RESIGNATION,

By Dr. EDWARD YOUNG.

THE

PART I.

HE days how few, how fhort the years,
Of man's too rapid race;

Each leaving, as it fwiftly flies,

A fhorter in its place ?

They who the longeft leafe enjoy,

Have told us, with a figh,

That, to be born, feems little more

Than to begin to die.

Numbers there are who feel this truth,

With fears alarm'd; and yet,

In life's delufions lull'd asleep,
This weighty truth forget.
And am not I to thefe a-kin?
Age flumbers o'er the quill:
Its honour blots whate'er it writes,
And am I writing ftill?

Confcious of nature in decline,
And languor in my thoughts,
To foften cenfure, and abate
Its rigour on my faults,
Vol. IV. 16.

A

Permit

Permit me, Madam, ere to you
The promis'd verfe I pay,
To touch on felt infirmity,

Sad fifter of decay.

One world deceas'd, another born,

Like Noah they behold,

O'er whofe white hairs and furrow'd brows

Too many funs have roll'd. Happy the patriarch! he rejoic'd

His fecond world to fee;

My fecond world, tho' gay the fcene,

Can boaft no charms for me.

To me this brilliant

age appears

With defolation spread ;

Near all with whom I liv'd, and fmil'd,
Whilft life was life, are dead :

And with them died my joys the grave

Has broken nature's laws;

And clos'd, against this feeble frame,
Its partial cruel jaws :

Cruel to fpare! condemn'd to life!
A cloud impairs my fight;
My weak hand disobeys my will,

And trembles as I write.

What fhall I write? Thalia! tell;

Say, long abandon'd muse! What field of fancy fhall I range?

What fubject fhall I chuse?

A choice

A choice of moment high infpire,
And refcue me from fhame,

For doating on thy charms fo late,
By grandeur 'n my theme.

Beyond the themes, which moft admire,

Which dazzle, or amaze;

Beyond renown'd exploits of war,
Bright charms, or empire's blaze,
Are themes which, in a world of wo,
Can beft appease our pain;
And, in an age of gaudy guilt,
Gay folly's flood reftrain ;
Amidst the forms of life fupport
A calm unfhaken mind;
And with unfading laurels crown
The brow of the refign'd.
O RESIGNATION! yet unfung,
Untouch'd by former ftrains;
Tho' claiming ev'ry mufe's smile,
And ev'ry poet's pains;

Beneath life's ev'ning folemn fhade,

I dedicate my page

To thee, thou fafeft guard of youth!
Thou fole fupport of age!

All other duties crefcents are
Of virtue faintly bright;

The glorious confummation, thou!

Which fills her orb with light;

How rarely fill'd! The love divine
In evils to difcern;

This the first leffon which we want,
The latest which we learn:
A melancholy truth! For know,
Could our proud hearts refign,
The diftance greatly would decrease
'Twixt human and divine.

But tho' full noble is my theme,
Full urgent is my call

To foften forrow, and forbid
The bursting tear to fall;
The tafk I dread: dare I to leave
Of human profe the fhore,
And put to fea? a dang'rous fea!
What throngs have funk before!
How proud the poet's billows fwell!
The God! The God his boast ;
A boast how vain! what wrecks abound!
Dead bards flench every coaft.
What then am I? Shall I prefume,
On fuch a moulten wing,
Above the general wreck to rife,

And, in my winter, fing;
When nightingales, when fweeteft bards,

Confine their charming fong

To fummer's animating heats,

Content to warble young ?

Yet,

Yet, write I muft; a lady* fues;
How fhameful her request?
My brain in labour for dull rhyme !
Her's teeming with the best!
But you a ftranger will excufe,

Nor fcorn his feeble ftrain;

To you a ftranger, but, through fate,
No ftranger to your pain.

The ghoft of grief deceas'd afcends,
His old wound bleeds anew;

His forrows are recall'd to life

By those he sees in you :
Too well he knows the twifled ftrings
Of ardent hearts combin'd;

When rent afunder, how they bleed,
How hard to be refign'd:

Thofe tears you pour, his eyes have shed;

The pang you feel, he felt ;

Thus Nature, loud as Virtue, bids

His heart at your's to melt.

But what can heart, or head, fuggeft?

What fad Experience fay?

Through truths auflere, to peace we work

Our rugged, gloomy way :

What are we? whence? for what? and whither ?

Who know not, needs must mourn;

But Thought, bright daughter of the skies!

Can tears to triumph turn.

A 3

Thought

* Mrs M