By day, the fun might spare his rays; TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE EARL OF WARWICK. [ON THE DEATH OF MR. ADDISON.] BY THOMAS TICKELL, ESQ.* IF, dumb too long, the drooping Mufe hath stay'd, Blame not her filence, Warwick, but bemoan, 5 Can I forget the difmal night, that gave My foul's beft part for ever to the grave! How filent did his old companions tread, By mid-night lamps, the manfions of the dead, Thro' breathing ftatues, then unheeded things, Thro' rowes of warriors, and thro' walks of kings! What awe did the flow folemn bell inspire; 15 The pealing organ, and the paufing choir; * Born 1686; dyed 1740, The duties by the lawn-rob'd prelate pay'd; And fleep in peace, next thy lov'd Montagu. To ftrew fresh laurels let the task be mine, A frequent pilgrim, at thy facred shrine, Mine with true fighs thy abfence to bemoan, 25 And grave with faithful epitaphs thy ftone. 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, 30 Oft let me range the gloomy' ailes' alone, V. 33. Iles. Ne'er to these chambers, where the mighty reft, In what new region, to the just 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, Th' unblemish'd statesman seems to ftrike my fight; If in the stage I seek to footh my care, 75 I meet his foul which breathes in Cato there; 80 There taught us how to live; and (oh! too high The price for knowledge) taught us how to die. 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 shadow, and thy evening breeze! His image thy forsaken bowers restore ; 91 Thy walks and airy prospects charm no more. No more the fummer in thy gloomes allay'd, Thy evening breezes, and thy noon-day fhade. From other ills, however fortune frown'd, 95 Some refuge in the mufe's art I found; Reluctant now I touch the trembling string, Bereft of him, who taught me how to fing; |