The Lives of the Poets of Great Britain and Ireland/Volume 4/Henry Needler
Henry Needler.
This Poet was born at Harley in Surry, in the year 1690, and educated at a private ſchool at Ryegate in the ſame county.[1] He was removed from thence in 1705, and in 1708 accepted a ſmall place in a public office; where he continued the remainder of his days.
About this time contracting a friendſhip with a gentleman of a like taſte, who furniſhed him with proper books, he applied himſelf at his intervals of leiſure, to reading the claſſics, and to the ſtudy of logic, metaphyſics, and the mathematics, with which laſt he was peculiarly delighted. And in a few years by the force of his own happy genius, and unwearied diligence, without the aſſiſtance of any maſter, he acquired a conſiderable knowledge of the moſt difficult branches of thoſe uſeful and entertaining ſtudies.
By ſo cloſe an application, he contracted a violent pain in his head, which notwithſtanding the beſt advice, daily encreaſed. This, and other unfortunate circumſtances concurring, ſo deeply affected him, who had beſides in his conſtitution a ſtrong tincture of melancholy, that he was at laſt brought under almoſt a total extinction of reaſon. In this condition he fell into a fever; and as there were before ſcarce any hopes of him, it may be ſaid to have happily put an end to the deplorable bondage of ſo bright a mind, on the 21ſt of December, 1718, in the 29th year of his age. He was buried in the church of Friendſbury, near Rocheſter.
Mr. Needler’s life was influenced by the principles of ſincere, unaffected piety, and virtue.
On all occaſions (ſays Mr. Duncomb) ‘he was a ſtrenuous advocate for univerſal toleration and forbearance in matters of religion; rightly ſuppoſing that no ſervice can be acceptable to the ſupreme Being, unleſs it proceeds from the heart; and that force ſerves only to make hypocrites, but adds no new lights to the underſtanding. He was modell to a fault, entertaining the moſt humble opinion of his own performances; and was always ready to do juſtice to thoſe of others. His affection for his friends indeed ſometimes biaſſed his judgment, and led him to the commending their writings beyond their merit.’
In the volume of Mr. Needler’s works, are printed ſome familiar Letters, upon moral, and natural ſubjects. They are written with elegance and taſte; the heart of a good man may be traced in them all, and equally abound with pious notions, as good ſenſe, and ſolid reaſoning.—He ſeems to have been very much maſter of ſmooth verſification, his ſubjects are happily choſen, and there is a philoſophical air runs through all his writings; as an inſtance of this, we ſhall preſent our readers with a copy of his verſes addreſſed to Sir Richard Blackmore, on his Poem, intitled The Creation. Dreſs’d in the charms of wit and fancy, long
The muſe has pleas’d us with her ſyren ſong;
But weak of reaſon, and deprav’d of mind,
Too oft on vile, ignoble themes we find
The wanton muſe her ſacred art debaſe,
Forgetful of her birth, and heavenly race;
Too oft her flatt’ring ſongs to ſin intice,
And in falſe colours deck deluſive vice;
Too oft ſhe condeſcends, in ſervile lays,
The undeſerving rich and great to praiſe.
Theſe beaten paths, thy loftier ſtrains refuſe
With juſt diſdain, and nobler ſubjects chuſe:
Fir’d with ſublimer thoughts, thy daring ſoul
Wings her aſpiring flight from Pole to Pole,
Obſerves the foot-ſteps of a pow’r divine,
Which in each part of nature’s ſyſtem ſhine;
Surveys the wonders of this beauteous frame,
And ſings the ſacred ſource, whence all things came.
But Oh! what numbers ſhall I find to tell,
The mighty tranſports which my boſom ſwell,
Whilſt, guided by thy tuneful voice, I ſtray
Thro’ radiant worlds, and fields of native day,
Wafted from orb, to orb, unwearied fly
Thro’ the blue regions of the yielding ſky;
See how the ſpheres in ſtated courſes roll,
And view the juſt compoſure of the whole!
Such were the ſtrains, by antient Orpheus ſung,
To ſuch, Muſæus’ heav’nly lyre was ſtrung;
Exalted truths, in learned verſe they told,
And nature’s deepeſt ſecrets did unfold.
How at th’ eternal mind’s omnific call,
Yon ſtarry arch, and this terreſtrial ball,
The briny wave, the blazing ſource of light,
And the wane empreſs of the ſilent night,
Each in it’s order roſe and took its place,
And filled with recent forms the vacant ſpace;
How rolling planets trace their deſtin’d way,
Nor in the waſtes of pathleſs Æther ſtray;
How the pale moon, with ſilver beams adorns
Her chearful orb, and gilds her ſharpened horns;
How the vail ocean’s ſwelling tides obey
Her diſtant reign, and own her watr’y ſway;
How erring floods, their circling courſe maintain,
Supplied by conſtant ſuccours from the main;
Whilſt to the ſea, the refluent ſtreams reſtore,
The liquid treaſures which ſhe lent before;
What dreadful veil obſcures the ſolar light,
And Phæbe’s darkened face conceals from mortal ſight.
Thy learned muſe, I with like pleaſure hear
The wonders of the leſſer world declare,
Point out the various marks of ſkill divine,
Which thro’ its complicated ſtructure ſhine,
In tuneful verſe, the vital current trace,
Thro’ all the windings of its mazy race,
And tell how the rich purple tide beſtows,
Vigour, and kindly warmth where e’er it flows;
By what contrivance of mechanic art
The muſcles, motions to the limbs impart;
How at th’ imperial mind’s impulſive nod,
Th’ obedient ſpirits thro’ the nervous road
Find thro’ their fib’rous cells the ready way,
And the high dictates of the will obey;
From how exact and delicate a frame,
The channell’d bones their nimble action claim;
With how much depth, and ſubtility of thought
The curious organ of the eye is wrought;
How from the brain their root the nerves derive,
And ſenſe to ev’ry diſtant member give.
Th’ extenſive knowledge you of men enjoy,
You to a double uſe of man employ;
Nor to the body, is your ſkill confin’d,
Of error’s worſe diſeaſe you heal the mind.
No longer ſhall the hardy atheiſt praiſe
Lucretius’ piercing wit, and philoſophic lays;
But by your lines convinc’d, and charm’d at once,
His impious tenets ſhall at length renounce,
At length to truth and eloquence ſhall yield,
Confeſs himſelf ſubdu’d, and wiſely quit the field.
- ↑ See his Life prefixed to his works, by William Duncomb Esq;