Page images
PDF
EPUB

"No further seek his merits to disclose,

"Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, "(There they alike in trembling hope repose) "The bosom of his Father and his GOD."

TO THE

RIGHT HONOURABLE

THE EARL OF WARWICK,

ON THE DEATH OF MR. ADDISON.

TICKELL.

IF, dumb too long, the drooping Muse hath staid
And left her debt to Addison unpaid,

Blame not her silence, Warwick, but bemoan,
And judge, O judge my bosom by your own.
What mourner ever felt poetic fires!
Slow comes the verse that real woe inspires :
Grief unaffected suits but ill with art,
Or flowing numbers with a bleeding heart.

Can I forget the dismal night, that gave My soul's best part for ever to the grave?

How silent did his old companions tread,
By midnight lamps, the mansions of the dead,
Thro' breathing statues, then unheeded things,
Thro' rows of warriors, and thro' walks of kings.
What awe did the slow solemn knell inspire!
The pealing organ, and the solemn choir :
The duties by the lawn-rob'd prelate paid,
And the last words that dust to dust convey'd.
While speechless o'er thy closing grave we bend,
Accept these tears, thou dear departed friend:
O, gone for ever, take this long adieu;
And sleep in peace, next thy lov'd Montague!

To strew fresh laurels, let the task be mine,
A frequent pilgrim at thy sacred shrine;
Mine with true sighs thy absence to bemoan,
And grave with faithful epitaphs thy stouc
If e'er from me thy lov'd memorial part,
May shame afflict this alienated heart!
Of thee forgetful if I form a song,

My lyre be broken, and untun'd my tongue,
My grief be doubled, from thy image free,
And mirth a torment unchastis'd by thee.

Oft let me range the gloomy aisles alone,
(Sad luxury! to vulgar minds unknown)
Along the walls where speaking marbles show
What worthies form'd the hallow'd mould below:

Proud names, who once the reins of empire held ;
In arms who triumph'd, or in art excell'd ;

Chiefs, grac'd with scars; and prodigal of blood;
Stern patriots, who for sacred freedom stood;
Just men, by whom impartial laws were giv'n :
And saints who taught and led the way to heav'n.
Ne'er to these chambers where the mighty rest,
Since their foundation, came a nobler guest;
Nor e'er was to the bowers of bliss convey'd
A fairer spirit, or more welcome shade.

In what new region to the just assign'd, What new employments please th' unbody'd mind? A winged virtue thro' th' ethereal sky, From world to world unweary'd does he fly, Or curious trace the long laborious maze Of Heaven's decrees, where wond'ring angels gaze? Does he delight to hear bold seraphs tell How Michael battled, and the Dragon fell? Or mix'd with milder cherubim to glow In hymns of love, not ill essay'd below? Or dost thou warn poor mortals left behind? A task well suited to thy gentle mind. O, if sometimes thy spotless form descend, To me thy aid, thou guardian genius, lend! When age misguides me, or when fear alarms, When pain distresses, or when pleasure charms,

In silent whisp'rings purer thoughts impart,
And turn from ill a frail and feeble heart;
Lead through the paths thy virtue trod before,
Till bliss shall join, nor death can part us more.
That awful form (which so the heav'ns decree,
Must still be lov'd, and still deplor'd by me)
In nightly visions seldom fails to rise,

Or, rous'd by fancy, meets my waking eyes.
If business calls, or crowded courts invite,
Th' unblemish'd statesman seems to strike my sight;
If pensive to the rural shades I rove,

His shape o'ertakes me in the lonely grove:
"Twas there of just and good he reason'd strong,
Clear'd some great truths, or rais'd some serious

song;

There patient show'd us the wide course to steer, A candid censor, aud a friend sincere ;

There taught us how to live; and (O! too high The price for knowledge) taught us how to die.

Thou hill, whose brow the antique structure grace, Rear'd by bold chiefs of Warwick's noble race, Why, once so lov'd, whene'er thy bow'r appears, O'er my dim eye-balls glance the sudden tears! How sweet were once thy prospects fresh and fair, Thy sloping walks and unpolluted air!

How sweet the glooms beneath thy aged trees,
Thy noon-tide shadow, and thy ev'ning breeze!
His image thy forsaken bow'rs restore;

Thy walks and airy prospects are no more;
No more the summer in thy gloom's allay'd,
Thy ev'ning breezes, and thy noon-day shade.

From other ills, however fortune frown'd, Some refuge in the Muse's art I found; Reluctant now I touch the trembling string, Bereft of him who taught me how to sing ; And these sad accents, murmur'd o'er his urn, Betray that absence they attempt to mourn. 0 ! must I then (now fresh my bosom bleeds, And Craggs in death to Addison succeeds) The verse, begun to one lost friend, prolong, And weep a second in th' unfinish'd song! These words divine, which, on his death-bed laid, To thee, O Craggs, th' expiring sage convey'd, Great, but ill-omen'd monument of fame, Nor he surviv'd to give, nor thou to claim. Swift after him thy social spirit flies, And close to his, how soon thy coffin lies. Bless'd pair, whose union future bards shall tell In future tongues; each other's boast! farewel. Farewel! whom join'd in fame, in friendship try'd, No chance could sever, nor the grave divide.

« PreviousContinue »