PROCRASTINATION is the thief of time; Year after year it steals, till all are fled, And to the mercies of a moment leaves The vast concerns of an eternal scene. If not so frequent, would not this be strange? That 'tis so frequent, this is stranger still.

Of man's miraculous mistakes, this bears The palm, "That all men are about to live," For ever on the brink of being born. All pay themselves the compliment to think They one day shall not drivel: and their pride On this reversion takes up ready praise;

JASO samvua augue inuugins, uieu în aprи 1765, naving lived to his eighty-fourth year upon the small living granted him by his College.

Dr. Young was a man of great general powers of mind. He had an admirable command of language, and may stand in the first rank of gloomy satirists. In also admitting that in his Night Thoughts are to be found numerous passages of lofty and sustained reflection, it should be added that that work, neither in plan nor in execution, deserves the reputation it has acquired. It was not worthy of Young, after the life he had lived, to sit down near its close in a fit of resentful melancholy, and strive to terrify the world with the bugbears of religious horror. This is surely not what a true poet would have done, whose duty and whose pride it is to make poetry shed light and life upon man, not darkness and death, and who never sets himself a rigid task, or shuts himself up in a world of personal and morbid feeling, but goes round worlds universal, actual, infinite, and unseen, in visions of hope and beauty. The real portion of Dr. Young's powers found vent, as we have intimated, in the satirical form, and the general style of his epistles is remarkably terse and epigrammatic. His tragedy of the Revenge has kept possession of the stage; but its character of Zanga has been justly thought a vulgar caricature of Iago.

PROCRASTINATION is the thief of time; Year after year it steals, till all are fled, And to the mercies of a moment leaves The vast concerns of an eternal scene. If not so frequent, would not this be strange? That 'tis so frequent, this is stranger still.

Of man's miraculous mistakes, this bears The palm, "That all men are about to live," For ever on the brink of being born. All pay themselves the compliment to think They one day shall not drivel: and their pride On this reversion takes up ready praise;

At least, their own their future selves applaud;
How excellent that life they ne'er will lead !
Time lodg'd in their own hands is folly's vails;
That lodg'd in fate's, to wisdom they consign;
The thing they can't but purpose, they postpone ;
'Tis not in folly, not to scorn a fool;

And scarce in human wisdom, to do more.

All promise is poor dilatory man,

And that through every stage; when young, indeed,
In full content we, sometimes, nobly rest,
Unanxious for ourselves; and only wish,

As duteous sons, our fathers were more wise.
At thirty man suspects himself a fool;
Knows it at forty, and reforms his plan;
At fifty chides his infamous delay,
Pushes his prudent purpose to resolve;
In all the magnanimity of thought

Resolves; and re-resolves; then dies the same.

And why? Because he thinks himself immortal. All men think all men mortal, but themselves; Themselves, when some alarming shock of fate Strikes through their wounded hearts the sudden dread; But their hearts wounded, like the wounded air,

Soon close; where, past the shaft, no trace is found.

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Retire; the world shut out;-thy thoughts call home;-
Imagination's airy wing repress ;-

Lock up thy senses;-let no passion stir;-
Wake all to reason;-let her reign alone;
Then, in thy soul's deep silence, and the depth
Of Nature's silence, midnight, thus inquire,

As I have done; and shall inquire no more.
In Nature's channel, thus the questions run :-

"What am I? and from whence ?-I nothing know

But that I am; and, since I am, conclude

Something eternal: had there e'er been nought,
Nought still had been; eternal there must be.-
But what eternal?-Why not human race?

And Adam's ancestors without an end ?-
That's hard to be conceiv'd, since every link
Of that long-chain'd succession is so frail.
Can every part depend, and not the whole?
Yet grant it true; new difficulties rise;
I'm still quite out at sea; nor see the shore.

Whence Earth, and these bright orbs?- Eternal too?
Grant matter was eternal; still these orbs

Would want some other father;-much design
Is seen in all their motions, all their makes;
Design implies intelligence, and art;

That can't be from themselves-or man that art
Man scarce can comprehend, could man bestow?
And nothing greater yet allow'd than man.—
Who, motion, foreign to the smallest grain,
Shot through vast masses of enormous weight?
Who bid brute matter's restive lump assume
Such various forms, and gave it wings to fly?
Has matter innate motion? then each atom,
Asserting its indisputable right

To dance, would form an universe of dust:

Has matter none? Then whence these glorious forms
And boundless flights, from shapeless, and repos'd?
Has matter more than motion? has it thought,
Judgment, and genius? is it deeply learn'd
In mathematics? Has it fram'd such laws,
Which but to guess, a Newton made immortal?-
If so, how each sage atom laughs at me,
Who think a clod inferior to a man!

If art, to form; and counsel, to conduct;
And that with greater far than human skill,
Resides not in each block;-a Godhead reigns.

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Our dying friends come o'er us like a cloud,
To damp our brainless ardours; and abate
That glare of life which often blinds the wise.
Our dying friends are pioneers, to smooth
Our rugged pass to death; to break those bars
Of terror and abhorrence Nature throws
'Cross our obstructed way; and, thus to make
Welcome, as safe, our port from every storm.
Each friend by fate snatch'd from us, is a plume
Pluck'd from the wing of human vanity,
Which makes us stoop from our aërial heights,
And, dampt with omen of our own decease,
On drooping pinions of ambition lower'd,
Just skim earth's surface, ere we break it up,
O'er putrid earth to scratch a little dust,
And save the world a nuisance.
Are angels sent on errands full of love;

Smitten friends