals all sorrow are beneath, That noble gift I that privilege to man." “ Early, bright, transient, chaste, as morning dew, She sparkled, was exhaled, and went to heaven.” “ Like damaged clocks, whose hand and bell dissent, Folly rings six while nature points at twelve."
“ Like our shadows, Our wishes lengthen as our sun declines.” “ Age should......... Walk thoughtful on the silent, solemn shore Of that vast ocean it must sail so soon." “ Our needful knowledge, like our needful food, Unhedged lies open in life's common field; And bids all welcome to the vital feast." “ Like other tyrants, Death delights to smito, What, smitten, most proclaims the pride of power, And arbitrary nod. His joy supreme To bid the wretch survive the fortunate ; The feeble wrap the athletic in his shroud; And weeping fathers build their children's tomb, Me thine, Narcissa." “Our morning's envy, and our evening's sigh." “ Man's lawful pride includes humility ; Stoops to the lowest ; is too great to find Inferiors; all immortal, brothers all ! Proprietors eternal of thy love." “ Who lives to Nature never can be poor ; Who lives to Fancy never can be rich." “ Resolve me why the Cottager and King, He wbom sea-severed realms obey, and he Who steals his whole dominion from the waste, Repelling winter blasts with mud and straw, Disquieted alike, draw sigh for sigh, In fate so distant, in complaint so near ?” “ His grief is but his grandeur in disguise ; And discontent is immortality." “ Man's misery declares him born for bliss."
“ If man can't mount He will descend — he starves on the possest."
this moment, gaze on God in man? The next, lose man for ever in the dust?" “ Heaven starts at an annihilating God." “ A Christian dwells, like Uriel, in the Sun,” “ Too low they build, who build beneath the stars." « Truth never was indebted to a lie." “No man e'er found a happy life by chance."
And, without breathing, man as well might hope
“ Is it greater pain
“ Though tempest frowns,
They stand reflecting every beam of thought,
For all their thoughts, like angels, seen of old
Ah! dear Thomas Campbell! Thou " I will thank you in the grave." hast dealt out scant and scrimp praise But Silence and Darkness are but the to the Bard of Night—but it was of such lines as these that thou said'st angels of God. And the Poet, inwith thy native felicity, " he has inspired by them, ventures another in
vocation dividual passages which Philosophy might make her texts, and experience “ But what are ye ?- Thou who didst put select for her mottos.
to flight Gloomy indeed! Is not the Poem Primeval silence, when the morning star, called “ The Complaint ?" If “ Night Exulting, shouted o'er the rising ball ! Thoughts” are not gloomy - then
O Thou ! whose word from solid darkness
struck nothing is gloomy on this side of the grave. There is a Poem, you know, That spark the sun, strike wisdom from called « The Grave," and a noble
my soul, one—“ Gloomy it stood as Night."
My soul which flies to Thee !" Who? Death.
Assuredly the opening strain is magWe have been familiar with Young's nificent; and what farther, is his Night Thoughts from boyhood—and prayer ? half a century ago the volume was to
“ Through this opaque of nature and of be seen lying-with a few others of
soul, kindred spirit-beside the Holiest-in
This double night, transmit one pitying many a cottage in the loneliest places
ray, in Scotland. The dwellers there were
To lighten and to cheer. O lead my mind, grave—not gloomy-but they loved
A mind that fain would wander from its to look into deep waters, which, though clear, are black because of their depth Lead it through varied scenes of life and and their overshadowings-yet show
death; the stars.
And from each scene the noblest truths “ Silence and Darkness ! solemn sisters!
Nor less inspire my conduct than my song. From ancient Night, who nurse the tender
Teach my best reason reason; my best thought,
will To reason, and on reason build resolve, Teach rectitude, and fix my firm resolve That column of true majesty in man,
Wisdom to wed, and pay her long arrear ; Assist me!"
Nor let the phial of thy vengeance, poured To sing a cheerful song—a merry
On this devoted head, be poured in vain.' roundelay ? No-such a song as may Compare this with the opening of any help to save his soul alive—the souls other Great Poem in our language, of some-many-of his brethren—and and its sublimity will not sink in the if the Powers he invokes do hear comparison.
Perhaps there may be some exag- bert Croft, the frog, that, with that geration in the sentiment as well as in bull in his eye, puffed himself up till the imagery, in parts of this noble in- he realized the fable. Thomas Camptroduction. But a great poet has bell somehow or other missed it-the dread thoughts at the dead of night, only miss he ever made—and when ruminating on the destinies of the one poet goes wrong about another, race, and collecting all his powers to he is neither to “ haud nor to bin',” sing them, within the shadow of the and flings the stones and gravel from grave.
his heels in a style that shows it would
be the height of imprudence to attempt “ Silence, how dead! and darkness, how
to follow. Bulwer alone has written profound ! Nor eye, nor listening ear an object finds;
worthily about “one among the highCreation sleeps !”
est, but not the most popular of his The bell strikes—and “ 'tis as if an
Country's Poets." And with a crow
quill delicately nibbed by Mrs Genangel spoke."
tle, two years ago, we copied in “ I feel the solemn sound—if heard aright,
our Oberonic calligraphy, on the fly. It is the knell of my departed hours :
leaf of this our Diamond Edition, this Where are they? With the hours before fine and philosophic criticism from the flood !"
« The Student."
“ Standing upon the grave — the Young, they say, was a disappointed creations of two worlds are round man, and was world-sick because of him, and the grey hairs of the mourunsuccessful ambition. Well he might
ner become touched with the halo of be—for his talents, learning, elo
the prophet. It is the time and spot quence, genius, and virtue ought to
he has chosen wherein to teach us, have elevated him to a conspicuous that dignify and consecrate the lesstation in the Church. But has he
son: it is not the mere human and pictured the world worse than it is ?- earthly moral that gathers on his Nor is it of the world—in the vulgar tongue. The conceptiou hallows the sense—that he sings—though with a
work, and sustains its own majesty in bitter scorn he sometimes
exposes its follies and its mockeries. His poem is every change and wandering of the
And there is this greatness nature, and of human life in his theme_dark, terrible, severeas they are by the necessity of their Hope never deserts it! It is a deep being—and who can blacken beyond
and gloomy wave, but the stars are the truth the character of sin and glassed upon its bosom. The more guilt “that makes the nature's groan?" sternly he questions the World, the We are not among the number of Heaven. Our bane and antidote are
more solemnly he refers its answer to those, who from “ golden urns draw light," and then make a display of both before him; and he only artheir borrowed lustre-an audacious raigns the things of Time before the trick of many a mean-spirited thief, tribunal of Eternity. It is this, which, imagining that the world will admire
to men whom grief or approaching his head as if it shone like that of death can divest of the love and hanChristopher among the Mountains, kerings of the world, leaves the great while children, at first scared by the
monitor his majesty, but deprives him glimmer in the hedge, soon scorn the
of his gloom. Convinced with him
of the vanities of life, it is not an unilluminated turnip. We steal from no
gracious or unsoothing melancholy
which confirms us in our conviction, “ But like Prometheus draw the fire from and points with a steady hand to the Heaven.”
divine somETHING that awaits us beBut at times we delight to borrow yond; from the rich—that, by scattering the treasure abroad, we may exalt the
The darkness aiding intellectual light, fame of its creator and owner, and
And sacred silence whispering truths dithereby enlarge the sphere of his em
vine, pire, and increase the number of his
And truths divine converting pain to subjects. Who has written on the
peace.' genius of Young? Johnson-poorly “ I know not whether I should say - very very poorly indeed; and Her- too much of this great poem if I should
* Of man,