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down the leaf. On these passages he bestowed a second reading. But the labours of man are too frequently vain. Before he returned to much of what he had once approved, he died. Many of his books, which I have seen, are by those notes of approbation so swelled beyond their real bulk, that they will hardly shut.

What though we wade in wealth, or soar in fame;
Earth's highest station ends in Here he lies !

And dust to dust concludes her noblest song! The author of these lines is not without his Hic jacet.

By the good sense of his son, it contains none of that praise which no marble can make the bad or the foolish merit; which, without the direction of a stone or a turf, will find its way, sooner or later, to the deserving

M.S.
Opti miParentis
EDVARDI Young, LL.D.
hujus Ecclesiæ rect.

Et Elizabethæ

fæm. prænob. Conjugis ejus amantissimæ, pio & gratissimo animo hoc marmor posuit

F. Y.

Filius superstes. Is it not strange that the author of the “ Night Thoughts” has inscribed no monument to the memory of his lamented wife? Yet, what marble will endure as long as the poems?

Such, my good friend, is the account which I have been able to collect of the great Young. That it may be long before any thing like what I have just transcribed be necessary for you, is the sincere wish of,

Dear Sir,
Your greatly obliged Friend,

HERBERT CROFT, Jun.

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P.S. This account of Young was seen by you in manuscript, you know, Sir; and, though I could not prevail on you to make

any
alteration, you

insisted on striking out one passage, because it said, that, if I did not wish you to live long for your sake, I did for the sake of myself and of the world. But this postscript you will not see before the printing of it; and I will say here, in spite of you,

I

, how I feel myself honoured and bettered by your friendship; and that, if I do credit to the Church, after which I always longed, and for which I am now going to give in exchange the Bar, though not at so late a period of life as Young took Orders, it will be owing, in no small measure, to my having had the happiness of calling the author of “The Rambler”

my
friend.

H. C.

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Of Young's Poems it is difficult to give any general character ; for he has no uniformity of man

' ner: one of bis pieces has no great resemblance to another. He began to write early, and continued long : and at different times had different modes of poetical excellence in view. His numbers are sometimes smooth, and sometimes rugged; his style is sometimes concatenated, and sometimes abrupt; sometimes, diffusive, and sometimes concise. His plan seems to have started in his mind at the present moment, and his thoughts appear the effect of chance, sometimes adverse, and sometimes lucky, with very little operation of judgment.

He was not one of those writers whom experience improves, and who, observing their own faults, become gradually correct. His Poem on the “ Last “ Day,” his first great performance, has an equability and propriety, which he afterwards either never endeavoured or never attained. Many paragraphs are noble, and few are mean, yet the whole is languid: the plan is too much extended, and a succession of images divides and weakens the general conception; but the great reason why the reader is disappointed is, that the thought of the LAST DAY makes every man more than poetical, by spreading over his mind a general obscurity of sacred horror, that oppresses distinction, and disdains expression.

His story of “ Jane Grey" was never popular. It is written with elegance enough: but Jane is too heroic to be pitied.

'The “ Universal Passion” is indeed a very great performance. It is said to be a series of Epigrams; but if it 'be,' it is what the author intended; his endeavour was at the production of striking distichs and pointed sentences; and his distichs have the weight of solid sentiment, and his points the sharpness of resistless truth.

His characters are often selected with discernment, and drawn with nicety; his illustrations are often happy, and his reflections often just. His species of satire is between those of Horace and Juvenal; and he has the gaiety of Horace without his

; laxity of numbers, and the morality of Juvenal with greater variation of images. He plays, indeed, only on the surface of life; he never penetrates the recesses of the mind, and therefore the whole power of his poetry is exhausted by a single perusal; bis conceits please only when they surprise.

To translate he never condescended, unless his “Paraphrase on Job” may be considered as a version : in which he has not, I think, been unsuccessful; he indeed favoured himself, by choosing those parts which most easily admit the ornaments of English poetry.

He had least success in his lyric attempts, in which he seems to have been under some malignant influence: he is always labouring to be great, and at last is only turgid.

In his “ Night Thoughts” he 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 Aowers of every hue and of every odour. This is one

It was very

of the few poems in which blank verse could not be changed for rhyme but with disadvantage. The wild diffusion of the sentiments, and the digressive sallies of imagination, would have been compressed and restrained by confinement to rhyme. The excellence of this work is not exactness, but copiousness; particular lines are not to be regarded; the power is in the whole; and in the whole there is a magnificence like that ascribed to Chinese plantations, the magnificence of vast extent and endless diversity.

His last poem was “Resignation ;” in which he made, as he was accustomed, an experiment of a new mode of writing, and succeeded better than in his “ Ocean" or his “Merchant." falsely represented as a proof of decayed faculties. There is Young in every stanza, such as he often was in the highest vigour.

His tragedies, not making part of the Collection, I had forgotten, till Mr. Steevens recalled them to my thoughts by remarking, that he seemed to have one favourite catastrophe, as his three plays all concluded with lavish suicide; a method by which, as Dryden remarked, a poet easily rids his scene of persons whom he wants not to keep alive. In “ Busiris” there are the greatest ebullitions of imagination : but the pride of Busiris is such as no other man can have, and the whole is too remote from known life to raise either grief, terror, or indignation. The “Revenge” approaches much nearer to human practices and manners, and therefore keeps possession of the stage: the first design seems suggested by “ Othello ;" but the reflections,

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