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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.
smith, 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
THOMAS PARNELL, an agreeable poet, was de- tention of rising to notice; but the change of the scended 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 His domestic happiness received a severe shock in that city. At an early age he was removed to in 1712, by the death of his beloved wife; and it the college, where he was admitted to the degree was the effect on his spirits of this affliction, which of M A. in 1700, took deacon's orders in the same led him into such a habit of intemperance in wine, year, and was ordained priest three years after- as shortened his days. This, at least, is the gloss wards. In 1705 he was presented to the arch- put upon the circumstance by his historian, Golddeaconry 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 formed when his very unequal spirits had required thenceforth spent. His first connexions 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 triumphant, Parnell was the author of several pieces, both in Parnell deserted his former friends, and associated prose and verse; but it is only by the latter that he with Swift, Pope, Gay, and Arbuthnot. Swift in- is now known. Of these a collection was published troduced him to Lord-Treasurer Harley; and, with by Pope, with a dedication to the Earl of Oxford. the dictatorial air which he was fond of assuming, Their characters are ease, sprightliness, fancy, clearinsisted upon the Treasurer's going with his staff in ness of language, and melody of versification; and his hand into the antichamber, where Parnell was though not ranking among the most finished producwaiting to welcome him. It is said of this poet, tions of the British muse, they claim a place among that every year, as soon as he had collected the the most pleasing. A large addition to these was rents of his estate, and the revenue of his benefices, made in a work printed in Dublin, in 1758, of he came over to England, and spent some months, which Dr. Johnson says, "I know not whence they living in an elegant style, and rather impairing than came, nor have ever inquired whither they are improving his fortune. At this time he was an as- going." siduous preacher in the London pulpits, with the in
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.
But certes sorely sunk with woe
His spirits in him die :
Hangs flagging in the sky."
With that Sir Topaz, hapless youth! In accents faltering, ay for ruth,
Entreats them pity graunt; For als he been a mister wight Betray'd by wandering in the night To tread the circled haunt;
"Ah, losel vile," at once they roar: 26 And little skill'd of fairie lore,
Thy cause to come, we know: Now has thy kestrel courage fell; And fairies, since a lie you tell,
Are free to work thee woe."
Then Will, who bears the whispy fire
The revel now proceeds apace,
They sit, they drink, and eat; The time with frolic mirth beguile, And poor Sir Topaz hangs the while Till all the rout retreat.
By this the stars began to wink,
Chill, dark, alone, adreed, he lay,
Then deem'd the dole was o'er;
This tale a Sibyl-nurse ared;
She softly strok'd my youngling head,
"Thus some are born, my son," she cries, "With base impediments to rise,
And some are born with none.
"But virtue can itself advance
To what the favorite fools of chance By fortune seem design'd;
Virtue can gain the odds of Fate, And from itself shake off the weight Upon th' unworthy mind."
A NIGHT-PIECE ON DEATH.
How deep yon azure dyes the sky!
Time was, like thee, they life possest,
Those with bending osier bound,
The flat smooth stones that bear a name, The chisel's slender help to fame, (Which ere our set of friends decay Their frequent steps may wear away) A middle race of mortals own, Men, half ambitious, all unknown.
The marble tombs that rise on high, Whose dead in vaulted arches lie, Whose pillars swell with sculptur'd stones, Arms, angels, epitaphs, and bones, These, all the poor remains of state, Adorn the rich, or praise the great; Who, while on Earth in fame they live, Are senseless of the fame they give. Ha! while I gaze, pale Cynthia fades, The bursting earth unveils the shades!
All slow, and wan, and wrapp'd with shrouds, They rise in visionary crowds,
And all with sober accent cry,
Think, mortal, what it is to die."
Now from yon black and funeral yew, That bathes the charnel-house with dew, Methinks, I hear a voice begin;
(Ye ravens, cease your croaking din,
Ye tolling clocks, no time resound
O'er the long lake and midnight ground!)
A port of calms, a state to ease
Nor can the parted body know,
FAR in a wild, unknown to public view,
A life so sacred, such serene repose,
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 way'd his hair. Then near approaching, "Father, hail!" he cried, "And hail, my son," the reverend sire replied; 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 elm 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 grass. 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 liv'ried 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, and at the dawn of day, Along the wide canals the zephyrs play: Fresh o'er the gay parterres the breezes creep, And shake the neighboring wood to banish sleepUp 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 go; 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,
As near the miser's heavy doors they drew,
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 cried. "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
A fresher green the smelling leaves display,
Though loud at first the pilgrim's passion grew,
"Thy prayer, thy praise, thy life to vice unknown,
While hence they walk, the pilgrim's bosom For this, commission'd, I forsook the sky,
With all the travel of uncertain thought;
Hither the walkers turn with weary feet, Then bless the mansion, and the master greet: Their greeting fair, bestow'd with modest guise, The courteous master hears, and thus replies:
"Without a vain, without a grudging heart, To him who gives us all, I yield a part; From him you come, for him accept it here, A frank and sober, more than costly cheer." He spoke, and bid the welcome table spread, Then talk of virtue till the time of bed, When the grave household round his hall repair, Warn'd by a bell, and close the hours with prayer.
At length the world, renew'd by calm repose,
How look'd our hermit when the fact was done;
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?
"The great, vain man, who far'd on costly food,
"The mean, suspicious wretch, whose bolted door
(Child of his age) for him he liv'd in pain,
"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.