"Who thought e'en gold itself might come a day too late," was made Clerk of the Closet to the Princess Dowager of Wales. What retarded his promotion so long is not easy to determine. Some attribute it to his attachment to the Prince of Wales and his friends; and others assert, that the King thought him sufficiently provided for. Certain it is, that he knew no straits in pecuniary matters; and that in the method he has recommended of estimating human life, honours are of little value. His merits as an author have already been considered in a review of his works; and nothing seems necessary to be added, but the following general characters of his composition, from Blair and Johnson. Dr. Blair says, in his celebrated lectures: "Among moral and didactic poets, Dr. Young is of too great eminence to be passed over without notice. In all his works, the marks of strong genius appear. His Universal Passion, possesses the full merit of that animated conciseness of style, and lively description of character, which I mention as requisite in satirical and didactic compositions. Though his wit may often be thought too sparkling, and his sentences too pointed, yet the vivacity of his fancy is so great, as to entertain every reader. In his Night Thoughts there is much energy of expression; in the three first, there are several pathetic passages; and scattered through them all, happy images and allusions, as well as pious reflections, occur. But the sentiments are frequently over-strained, and turgid; and the style is too harsh and obscure to be pleasing." The same eritic has said of our author in another place, that his "merit in figurative language is great, and deserves to be remarked.. No writer, ancient or modern, had a stronger imagination than Dr. Young, or one more fertile in figures of every kind; his metaphors are often new, and often natural and beautiful. But his imagination was strong and rich, rather than delicate and correct." These strictures may be thought severe; but it should be remembered, that an author derives far more honour from such a discriminate character, from a judicious critic, than from the indiscriminate commendation of an admirer. The following is the conclusion of Dr. Johnson's critique, and shall conelude these memoirs. "It must be allowed of Young's poetry, that it abounds in thought, but without much accuracy or selection.-When he lays hold on a thought, he pursues it beyond expectation, [and] sometimes happily, as in his parallel of quicksilver and pleasure... . which is very ingenious, very subtle, and almost exact.. ...... "His versification is his own; neither his blank nor his rhyming lines have any resemblance to those of former writers; he picks up no hemisticks, he copies no favourite expressions; he seems to have laid up no stores of thought or diction, but to owe all to the fortuitous suggestions of the present moment. Yet I have reason to believe that, when he ance formed a new design, he then laboured it with very patient industry, and that he composed with great labour and frequent revisions. "His verses are formed by no certain model; he is no more like himself in his different productions than he is like others. He seems never to have stu died prosody, nor to have any direction, but from his own ear. But with all his defects, he was a man of genius, and a poet." P. S. The materials of the above Life are taken from the article referring to our author in Johnson's Lives of the Poets, written by Mr. Herbert Croft, with the Critique of Dr. Johnson, compared with the Biographia Britannica, and other respectable authorities. VERSES TO THE AUTHOR. Now let the Atheist tremble, thou alone Canst bid his conscious heart the Godhead own. Whom shalt thou not reform? O thou hast seen How God descends to judge the souls of men. Thou heard'st the sentence how the guilty mourn, Driv'n out from God, and never to return. Yet more, behold ten thousand thunders fall, And sudden vengeance wrap the flaming ball. When Nature sunk, when every bolt was hurl'd, Thou saw'st the boundless ruins of the world. When guilty Sodom felt the burning rain, And sulphur fell on the devoted plain, The Patriarch thus, the fiery tempest past, With pious horror view'd the desart waste; The restless smoke still wav'd its curls around, For ever rising from the glowing ground. But tell me, oh! what heav'nly pleasure, tell, To think so greatly, and describe so well! How wast thou pleas'd the wondrous theme to try, And find the theme 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. thou hast power the harden'd heart to warm, To grieve, to raise, to terrify, to charm; |