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The same critic 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 conclude 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 ex
"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 once 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 s man of genius, and a poet.”
P. S. The materials of the above Life are taker from the article referring to our author in Johnson's Nov Lives of the Poets, written by Mr. Herbert Croft Canst with the Critique of Dr. Johnson, compared with the Biographia Britannica, and other respectable authorities.
How C Thou Driv'n Yet
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, "o grieve, to raise, to terrify, to charm;
To fix the soul on God; to teach the mind
ON LIFE, DEATH, AND IMMORTALITY.
To the Right Honourable Arthur Onslow, Esq. Speaker of the House of Commons.
TIR'D Nature's sweet restorer, balmy SLEEP!
From short (as usual) and disturb'd repose,
At random drove, her helm of reason lost: