2 The Jealous Wife! on that thy trophies raise, From Dublin, fum'd in legends of romance S Thus sportive boys, around some bason's brim, Mossop, attach'd to military plan, Still kept his eye fix'd on his right-hand man. Whilst the mouth measures words with seeming skill, The right-hand labours, and the left lies still; He soars beyond the hackney critic's reach ; Whilst principals, ungrac'd, like lacquies wait; Iỵ, she, IT, AND, WE, YE, THEY, fright the soul. In person taller than the common size, Behold where Barry draws admiring eyes! When lab'ring passions, in his bosom pent, Convulsive rage, and struggling heave for vent; pectators, with imagin'd terrours warm, nxious expect the bursting of the storm: ut, all unfit in such a pile to dwell, lis voice comes forth, like Echo from her cell; To swell the tempest needful aid denies, nd all a-down the stage in feeble murmur dies. What man, like Barry, with such pains can err 1 elocution, action, character? That man could give, if Barry was not here, uch well-applauded tenderness to Lear? Tho else can speak so very, very fine, hat sense may kindly end with ev'ry line? Some dozen lines before the ghost is there, ehold him for the solemn scene prepare. e how he frames his eyes, poises each limb, uts the whole body into proper trim. rom whence we learn, with no great stretch of art, ive lines hence comes a ghost, and ha! a start. When he appears most perfect, still we find omething which jars upon, and hurts the mind. "hatever lights upon a part are thrown, Te see too plainly they are not his own. o flame from Nature ever yet he caught; or knew a feeling which he was not taught; He rais'd his trophies on the base of art, nd conn'd his passions, as he conn'd his part. Quin, from afar, lur'd by the scent of fame, stage Leviathan, put in his claim, upil of Betterton and Booth. Alone, allen he walk'd, and deem'd the chair his own. For how should moderns, mushrooms of the day, Due praise, nor must we, Quin, forget thee there. His words bore sterling weight, nervous and strong, In manly tides of sense they roll'd along. Speech! Is that all? - And shall an actor found To weigh out words, while passion halts behind. Those who would make us feel, must feel themselves. In Brute he shone unequall'd: all agree Just his conceptions, natural and great: The two extremes appear like man and wife, His action 's always strong, but sometimes such, And hurl the close-clench'd fist at nose or eye? I thought he would have knock'd poor Davies down. Inhuman tyrant! was it not a shame, To fright a king so harmless and so tame? One finds out, "He's of stature somewhat low Your hero always should be tall, you know. — By which he makes his way to shallow hearts; But, only us'd in proper time and place, If bunglers, form'd on Imitation's plan, When Reason yields to Passion's wild alarms, And the whole state of man is up in arms; What but a critic could condemn the play'r, For pausing here, when Cool-Sense pauses there? Whilst, working from the heart, the fire I trace, And mark it strongly flaming to the face; Whilst, in each sound, I hear the very man; I can't catch words, and pity those who can. Let wits, like spiders, from the tortur'd brain, Fine-draw the critic-web with curious pain: The gods, a kindness I with thanks must pay,Have form'd me of a coarser kind of clay; Not stung with envy, nor with pain diseas'd, A poor dull creature, still with Nature pleas'd; Hence to thy praises, Garrick, I agree, And, pleas'd with Nature, must be pleas'd with the Now I might tell, how silence reign'd throughout, And deep attention hush'd the rabble rout: How ev'ry claimant, tortur'd with desire, Was pale as ashes, or as red as fire: But, loose to fame, the Muse more simply acts, Rejects all flourish, and relates mere facts. The judges, as the several parties came, [clsin, With temper heard, with judgment weigh'd eac And, in their sentence happily agreed, In name of both, great Shakspeare thus decreed. "If manly sense; if Nature link'd with Art; If thorough knowledge of the human heart; If pow'rs of acting vast and unconfin'd; If fewest faults with greatest beauties join'd; If strong expression, and strange pow'rs which lie Within the magic circle of the eye; If feelings which few hearts, like his, can know, And which no face so well as his can show, Deserve the pref'rence - Garrick, take the chair; Nor quit it-till thou place an equal there." EDWARD YOUNG, a poet of considerable celebrity, the "Night Thoughts." This production is truly was the only son of Dr. Edward Young, fellow of original in design and execution: it imitates none, Winchester College, and rector of Upham, Hamp- and has no imitators. Its spirit is, indeed, gloomy shire. He was born at his father's living, in 1684, and severe, and its theology awful and overwhelmand was educated at Winchester school, whence he ing. It seems designed to pluck up by the roots was removed to New College, and afterwards to every consolation for human evils, except that Corpus Christi College, Oxford. By the favour of founded on the scheme of Christianity which the Archbishop Tenison he obtained a law-fellowship writer adopted; yet it presents reflections which at All-Souls. At this time his chief pursuit are inculcated with a force of language, and subappears to have been poetry; and it is little to his limity of imagination, almost unparalleled. It credit, with respect to his choice of patrons, that he abounds with the faults characteristic of the writer, has sought them through all the political changes of and is spun out to a tedious length, that of nine the time. Tragedy was one of his favourite pur-books; but if not often read through, it will never suits, in which his "Revenge," dedicated in 1721 sink into neglect. It was evidently the favourite to the Duke of Wharton, was regarded as his work of the author, who ever after wished to be principal effort. Many other performances, how-known as the composer of the "Night Thoughts." ever, took their turn, of which the most noted at The numerous editions of the work sufficiently this time were his "Paraphrase on Part of the prove the hold which it has taken of the public Book of Job;" and " The Love of Fame, or the mind. Universal Passion.' Young, now in his forty-fourth year, having given up his prospects as a layman, took orders, and was nominated one of the Royal Chaplains. He published some prose works as the fruits of his new profession, of which were, "The True Estimate of Human Life," representing only its dark side; Find "An Apology for Princes, or the Reverence lue to Government," a sermon, well suited to a court chaplain. In 1730 he was presented, by his college, to the rectory of Welwyn, in Hertfordshire; and in the following year he married Lady Eliza beth Lee, widow of Colonel Lee, and daughter of the Earl of Lichfield. This lady he lost in 1741, after she had borne him one son. Other affecting family losses occurred about that period, and aggrarated his disposition to melancholy; and it was in this year that he commenced his famous poem, The lyric attempts of Young were singularly unfortunate, not one of his pieces of that class having a claim for perusal; and, indeed, many of his other poetical writings display inequalities, and defects of taste and judgment, very extraordinary for a writer of his rank. In an edition of his works, published during his life, in four vols. 8vo., he himself excluded several compositions, which he thought of inferior merit, and expunged many de dications, of which he was doubtless ashamed. A letter to him, from Archbishop Secker, proves, however, that at a late period of life he had not ceased to solicit preferment. He latterly fell under domestic sway, and was entirely subdued to the controul of a housekeeper. Young continued to exist till April 1765, when he expired in his 84th year. A PARAPHRASE ON PART OF THE BOOK OF JOB. THRICE happy Job long liv'd in regal state, And spotted plagues, that mark'd his limbs all o'er And blotted from the year; nor fears to crave So high at length their arguments were wrought, When shouting sons of God the triumph crown'd, And can thy span of knowledge grasp the ball? Who heav'd the mountain, which sublimely stands, And casts its shadow into distant lands? "Who, stretching forth his sceptre o'er the deep, Can that wide world in due subjection keep? I broke the globe, I scoop'd its hollow side, And did a bason for the floods provide; I chain'd them with my word; the boiling sea, Work'd up in tempests, hears my great decree ; Thus far, thy floating tide shall be convey'd; And here, O main, be thy proud billows stay'd.' "Hast thou explor'd the secrets of the deep, Where, shut from use, unnumber'd treasures sleep? Where, down a thousand fathoms from the day, Springs the great fountain, mother of the sea? Those gloomy paths did thy bold foot e'er tread, Whole worlds of waters rolling o'er thy head? "Hath the cleft centre open'd wide to thee? Death's inmost chambers didst thou ever see? E'er knock at his tremendous gate, and wade To the black portal through th' incumbent shade? Deep are those shades; but shades still deeper hide My counsels from the ken of human pride. "Where dwells the light? In what refulgent dome? And where has darkness made her disma. home? Thou know'st, no doubt, since thy large heart is fraught With ripen'd wisdom, through long ages brought; Since Nature was call'd forth when thou wast by, And into being rose beneath thine eye! "Thou know'st me not; thy blindness cannot How vast a distance parts thy God from thee. Canst thou in whirlwinds mount aloft? Canst thou In clouds and darkness wrap thy aweful brow? And, when day triumphs in meridian light, Put forth thy hand, and shade the world with night? "Who launch'd the clouds in air, and bid them roll Suspended scas aloft, from pole to pole? "To check the shower, who lifts his hand on high, mand Rage through the world, or waste a guilty land. "Who drew the comet out to such a size, "Who on low Earth can moderate the rein, That guides the stars along th' ethereal plain? Appoint their seasons, and direct their course, Their lustre brighten, and supply their force? Canst thou the skies' benevolence restrain, And cause the Pleiades to shine in vain? Or, when Orion sparkles from his sphere, Thaw the cold season, and unbind the year? Bid Mazzaroth his destin'd station know, And teach the bright Arcturus where to glow? Mine is the night, with all her stars; I pour Myriads, and myriads I reserve in store. Пость "Dost thou pronounce where day-light shall b And draw the purple curtain of the morn; Awake the Sun, and bid him come away, And glad thy world with his obsequious ray? Hast thou, enthron'd in flaming glory, driven Triumphant round the spacious ring of Heaven? That pomp of light, what hand so far displays, That distant Earth lies basking in the blaze? PARAPHRASE ON PART OF THE BOOK OF JOB. "Who did the soul with her rich powers invest, And light up reason in the human breast? To shine, with fresh increase of lustre bright, When stars and Sun are set in endless night? To these my various questions make reply.' Th' Almighty spoke; and, speaking, shook the sky. What then, Chaldæan sire, was thy surprise! Thus thou, with trembling heart and down-cast eyes: "Once and again, which I in groans deplore, My tongue has err'd; but shall presume no more. My voice is in eternal silence bound, And all my soul falls prostrate to the ground." He ceas'd: when, lo, again th' Almighty spoke; The same dread voice from the black whirlwind broke. "Can that arm measure with an arm divine? And canst thou thunder with a voice like mine? Or in the hollow of thy hand contain The bulk of waters, the wide-spreading main, When, mad with tempests, all the billows rise n all their rage, and dash the distant skies? "Come forth, in beauty's excellence array'd; And be the grandeur of thy power display'd; 'ut on omnipotence, and, frowning, make he spacious round of the creation shake; Dispatch thy vengeance, bid it overthrow 'riumphant vice, lay lofty tyrants low, nd crumble them to dust. When this is done, grant thy safety lodg'd in thee alone; of thee thou art, and mayst undaunted stand ehind the buckler of thine own right-hand. "Fond man! the vision of a moment made! ream of a dream! and shadow of a shade! What worlds hast thou produc'd, what creatures fram'd; That insects cherish'd, that thy God is blam'd? 'hen pain'd with hunger, the wild raven's brood oud calls on God, importunate for food: ho hears their cry, who grants their hoarse request, nd stills the clamour of the craving nest? "Who in the stupid ostrich has subdued parent's care, and fond inquietude? hile far she flies, her scatter'd eggs are found, ithout an owner, on the sandy ground; ist out on fortune, they at mercy lie, ad borrow life from an indulgent sky: lopted by the Sun, in blaze of day, ey ripen under his prolific ray. mindful she, that some unhappy tread, ay crush her young in their neglected bed.. hat time she skims along the field with speed, e scorns the rider, and pursuing steed. "How rich the peacock! what bright glories run om plume to plume, and vary in the Sun! e proudly spreads them to the golden ray, ves all his colours, and adorns the day; ith conscious state the spacious round displays, id slowly moves amid the waving blaze. "Who taught the hawk to find, in seasons wise, rpetual summer, and a change of skies? hen clouds deform the year, she mounts the wind, oots to the south, nor fears the storm behind; e Sun returning, she returns again, ves in his beams, and leaves ill days to men. "Though strong the hawk, though practis'd well to fly, n eagle drops her in a lower sky; 535 Did thy command her yellow pinion lift Bid him bring home the seasons to thy doors, ; [me, "Didst thou from service the wild ass discharge, His meal is on the range of mountains spread; "Survey the warlike horse! didst thou invest |