Original poems on several subjects :: :: University of Virginia Library

O death! relentless tyrant of the grave!
Implacable alike to king and slave!
Why hast thou spar'd, at some unlucky hour,
Ambition, on his pinnacle of pow'r;
The traitor, villain, the blasphemer foul,
The drunkard, swearing by the midnight bowl;
The spendthrift, folded in the harlot's arms,
Gazing with fatal ardour on her charms;
Wrapt in wild visions the projector bold,
The miser yawning o'er his heaps of gold;
The robber, sliding through the midnight gloom,
Still deeper guilt to aggravate their doom;
Why spar'd these monsters, yet Young snatch'd away,
Just to evince thy impotence of sway?

244

No conquest here thy vengeful dart can claim,
When Time has vanquish'd thee, to live his name.
Yet had not thy commission'd arrow flown,
Unfill'd in Heav'n had been a seraph's throne.

Hail! hoary bard of night, whose fam'd Complaint
Is now turn'd to the triumphs of the saint;
For nought, a knowing head, and feeling heart,
Virtue and Genius, could in thee dispart!
Ah! how can Recollection these employ,
Nor sink to genuine grief the pulse of joy?
Thy fancy, learning, judgment, wit, and taste,
Ne'er brib'd by Fortune, nor deceiv'd by haste!
Thy love of friendship, harmony, and peace,
Which still thy growing years observ'd increase!
Thy piety, chaste, manly, and sublime,
Uninfluenc'd by modes of place and time!
Thy noble scorn of honours and of pelf,
Which to attain, one must renounce himself!
Ah! how can Recollection these employ,
Nor sink to genuine grief the pulse of joy?

O could I, Young, on the fleet lightning's wing,
To thine and Virtue's orb superiour spring;
Could I, a disembodied spirit, fly
To thee and all the glories of the sky;

245

Pass yonder sun, on his meridian throne,
Array'd in splendours gorgeous as his own;
Pass Heav'n's resplendent gates, thrown open wide,
With thee and kindred angels to reside;
Be ravish'd while some first-rate seraph sings,
And hear and see unutterable things:
On earth no moment should retard my stay,
How like Elijah would I soar away!
But O the pinion aquiline must drop,
And Fancy her aëreal ranges stop.
Alas! like Young, few from life's stage retire,
Few mount his hallow'd vehicle of fire.
But could I claim his Virtues, as below
All ranks on them their lavish praise bestow,
Call his departed excellence my own,
As He from Heav'n the hallow'd mantle thrown;
His merit in another make survive,
Though dead himself, his graces still alive;
These, next to the possession of the skies,
Would give me all that happiness implies,

O had I his seraphic cast of thought,
Unaw'd by tyrant custom, and untaught,
Unpriz'd, unenvy'd should he reign alone,
Who sits a slave imperial on a throne!

246

For what are sceptres, if the princely heart
To bless mankind knows not the godlike art?
Sublime ambition! scarce by that excell'd
(Without their guilt) by which arch-fiends rebell'd:
Crowns, richly set with many a costly gem,
Look pale, if Virtue shuts her eye on them;
The royal laurels languish, if meanwhile
Deny'd the living sunshine of her smile.

By various proofs his usefulness appear'd,
The drooping heart disconsolate he cheer'd;
Supported Merit at his own expense,
And cast round Innocence a firm defence;
Reliev'd the wretch beneath Oppression's stroke,
Worn out with labour, and with hardships broke;
Found Virtue out, howe'er in rags disguis'd,
The wav'ring fix'd, the ignorant advis'd.

Thrice happy shade! late did the sylvan Muse
Thee as the patron of her numbers chuse,
Hoping, beneath the sanction of thy name,
Censure to shun, if not to merit fame;
As oaks, from humbly creeping on the ground,
Raise kindly up the ivy clasp'd around.
But ah! how soon the friend of Virtue fled
To Heaven, through the dark regions of the dead;

247

Dark to the vulgar class of humankind,
That there no torch lit by Religion find;
But gilded, to thy spirit on its way,
With the strong radiance of immortal day.
Yet shall the widow'd verses sacred be
To thy dear memory, that sole pledge of thee.
Howe'er the common run of mean desert
Dies with the feeling brain, and beating heart,
With mere Mortality's abhorr'd remains,
Rots in the grave, where dumb oblivion reigns;
No sordid motive shall eraze thy name,
Alive or dead, thy merit still the same .

The reader may think it superfluous to be informed here, that this alludes to Vertumnus; or, The Progress of Spring, inscribed to the late pious, learned, and ingenious Dr Edward Young; the first volume of these poems, as well as a good part of the second, being printed off before his decease.