O'er many a craggy hill and barren cliff,
Upon a cargo of famed Cestrian cheese
High over-shadowing rides, with a design
To vend his wares or at th' Arvonian mart,
Or Maridunum,' or the ancient town
Yeleped Brechinia, or where Vaga's stream
Encircles Ariconium, fruitful soil!
Whence flow nectareous wines that well may vie
With Massic, Setin, or renowned Falern.

Thus, while my joyless minutes tedious flow,
With looks demure and silent pace, a dun,
Horrible monster! hated by gods and men!
To my aërial citadel ascends.

With vocal heel thrice thundering at my gate,
With hideous accent thrice he calls; I know
The voice ill-boding, and the solemn sound.
What should I do? or whither turn? Amazed,
Confounded, to the dark recess I fly

Of wood-hole. Straight my bristling hairs erect
Through sudden fear; a chilly sweat bedews
My shuddering limbs; and (wonderful to tell!)
My tongue forgets her faculty of speech,
So horrible he seems! His faded brow
Intrenched with many a frown, and conic beard,
And spreading band admired by modern saints,
Disastrous acts forebode; in his right hand
Long scrolls of paper solemnly he waves,
With characters and figures dire inscribed,
Grievous to mortal eyes: ye gods, avert
Such plagues from righteous men!

stalks

Thomas Parnell.

Of English descent, Parnell (1679-1718) was born in Dublin. He became archdeacon of Clogher, and Swift got for him the appointment of vicar of Finglas. He was the friend of Pope, and assisted him in the translation of Homer. "The Hermit" is the poem for which Parnell still maintains a respectable rank among English poets; but there are other poems of considerable merit from his pen. Pope collected and published them all in 1721, dedicating them to Robert Harley, Earl of Oxford, who had been Parnell's friend. In his dedication, Pope says:

"Such were the notes thy once-loved poet sung,
Till death untimely stopped his tuneful tongue.
O just beheld and lost! admired and mourned !
With softest manners, gentlest arts adorned!
Blest in each science, blest in every strain !
Dear to the Muse, to Harley dear-in vain!"

"The Hermit" is a modern version of a tale from the "Gesta Romanorum," which was the name of a mediæval collection of Latin tales, moralized for the use of preachers, cach tale having a religious "application" fitted to it.

THE HERMIT.

Another monster, not unlike himself,
Sullen of aspect, by the vulgar called
A Catchpole, whose polluted hands the gods
With force incredible and magic charms
First have endued. If he his ample palm
Should, haply, on ill-fated shoulder lay
Of debtor, straight his body, to the touch
Obsequious (as whilom knights were wont),
To some enchanted castle is conveyed,
Where gates impregnable and coercive chains
In durance strict detain him, till in form
Of money Pallas sets the captive free.
Beware, ye debtors, when ye walk, beware!
Be circumspect! Oft with insidious ken
This caitiff eyes your steps aloof, and oft
Lies perdue in a nook or gloomy cave,
Prompt to enchant some inadvertent wretch
With his unhallowed touch.

1 Maridunum, Caermarthen; Brechinia, Brecknock; Vaga, the Wye: Ariconium, Hereford.

A life so sacred, such serene repose, Seemed heaven itself, till one suggestion rose: That Vice should triumph, Virtue Vice obeyThis sprung some doubt of Providence's sway. His hopes no more a certain prospect boast, And all the tenor of his soul is lost : So when a smooth expanse receives, imprest, Calm Nature's image on its watery breast, Down bend the banks, the trees depending grow, And skies beneath with answering colors glow ;But if a stone the gentle sea divide, Swift ruffling circles curl on every side, And glimmering fragments of a broken sun, Banks, trees, and skies in thick disorder run!

To clear this doubt, to know the world by sight, To find if books or swains report it right (For yet by swains alone the world he knew, Whose feet came wandering o'er the nightly dew) He quits his cell; the pilgrim-staff he bore, And fixed the scallop in his hat before; Then with the sun a rising journey went, Sedate to think, and watching each event.

The morn was wasted in the pathless grass, And long and lonesome was the wild to pass; But when the southern sun had warmed the day, A Youth came posting o'er a crossing way; His raiment decent, his complexion fair, And soft in graceful ringlets waved his hair. Then near approaching, "Father, hail!" he cried ; And “Hail, my son!" the reverend sire replied. Words followed words, from question answer flowed, And talk of various kind deceived the road; Till each with other pleased, and loath to part, While in their age they differ, join in heart: Thus stands an agéd elm in ivy bonnd, Thus youthful ivy clasps an elm around.

Now sunk the sun; the closing hour of day Came onward, mantled o'er with sober gray; Nature in silence bid the world repose: When near the road a stately palace rose. There by the moon thro' ranks of trees they pass, Whose verdure crowned their sloping sides of grass. It chanced the noble master of the dome Still made his house the wandering stranger's home, Yet still the kindness, from a thirst of praise, Proved the vain flourish of expensive ease. The pair arrive; the liveried servants wait; Their lord receives them at the pompous gate. The table groans with costly piles of food, And all is more than hospitably good; Then, led to rest, the day's long toil they drown, Deep sunk in sleep, and silk, and heaps of down. At length 'tis morn, and at the dawn of day Along the wide canals the zephyrs play; Fresh o'er the gay parterres the breezes creep, And shake the neighboring wood to banish sleep. Up rise the guests, obedient to the call: An early banquet decked the splendid hall; Rich, Inscious wine a golden goblet graced, Which the kind master forced the guests to taste. Then, pleased and thankful, from the porch they go, And, but the landlord, none had cause of woe: His cup was vanished, for in secret guise The younger guest purloined the glittering prize. As one who spies a serpent in his way, Glistening and basking in the summer ray, Disordered, stops to shun the danger near, Then walks with faintness on, and looks with fear; So seemed the sire when, far upon the road, The shining spoil his wily partner showed. He stopped with silence, walked with trembling heart,

And much he wished, but durst not ask, to part: Murmuring, he lifts his eyes, and thinks it hard That generous actions meet a base reward.

133

While thus they pass the sun his glory shrouds, The changing skies hang out their sable clouds, A sound in air presaged approaching rain, And beasts to covert scud across the plain. Warned by the signs, the wandering pair re

treat,

To seek for shelter at a neighboring seat.
"Twas built with turrets, ou a rising ground,
And strong, and large, and unimproved around;
Its owner's temper, timorous and severe,
Unkind and griping, caused a desert there.

As near the miser's heavy doors they drew,
Fierce rising gusts with sudden fury blew ;
The nimble lightning, mixed with showers, began,
And o'er their heads loud-rolling thunders ran.
Here long they knock, but call or knock in vain,
Driven by the wind, and battered by the rain.
At length some pity warmed the master's breast
('Twas then his threshold first received a guest),
Slow creaking, turns the door with jealous care,
And half he welcomes in the shivering pair.
One frugal fagot lights the naked walls,
And Nature's fervor thro' their limbs recalls;
Bread of the coarsest sort, with eager wine
(Each hardly granted), served them both to dine;
And when the tempest first appeared to cease,
A ready warning bid them part in peace.

With still remark the poudering hermit viewed In one so rich a life so poor and rude; And why should such (within himself he cried) Lock the lost wealth a thousand want beside? But what new marks of wonder soon took place, In every settling feature of his face, When from his vest the young companion bore That cup the generous landlord owned before, And paid profusely with the precious bowl The stinted kindness of this churlish soul! But now the clouds in airy tumult fly; The sun, emerging, opes an azure sky; A fresher green the smelling leaves display, And, glittering as they tremble, cheer the day: The weather courts them from the poor retreat, And the glad master bolts the wary gate.

While hence they walk the pilgrim's bosom

wrought

With all the travail of uncertain thought.
His partner's acts without their cause appear;
"Twas there a vice, and seemed a madness here:
Detesting that, and pitying this, he goes,
Lost and confounded with the various shows.

1 French, aigre, sharp, acid. "With eager compounds we our palate urge."-SHAKSPEARE, Sonnet 118.

It seemed to speak its master's turn of mind,
Content, and not for praise but virtue kind.
Hither the walkers turn with weary feet,
Then bless the mansion, and the master greet.
Their greeting fair, bestowed with modest guise,
The courteous master hears, and thus replies:
"Without a vain, without a grudging heart,
To Him who gives us all I yield a part;
From Him you come, for Him accept it here,
A frank and sober more than costly cheer."
He spoke, and bid the welcome table spread,
Then talked of virtue till the time of bed,
When the grave household round his hall repair,
Warned by a bell, and close the hours with prayer.

At length the world, renewed by calm repose, Was strong for toil; the dappled morn arose. Before the pilgrims part, the younger crept Near the closed cradle where an infant slept, And writhed his neck: the landlord's little pride (Oh strange return!) grew black, and gasped, and died.

Horror of horrors! What! his only son!

How looked our hermit when the fact was done! Not hell, though hell's black jaws in sunder part And breathe blue fire, could more assault his heart.

Confused, and struck with silence at the deed, He flies, but, trembling, fails to fly with speed. His steps the youth pursues. The country lay Perplexed with roads: a servant showed the way. A river crossed the path; the passage o'er Was nice to find: the servant trod before. Long arms of oaks an open bridge supplied, And deep the waves beneath the bending glide. The Youth, who seemed to watch a time to sin, Approached the careless guide, and thrust him in: Plunging he falls, and, rising, lifts his head; Then, flashing, turns, and sinks among the dead. Wild, sparkling rage inflames the father's eyes; He bursts the bands of fear, and madly cries, "Detested wretch!"-But scarce his speech began When the strange partner seemed no longer man. His youthful face grew more serenely sweet; His robe turned white, and flowed upon his feet; Fair rounds of radiant points invest his hair; Celestial odors breathe through purpled air; And wings, whose colors glittered on the day, Wide at his back their gradual plumes display.

The form ethereal bursts upon his sight,

And moves in all the majesty of light.

Though loud at first the pilgrim's passion grew, Sudden he gazed, and wist not what to do; Surprise in secret chains his words suspends, And in a calm his settling temper ends. But silence here the beauteous angel broke (The voice of music ravished as he spoke): "Thy prayer, thy praise, thy life to vice unknown,

In sweet memorial rise before the Throne.
These charms success in our bright region find,
And force an angel down to calm thy mind;
For this commissioned, I forsook the sky:
Nay, cease to kneel-thy fellow-servant I.
"Then know the truth of government divine,
And let these scruples be no longer thine.
"The Maker justly claims that world he made:
In this the Right of Providence is laid;
Its sacred majesty through all depends

On using second means to work his ends.
'Tis thus, withdrawn in state from human eye,
The Power exerts his attributes on high,
Your action uses, nor controls your will,
And bids the doubting sons of men be still.

"What strange events can strike with more sur

prise

Than those which lately struck thy wondering eyes? Yet, taught by these, confess the Almighty just, And where you can't unriddle, learn to trust!

"The great, vain man, who fared on costly food, Whose life was too luxurious to be good; Who made his ivory stands with goblets shine, And forced his guests to morning draughts of wine;

Has with the cup the graceless custom lost,
And still he welcomes, but with less of cost.

"The mean, suspicious wretch, whose bolted door
Ne'er moved in duty to the wandering poor-
With him I left the cup, to teach his mind
That Heaven can bless if mortals will be kind.
Conscious of wanting worth, he views the bowl,
And feels compassion touch his grateful soul.
Thus artists melt the sullen ore of lead
With heaping coals of fire upon its head:
In the kind warmth the metal learns to glow,
And, loose from dross, the silver runs below.

"Long had our pious friend in virtue trod; But now the child half-weaned his heart from God: Child of his age, for him he lived in pain, And measured back his steps to earth again. To what excesses had his dotage run! But God, to save the father, took the son.

To all but thee in fits he seemed to go,
And 'twas my ministry to deal the blow.
The poor, fond parent, humbled in the dust,
Now owns in tears the punishment was just.
"But how had all his fortune felt a wrack,
Had that false servant sped in safety back!
This night his treasured heaps he meant to steal,
And what a fund of charity would fail!

"Thus Heaven instructs thy mind. This trial o'er,

Depart in peace, resign, and sin no more."

On sounding pinions here the youth withdrew; The sage stood wondering as the seraph flew. Thus looked Elisha when to mount on high His master took the chariot of the sky: The fiery pomp, ascending, left the view; The prophet gazed, and wished to follow too. The bending hermit here a prayer begun"Lord! as in heaven, on earth thy will be done!" Then, gladly turning, sought his ancient place, And passed a life of piety and peace.

Edward Young.

The author of the "Night Thoughts" (1684-1765) was educated at Oxford, and on finishing his education became, after the example of other poets of the time, an assiduous aspirant to court favor. But neither Queen Anne nor George I. rewarded his zeal. The patronage of the "notorious Wharton," a friend of Young's father, did the son no honor. He accompanied Wharton to Ireland in 1716. It was during this visit that Young took a walk with Dean Swift, when the dean, looking at the withered upper branches of an elm, remarked, “I shall be like that tree; I shall die at the top." Personal acquaintance does not seem to have warded off the satire of Swift; for after Young was appointed a king's chaplain in 1727, Swift described the poet as compelled

to

"Torture his invention

To flatter knaves, or lose his pension."

But it does not appear that there was any other reward than the chaplaincy. When fifty years old, Young married Lady Elizabeth Lee, a widow. By her he had a son. She had two children by her former marriage, and to these Young became warmly attached. Both died; and when the mother also followed, Young composed his "Night Thoughts," a work of unquestionable power, exhibiting rare skill in giving condensed force to language, and, amidst all its gloom, occasionally lit up with flashes of genuine poetical feeling. Sixty years had clevated and enriched Young's genius, and augmented even the brilliancy of his fancy. The extremity of age could not arrest his indomitable mental activity. He died in the midst of his literary employments, at the age of eighty-four.

135

The foundation of his great poem was family misfortune, colored and exaggerated for effect :—

"Insatiate archer! could not one suffice?

Thy shafts flew thrice, and thrice my peace was slain; And thrice, ere thrice yon moon had filled her horn."

This rapid succession of bereavements was a poetical license; for in one of the cases there was an interval of four years, and in another of seven months.

In spite of the artificial, antithetical, and epigrammatic style of parts of the great poem-in spite of what Hazlitt calls "its glitter and lofty pretensions"-it still leaves for our admiration many noble passages, where the poet speaks, as from inspiration, of life, death, and immortality. The more carefully it is studied the more extraordinary and weighty with thought will it appear. But there is no plot or progressive interest in the poem. Each of the nine books is independent of the other. Hazlitt thinks it "has been much over-rated from the popularity of the subject;" but this we do not admit. The wonder is in that mastery of language that could float a theme so vast and so unpromising.

Young wrote satires under the title of the "Love of Fame, the Universal Passion;" also plays, among which "Busiris" and "The Revenge" had considerable success on the stage. But his "Night Thoughts" is a work that so towers above them all, as to leave his other poems in merited obscurity. The lapse of time has enhanced rather than detracted from the fame of this extraordinary production. Lord Lytton has left his testimony to its greatness.

Young, who had become acquainted with Voltaire (thirteen years his junior) during the latter's residence in England (about the year 1728), dedicated some of his verses to him in a poem of fifty-four lines, highly complimentary to the rising French author.

INVOCATION TO THE AUTHOR OF LIGHT.

NIGHT I.

Thou who did'st put to flight

Primeval silence, when the morning stars,
Exulting, shouted o'er the rising vale;—

O thou! whose word from solid darkness struck
That spark, the sun,-strike wisdom from my soul;
My soul which flies to thee, her trust, her treasure,
As misers to their gold while others rest.

Through this opaque of nature and of soul, This double night, transmit one pitying ray, To lighten and to cheer. Oh, lead my mind (A mind that fain would wander from its woe), Lead it through various scenes of life and death, And from each scene the noblest truths inspire. Nor less inspire my conduct than my song; Teach my best reason, reason; my best will, Teach rectitude; and fix my firm resolve Wisdom to wed, and pay her long arrear:

Nor let the vial of thy vengeance, poured
On this devoted head, be poured in vain.

The bell strikes one. We take no note of time
But from its loss: to give it then a tongue
Is wise in man. As if an angel spoke,
I feel the solemn sound. If heard aright,
It is the knell of my departed hours.
Where are they? With the years beyond the flood.
It is the signal that demands despatch:

How much is to be done! My hopes and fears
Start up alarmed, and o'er life's narrow verge
Look down-on what? A fathomless abyss;
A dread eternity! how surely mine!
And can eternity belong to me,

Poor pensioner on the bounties of an hour!

How poor, how rich, how abject, how august,
How complicate, how wonderful is man!
How passing wonder He who made him such!
Who centred in our make such strange extremes!
From different natures, marvellously mixed,
Connection exquisite of distant worlds!
Distinguished link in being's endless chain!
Midway from nothing to the Deity!
A beam ethereal, sullied and absorpt!
Though sullied and dishonored, still divine!
Dim miniature of greatness absolute!
An heir of glory! a frail child of dust!
Helpless immortal! insect infinite!

A worm! a god!-I tremble at myself,
And in myself am lost. At home a stranger,
Thought wanders up and down, surprised, aghast,
And wondering at her own. How reason reels!
Oh! what a miracle to man is man!
Triumphantly distressed! what joy! what dread!
Alternately transported and alarmed!

What can preserve my life? or what destroy?
An angel's arm can't snatch me from the grave;
Legions of angels can't confine me there.

THE DEPARTED LIVE.

NIGHT I.

E'en silent night proclaims my soul immortal:
E'en silent night proclaims eternal day;
For human weal heaven husbands all events:
Dull sleep instructs, nor sport vain dreams in vain.
Why then their loss deplore that are not lost?
Why wanders wretched thought their tombs around
In infidel distress? Are angels there?
Slumbers, raked up in dust, ethereal fire?

They live, they greatly live-a life on earth
Unkindled, unconceived-and from an eye

Yet man, fool man! here buries all his thoughts,
Inters celestial hopes without one sigh.
Prisoner of earth, and pent beneath the moon,
Here pinions all his wishes; winged by heaven
To fly at infinite-and reach it there
Where seraphs gather immortality,

On life's fair tree, fast by the throne of God.
What golden joys ambrosial clustering glow
In his full beam, and ripen for the just,
Where momentary ages are no more!

Where time and pain and chance and death expire!
And is it in the flight of threescore years,
To push eternity from human thought,
And smother souls immortal in the dust?-
A soul immortal, spending all her fires,
Wasting her strength in strenuous idleness,
Thrown into tumult, raptured or alarmed,
At aught this scene can threaten or indulge,
Resembles ocean into tempest wrought,
To waft a feather, or to drown a fly.

HOMER, MILTON, POPE.

NIGHT I.

How often I repeat their rage divine,

To lull my griefs, and steal my heart from woe!

I roll their raptures, but not catch their fire:
Dark, though not blind, like thee, Mæonides!
Or, Milton! thee; ah, could I reach your strain!
Or his, who made Mæonides' our own:
Man too he sung; immortal man I sing;
Oft bursts my song beyond the bounds of life;
What now but immortality can please!
Oh, had he pressed the theme, pursued the track
Which opens out of darkness into day!
Oh, had he, mounted on his wings of fire,
Soared where I siuk, and sung immortal mau,
How had it blest mankind, and rescued me!

1 By Mæonides is meant Homer; and by him "who made Mæonides our own" is meant Pope, who wrote the "Essay on Man," and translated Homer.