THOMAS PARNELL. don pulpits, with the intention of rising to notice; but the change of the ministry at Queen Anne's death put an end to his more brilliant prospects in the church. By means, however, of Swift's recommendation to Archbishop King, he obtained a prebend, and the valuable living of Finglass. His domestic happiness received a severe shock in 1712, by the death of his beloved wife; and it was the effect on his spirits of this affliction which led him into such a habit of intemperance in wine as shortened his days. This, at least, is the gloss put upon the circumstance by his historian, Goldsmith, who represents him, "as in some measure a martyr to conjugal fidelity." But it can scarcely be doubted, that this mode of life had already been formed when his very unequal spirits had required the aid of a glass for his support. He died at Chester, on his way to Ireland, in July 1717, in the thirty-eighth year of his age, and was buried in Trinity Church, in that city. THOMAS PARNELL, an agreeable poet, was descended from an ancient family in Cheshire. His father, who was attached to the cause of the Parliament in the civil wars of Charles I., withdrew to Ireland after the Restoration, where he purchased an estate. His eldest son, Thomas, was born at Dublin, in 1679, and received his school education in that city. At an early age he was removed to the college, where he was admitted to the degree of M. A. in 1700, took deacon's orders in the same year, and was ordained priest three years afterwards. In 1705 he was presented to the archdeaconry of Clogher, and about the same time married a lady of great beauty and merit. He now began to make those frequent excursions to England, in which the most desirable part of his life was thenceforth spent. His first connections were principally with the Whigs, at that time in power; and Addison, Congreve, and Steele are named among his chief companions. When, at the latter part of Queen Anne's reign, the Tories were Parnell was the author of several pieces, both in triumphant, Parnell deserted his former friends, prose and verse; but it is only by the latter that he and associated with Swift, Pope, Gay, and Ar-is now known. Of these a collection was published buthnot. Swift introduced him to Lord-Treasurer by Pope, with a dedication to the Earl of Oxford. Harley; and, with the dictatorial air which he was Their characters are ease, sprightliness, fancy, fond of assuming, insisted upon the Treasurer's clearness of language, and melody of versification; going with his staff in his hand into the anti-and though not ranking among the most finished chamber, where Parnell was waiting to welcome um. It is said of this poet, that every year, as soon as he had collected the rents of his estate, and the revenue of his benefices, he came over to England, and spent some months, living in an elegant style, and rather impairing than improving his fortune. At this time he was an assiduous preacher in the Lon productions of the British muse, they claim a place among the most pleasing. A large addition to these was made in a work printed in Dublin, in 1758, of which Dr. Johnson says, "I know not whence they came, nor have ever enquired whither they are going.' A NIGHT-PIECE ON DEATH. How deep yon azure dyes the sky! Time was, like thee, they life possest, Those with bending oșier bound, The flat smooth stones that bear a name, The marble tombs that rise on high, Ha! while I gaze, pale Cynthia fades, And all with sober accent cry, Now from yon black and funeral yew, They view me like the last of things; A port of calms, a state to ease Nor can the parted body know, THE HERMIT. FAR in a wild, unknown to public view, A life so sacred, such serene repose, To clear this doubt, to know the world by sight, To find if books, or swains, report it right, (For yet by swains alone the world he knew, Whose feet came wandering o'er the nightly dew) He quits his cell; the pilgrim-staff he bore, And fix'd the scallop in his hat before; Then with the Sun a rising journey went, Sedate to think, and watching each event. The morn was wasted in the pathless grass, And long and lonesome was the wild to pass; But when the southern Sun had warm'd the day, A youth came posting o'er a crossing way; His raiment decent, his complexion fair, And soft in graceful ringlets wav'd his hair. Then near approaching, "Father, hail!" he cry'd, "And hail, my son," the reverend sire reply'd; Words follow'd words, from question answer flow'd, And talk of various kind deceiv'd the road; Till each with other pleas'd, and loth to part, While in their age they differ, join in heart. Thus stands an aged elm in ivy bound, Thus youthful ivy clasps an elin around. Now sunk the Sun; the closing hour of day Came onward, mantled o'er with sober grey; Nature in silence bid the world repose; When near the road a stately palace rose : There by the Moon through ranks of trees they pass, Whose verdure crown'd their sloping sides of gras It chanc'd the noble master of the dome Still made his house the wandering stranger's home: Yet still the kindness, from a thirst of praise, Prov'd the vain flourish of expensive ease. The pair arrive: the livery'd servants wait; Their lord receives them at the pompous gate. The table groans with costly piles of food, And all is more than hospitably good. Then led to rest, the day's long toil they drown, Deep sunk in sleep, and silk, and heaps of down. At length 'tis morn, ånd at the dawn of day, Along the wide canals the zephyrs play: Fresh o'er the gay parterres the breezes creep, And shake the neighbouring wood to banish sleep. Up rise the guests, obedient to the call: An early banquet deck'd the splendid hall; Rich luscious wine a golden goblet grac'd, Which the kind master forc'd the guests to taste. Then, pleas'd and thankful, from the porch they ge; And, but the landlord, none had cause of woe: His cup was vanish'd; for in secret guise The younger guest purloin'd the glittering prize. As one who spies a serpent in his way, Glistening and basking in the summer ray, Disorder'd stops to shun the danger near, Then walks with faintness on, and looks with fear; So seem'd the sire; when far upon the road, The shining spoil his wily partner show'd. He stopp'd with silence, walk'd with trembling heart, And much he wish'd, but durst not ask to part: Murmuring he lifts his eyes, and thinks it hard, That generous actions meet a base reward. While thus they pass, the Sun his glory shrouds, The changing skies hang out their sable clouds; A sound in air presag'd approaching rain, And beasts to covert scud across the plain. Warn'd by the signs, the wandering pair retreat, To seek for shelter at a neighbouring seat. 'Twas built with turrets on a rising ground, And strong, and large, and unimprov'd around; Its owner's temper, timorous and severe, Unkind and griping, caus'd a desert there. As near the miser's heavy doors they drew, Fierce rising gusts with sudden fury blew ; The nimble lightning mix'd with showers began, And o'er their heads loud rolling thunders ran. Here long they knock, but knock or call in vain, Driven by the wind, and batter'd by the rain. At length some pity warm'd the master's breast, ('Twas then his threshold first receiv'd a guest); Slow creeking turns the door with jealous care, And half he welcomes in the shivering pair; One frugal fagot lights the naked walls, And Nature's fervour through their limbs recalls: Bread of the coarsest sort, with eager wine, (Each hardly granted) serv'd them both to dine; And when the tempest first appear'd to cease, A ready warning bid them part in peace. With still remark the pondering hermit view'd, In one so rich, a life so poor and rude; "And why should such" within himself he cry'd, "Lock the lost wealth a thousand want beside?" But what new marks of wonder soon take place, In every settling feature of his face; When from his vest the young companion bore But now the clouds in airy tumult fly; While hence they walk, the pilgrim's bosom With all the travel of uncertain thought; Now Night's dim shades again involve the sky, Hither the walkers turn with weary feet, "Without a vain, without a grudging heart, At length the world, renew'd by calm repose, Was strong for toil, the dappled Morn arose; Before the pilgrims part, the younger crept, Near the clos'd cradle where an infant slept, And writh'd his neck: the landlord's little pride, O strange return! grew black, and gasp'd, and dy'd. Horrour of horrours! what! his only son! How look'd our hermit when the fact was done; Not Hell, though Hell's black jaws in sunder part, And breathe blue fire, could more assault his heart. Confus'd, and struck with silence at the deed, He flies, but trembling, fails to fly with speed. His steps the youth pursues; the country lay Perplex'd with roads, a servant show'd the way: A river cross'd the path; the passage o'er Was nice to find; the servant trod before; Long arms of oaks an open bridge supply'd, And deep the waves beneath the bending glide. The youth, who seem'd to watch a time to sin, Approached the careless guide, and thrust him in ; Plunging he falls, and rising lifts his head, Then flashing turns, and sinks among the dead. Wild, sparkling rage inflames the father's eyes, He bursts the bands of fear, and madly cries, "Detested wretch!"-But scarce his speech began, When the strange partner seem'd no longer man : His youthful face grew more serenely sweet; His robe turn'd white, and flow'd upon his feet; Fair rounds of radiant points invest his hair; Celestial odours breathe through purpled air; And wings, whose colours glitter'd on the day, Wide at his back their gradual plumes display. The form etherial burst upon his sight, And moves in all the majesty of light. Though loud at first the pilgrim's passion grew, Sudden he gaz'd, and wist not what to do; Surprise in secret chains his words suspends, And in a calm his settling temper ends. But silence here the beauteous angel broke (The voice of music ravish'd as he spoke). "Thy prayer, thy praise, thy life to vice unknown, In sweet memorial rise before the throne: These charms, success in our bright region find, And force an angel down, to calm thy mind; For this, commission'd, I forsook the sky, Nay, cease to kneel thy fellow-servant I. "Then know the truth of government divine, And let these scruples be no longer thine. "The Maker justly claims that world he made, In this the right of Providence is laid; Its sacred majesty through all depends On using second means to work his ends: 'Tis thus, withdrawn in state from human eye, The power exerts his attributes on high, Your actions uses, nor controls your will, And bids the doubting sons of men be still. "What strange events can strike with more surprise, Than those which lately struck thy wondering eyes? Yet, taught by these, confess th' Almighty just, And where you can't unriddle, learn to trust! "The great, vain man, who far'd on costly food, Whose life was too luxurious to be good; Who made his ivory stands with goblets shine, And forc'd his guests to morning draughts of wine, Has, with the cup, the graceless custom lost, And still he welcomes, but with less of cost. "The mean, suspicious wretch, whose bolted door Ne'er mov'd in duty to the wandering poor; With him I left the cup, to teach his mind That Heaven can bless, if mortals will be kind. Conscious of wanting worth, he views the bowl, And feels compassion touch is grateful soul. Thus artists melt the sullen ore of lead, With heaping coals of fire upon its head; In the kind warmth the metal learns to glow, And loose from dross the silver runs below. "Long had our pious friend in virtue trod, But now the child half-wean'd his heart from God; (Child of his age) for him he liv'd in pain, And measur'd back his steps to Earth again. To what excesses had his dotage run? But God, to save the father, took the son. To all but thee, in fits he seem'd to go, (And 'twas my ministry to deal the blow,) The poor fond parent, humbled in the dust, Now owns in tears the punishment was just. "But now had all his fortune felt a wrack, On sounding pinions here the youth withdrew, The sage stood wondering as the seraph flew. Thus look'd Elisha when, to mount on high, His master took the chariot of the sky; The fiery pomp ascending left to view; The prophet gaz'd, and wish'd to follow too. The bending hermit here a prayer begun, "Lord! as in Heaven, on Earth thy will be done:" Then gladly turning sought his ancient place, And pass'd a life of piety and peace. Q |