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[A]. 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 dailies, 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 modest 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,
  Wasted 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, Mufæus' 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 omnisic 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 adorn
  Her chearful orb, and gilds her sharpened horns;
  How the vast 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 darken'd 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 mine,
  In tuneful verse, the vital current trace,
  Thro' all the windings of its mazy race,
  And tell hew 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 channeled 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.

[Footnote A: See his Life prefixed to his works, by William Duncomb
Esq;]

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