If we except the passages in “Philander,” “Narcissa,” and “Lucia,” there is hardly a trace of human sympathy, of self-forgetfulness in the joy or sorrow of a fellow-being, throughout this long poem, which professes to treat the various phases of man’s destiny. And even in the “Narcissa” Night, Young repels us by the low moral tone of his exaggerated lament. This married step-daughter died at Lyons, and, being a Protestant, was denied burial, so that her friends had to bury her in secret—one of the many miserable results of superstition, but not a fact to throw an educated, still less a Christian man, into a fury of hatred and vengeance, in contemplating it after the lapse of five years. Young, however, takes great pains to simulate a bad feeling: “Of grief And indignation rival bursts I pour’d, Half execration mingled with my pray’r; Kindled at man, while I his God adored; Sore grudg’d the savage land her sacred dust; Stamp’d the cursed soil; _and with humanity_ (_Denied Narcissa_) _wish’d them all a grave_.” The odiously bad taste of this last clause makes us hope that it is simply a platitude, and not intended as witticism, until he removes the possibility of this favorable doubt by immediately asking, “Flows my resentment into guilt?” When, by an afterthought, he attempts something like sympathy, he only betrays more clearly his want of it. Thus, in the first Night, when he turns from his private griefs to depict earth as a hideous abode of misery for all mankind, and asks, “What then am I, who sorrow for myself?” he falls at once into calculating the benefit of sorrowing for others: “More generous sorrow, while it sinks, exalts; _And conscious virtue mitigates the pang_. Nor virtue, more than prudence, bids me give Swollen thought a second channel.” This remarkable negation of sympathy is in perfect consistency with Young’s theory of ethics: “Virtue is a crime, A crime of reason, if it costs us pain Unpaid.” If there is no immortality for man— “Sense! take the rein; blind Passion, drive us on; And Ignorance! befriend us on our way. . . Yes; give the pulse full empire; live the Brute, Since as the brute we die. The sum of man, Of godlike man, to revel and to rot.” * * * * * “If this life’s gain invites him to the deed, Why not his country sold, his father slain?” * * * * * “Ambition, avarice, by the wise disdain’d, Is perfect wisdom, while mankind are fools, And think a turf or tombstone covers all.” * * * * * “Die for thy country, thou romantic fool! Seize, seize the plank thyself, and let her sink.” * * * * *