Edward Young (1683 – 1765)
English poet, best remembered for Night Thoughts.
Where Nature’s end of language is declin’d,
And men talk only to conceal the mind.
By night an atheist half believes a God.
The booby father craves a booby son,
And by Heaven’s blessing thinks himself undone.
Insatiate archer! could not one suffice?
Thy shaft flew thrice, and thrice my peace was slain;
And thrice, ere thrice yon moon had filled her horn.
Heaven’s Sovereign saves all beings but himself
That hideous sight,—a naked human heart.
Creation sleeps! 'Tis as the general pulse
Of life stood still, and Nature made a pause;
An awful pause! prophetic of her end.
For her own breakfast she'll project a scheme,
Nor take her tea without a strategem.
The spirit walks of every day deceased.
'T is elder Scripture, writ by God's own hand,—
Scripture authentic! uncorrupt by man.
Great let me call him, for he conquered me.
Wishing, of all employments, is the worst.
Some for renown, on scraps of learning dote,
And think they grow immortal as they quote.
They only babble who practise not reflection.
Their feet through faithless leather met the dirt,
And oftener chang'd their principles than shirt.
Men may live fools, but fools they cannot die.
The man of wisdom is the man of years.
Think naught a trifle, though it small appear;
Small sands the mountain, moments make the year,
And trifles life.
Life is the desert, life the solitude;
Death joins us to the great majority.
An undevout astronomer is mad.
Much learning shows how little mortals know;
Much wealth, how little worldlings can enjoy.