es 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,
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