TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE EARL
[ON THE DEATH OF MR. ADDISON. ]
If, dumb too long, the drooping Mufe hath stay'd,
And left her debt to Addison unpaid;
Blame not her filence, Warwick, but bemoan,
And judge, oh judge, my bofom by your own.
What mourner ever felt poetic fires!
Slow comes the verse that real woe inspires:
Grief unaffected fuits but ill with art,
Or flowing numbers with a bleeding heart.
Can I forget the difmal 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 ftatues, 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;
The duties by the lawn-rob'd prelate pay'd;
And the last words, that duft to duft convey'd!
While fpeechless o'er thy closing grave we bend,
Accept these tears, thou dear departed friend, 20
for ever, take this long adieu;
gone And fleep in peace, next thy lov'd Montagu.
To strew 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 fhame afflict this alienated heart;
Of thee forgetful if I form a song,
My lyre be broken, and untun'd my tongue, 30
My grief be doubled, from thy image free,
And mirth a torment, unchastis'd by thee.
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.
Ne'er to these chambers, where the mighty reft,
Since their foundation, came a nobler guest,
Nor e'er was to the bow'rs of blifs convey'd 45
A fairer fpirit, or more welcome shade.
In what new region, to the just affign'd,
What new employments please th' unbody'd mind?
A winged Virtue, through th' ethereal sky,
From world to world unweary'd does he fly, 50
Or curious trace the long laborious maze
Of heav'n's decrees, where wond'ring angels gaze?
Does he delight to hear bold Seraphs tell
How Michael battel'd, and the Dragon fell?
Or, mix'd with milder Cherubim, to glow
In hymns of love, not ill-effay'd below?
Or doft thou warn poor mortals left behind,
A task well fuited to thy gentle mind?
Oh, if sometimes thy fpotlefs form defcend,
To me thy aid, thou guardian Genius, lend! 60
When rage mifguides me, or when fear alarms,
When pain diftreffes, or when pleasure charms,
In filent whisp'rings purer thoughts impart,
And turn from Ill a frail and feeble heart;
Lead through the paths thy virtue trod before, 65
'Till blifs fhall join, nor death can part us more.
That awful form (which, fo ye heav'ns decree,
Muft ftill be lov'd and ftill deplor'd by me)
In nightly vifions feldom fails to rife,
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,
I meet his foul which breathes in Cato there;
If penfive to the rural shades I rove,
His shape o'ertakes me in the lonely grove :
'Twas there of Juft and Good he reason'd strong,
Clear'd fome great truth, or rais'd some serious song;
There patient show'd us the wife course to steer,
A candid cenfor, and a friend severe ;
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 profpects fresh and fair,
Thy floping walks, and unpolluted air!
How fweet the gloomes beneath thy aged trees,
Thy noon-tide shadow, and thy evening breeze!
His image thy forfaken bowers restore;
91
Thy walks and airy profpects 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,
Some refuge in the mufe's art I found;
Reluctant now I touch the trembling ftring,
Bereft of him, who taught me how to fing;
And these fad accents, murmur'd o'er his urn,
Betray that absence, they attempt to mourn.
Oh! must I then (now fresh my bofom bleeds,
And Craggs in death to Addison fucceeds)
The verse, begun to one loft friend, prolong,
And weep a fecond in th' unfinish'd fong!
Thefe 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 focial spirit flies, And close to his, how foon! thy coffin lies. Bleft pair! whose union future bards shall tell In future tongues: each other's boaft! farewel. Farewel! whom join'd in fame, in friendship try'd, No chance could fever, nor the grave divide.
MUCH had I heard of fair Francelia's name,
The lavish praises of the babler, Fame:
I thought them fuch, and went prepar❜d to pry,
And trace the charmer with a critick's eye,
|