TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE EARL OF WARWICK. [ON THE DEATH OF MR. ADDISON.] BY THOMAS TICKELL, ESQ.* IF, dumb too long, the drooping Muse hath stay'd, Blame not her filence, Warwick, but bemoan, 5 10 Can I forget the dismal night, that gave My foul's best part for ever to the grave! How filent did his old companions tread, By mid-night lamps, the manfions of the dead, Thro' breathing statues, then unheeded things, Thro' rowes of warriors, and thro' walks of kings! What awe did the flow folemn bell inspire; The pealing organ, and the paufing choir; *Born 1686; dyed 1740. 15 The duties by the lawn-rob'd prelate pay'd; Oh gone And fleep in peace, next thy lov'd Montagu. To ftrew fresh laurels let the task be mine, My lyre be broken, and untun'd my tongue, 30 Oft let me range the gloomy ailes' alone, (Sad luxury! to vulgar minds unknown) Along the walls where speaking marbles show 35 What worthies form the hallow'd mold below: Proud names, who once the reins of empire held; In arms who triumph'd; or in arts excell'd; Chiefs, grac'd with scars, and prodigal of blood; Stern patriots, who for facred freedom ftood; 40 Juft men, by whom impartial laws were given; And faints, who taught, and led, the way to heav'n. V. 33. Iles. Ne'er to these chambers, where the mighty reft, In what new region, to the juft affign'd, 55 Of heav'n's decrees, where wond'ring angels gaze? That awful form (which, fo ye heav'ns decree, Or, rous'd by fancy, meets my waking eyes. 70 If bufinefs calls, or crouded courts invite, I meet his foul which breathes in Cato there ; 75 His fhape o'ertakes me in the lonely grove : 80 Thou Hill, whofe brow the antique ftructures grace, Rear'd by bold chiefs of Warwick's noble race, Why, once fo lov'd, when-e'er thy bower appears, O'er my dim eye-balls glance the fudden tears! How sweet were once thy prospects fresh and fair, Thy floping walks, and unpolluted air! How sweet the gloomes beneath thy aged trees, Thy noon-tide fhadow, and thy evening breeze! His image thy forsaken bowers restore ; Thy walks and airy prospects charm no more. No more the fummer in thy gloomes allay'd, Thy evening breezes, and thy noon-day shade. 91 From other ills, however fortune frown'd, 95 Some refuge in the mufe's art I found; And thefe fad accents, murmur'd o'er his urn, 100 These works 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 furviv'd to give, nor thou to claim. Swift after him thy social spirit flies, And close to his, how foon! thy coffin lies. Bleft pair! whofe union future bards shall tell THE FATAL CURIOSITY, BY THE SAME. MUCH had I heard of fair Francelia's name, I thought them fuch, and went prepar❜d to pry, |