When we discern so rich a vein of sense,
Through the smooth flow of purest eloquence;
'Tis like the limpid streams of Tagus roll'd
O'er boundless wealth, o'er shining beds of gold.
But whence so finish'd, so refined a piece?
The tongue denies it to old Rome and Greece;
The genius bids the moderns doubt their claim,
And slowly take possession of the fame.
But I nor know, nor care, by whom 'twas writ,
Enough for me that 'tis from human wit,
That soothes my pride: all glory in the pen
Which has done honour to the race of men.
But this have others done; a like applause
An ancient and a modern Horace draws.1
But they to glory by degrees arose,
Meridian lustre you at once disclose.
'Tis continence of mind, unknown before.
To write so well, and yet to write no more,
More bright renown can human nature claim,
Than to deserve, and fly immortal fame ?

Next to the godlike praise of writing well,
Is on that praise with just delight to dwell.
O, for some God my drooping soul to raise !
That I might imitate, as well as praise;
For all commend: e'en foes your fame confess;
Nor would Augustus' age have prized it less;
An age, which had not held its pride so long.
But for the want of so complete a song.

A golden period shall from you cominence :
Peace shall be sign'd 'twixt wit and manly sense;
Whether your genius or your rank they view,
The muses find their Halifax in you.
Like him succeed! nor think my zeal is shown
For you; 'tis Britain's interest, not your own;
For lofty stations are but golden snares,
Which tempt the great to fall in love with cares.

I would proceed, but age has chill'd my vein, 'Twas a short fever, and I'm cool again. Though life I hate, methinks I could renew Its tasteless, painful course, to sing of you. When such the subject, who shall curb his flight? When such your genius, who shall dare to write? In pure respect, I give my rhyming o'er,

1 Boileau.

And, to commend you most, commend no more.
Adieu, whoe'er thou art! on death's pale coast
Ere long I'll talk thee o'er with Dryden's ghost;
The bard will smile. A last, a long farewell!
Henceforth I hide me in my dusky cell;

There wait the friendly stroke that sets me free,
And think of immortality and thee—

My strains are number'd by the tuneful Nine ;

Each maid presents her thanks, and all present thee mine.

RESIGNATION.1

IN TWO PARTS.

My soul shall be satisfied even as it were with marrow and fatness, when my mouth praiseth thee with joyful lips.—PSALM lxiii. 6.

ADVERTISEMENT.

This was not intended for the public, there were many and strong reasons against it; and are so still; but some extracts of it, from the few copies which were given away, being got into the printed papers, it was thought necessary to publish something, lest a copy still more imperfect than this should fall into the press and it is hoped, that this unwelcome occasion of publication may be some excuse for it.

As for the following stanzas, God Almighty's infinite power, and marvellous goodness to man, is dwelt on, as the most just and cogent reason for our cheerful and absolute resignation to his will; nor are any of those topics declined, which have a just tendency to promote that supreme virtue: such as the vanity of this life, the value of the next, the approach of death, &c.

PART I.

THE days how few, how short the years
Of man's too rapid race!

Each leaving, as it swiftly flies,

A shorter in its place.

They who the longest lease enjoy,

Have told us with a sigh,

That to be born seems little more

Than to begin to die.

Numbers there are who feel this truth

With fears alarmed; and yet,

In life's delusions lull'd asleep,
This weighty truth forget:

And am not I to these akin?
Age slumbers o'er the quill;
Its honour blots, whate'er it writes,
And am I writing still?

Conscious of nature in decline,
And languor in my thoughts;
To soften censure, and abate
Its rigour on my faults;

1 Written to console Mrs Boscawen, on the death of her husband, Admiral Boscawen. It is the last poem written by Young.

Permit me, madam! ere to you
The promised verse I pay,
To touch on felt infirmity,
Sad sister of decay.

One world deceased, another born,
Like Noah they behold,

O'er whose white hairs, and furrow'd brows,
Too many suns have rolled :

Happy the patriarch! he rejoiced
His second world to see:

My second world, though gay the scene,
Can boast no charms for me.

To me this brilliant age appears
With desolation spread;

Near all with whom I lived, and smiled,
Whilst life was life, are dead;

And with them died my joys; the grave
Has broken nature's laws;

And closed, against this feeble frame,
Its partial cruel jaws;

Cruel to spare! condemn'd to life!
A cloud impairs my sight;
My weak hand disobeys my will,
And trembles as I write.

What shall I write? Thalia, tell;
Say, long abandon'd muse!
What field of fancy shall I range?
What subject shall I choose?
A choice of moment high inspire,
And rescue me from shame,
For doting on thy charms so late,
By grandeur in my theme.

Beyond the themes, which most admire,

Which dazzle, or amaze,

Beyond renown'd exploits of war,

Bright charms, or empire's blaze,

Are themes, which, in a world of woe,
Can best appease our pain;
And, in an age of gaudy guilt,
day folly's flood restrain;

Amidst the storms of life support
A calm unshaken mind;
And with unfading laurels crown
The brow of the resign'd.

O resignation! yet unsung,
Untouch'd by former strains;
Though claiming every muse's smile,
And every poet's pains,

Beneath life's evening, solemn shade,
I dedicate my page

To thee, thou safest guard of youth!
Thou sole support of age!

All other duties crescents are
Of virtue faintly bright,
The glorious consummation, thou!
Which fills her orb with light:

How rarely filled! the love divine
In evils to discern,

This the first lesson which we want,
The latest, which we learn;

A melancholy truth! for know,
Could our proud hearts resign,
The distance greatly would decrease
'Twixt human and divine.

But though full noble is my theme,
Full urgent is my call

To soften sorrow, and forbid

The bursting tear to fall:

The task I dread; dare I to leave
Of humble prose the shore,
And put to sea? a dangerous sea?
What throngs have sunk before!

How proud the poet's billow swells!
The God! the God! his boast:
A boast how vain! What wrecks abound?
Dead bards stench every coast.

What then am I? Shall I presume,

On such a moulten wing,

Above the general wreck to rise,

And in my winter, sing;