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TO THE EARL OF WARWICK.
IF, dumb too long, the drooping Muse 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 midnight lamps, the manfions of the dead;
Through breathing ftatues, then unheeded things;
Through rows of warriors, and through walks of kings!
What awe did the flow folemn knell infpire;
The pealing organ, and the paufing choir;
The duties by the lawn-rob'd prelate pay'd;
And the laft words, that duft to duft convey'd !
While speechlefs o'er thy clofing grave we bend,
Accept thefe tears, thou dear departed friend!
Oh, gone for ever, take this long adieu;
And fleep in peace, next thy lov'd Montague!
To ftrew fresh laurels let the task be mine,
A frequent pilgrim at thy facred shrine;
Mine with true fighs thy abfence to bemoan,
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 fong,
My lyre be broken, and untun'd my tongue;
My grief be doubled, from thy image free;
And mirth a torment, unchaftiz'd by thee.
Oft let me range the gloomy aifles alone,
(Sad luxury to vulgar minds unknown,)
Along the walls where speaking marbles show
What worthies from the hallow'd mould below:
Proud names that once the reins of empire held;
In arms who triumph'd; or in arts excell'd;
Chiefs, grac'd with fears, and prodigal of blood;
Stern patriots, who for facred freedom ftood;
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 bowers of blifs convey'd
A fairer fpirit, or a more welcome shade.
In what new region to the juft affign'd, What new employments please th' unbody'd mind è A winged virtue, through th' ethereal sky, From world to world unweary'd does he fly; Or curious trace the long laborious maze
Of Heav'n's decrees, where wond'ring angels gaze?
Does he delight to hear bold feraphs tell
How Michael battled, 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 fometimes thy fpotlefs form descend,
To me thy aid, thou guardian Genius, lend!
When rage misguides me, or when fear alarms,
When pain diftreffes, or when pleasure charms,
In filent whifp'rings purer thoughts impart,
And turn from ill a frail and feeble heart;
Lead through the paths thy virtue trod before,
Till blifs fhall join, nor death can part us more.
That awful form, (which, fo ye Heav'ns decree,
Muft still be lov'd and still deplor'd by me,)
In nightly vifions feldom fails to rife,
Or, rous'd by fancy, meets my waking eyes.
If bufinefs calls, or crowded courts invite,
Th' unblemish'd ftatesman seems to ftrike my fight; If in the ftage I feek to footh my care,
I meet his foul which breathes in Cato there
If penfive to the rural fhades I rove,
His shape o'ertakes me in the lonely grove:
'Twas there of just and good he reason'd strong,
Clear'd fome great truth, or rais'd fome ferious fong;
There patient fhew'd us the wide courfe to fteer,
A candid cenfor, and a friend fevere;
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, whene'er thy bower appears, O'er my dim eye-balls glance the fudden tears! How fweet were once thy profpects fresh and fair, Thy floping walks, and unpolluted air!
How fweet the glooms beneath thy aged trees,
Thy noon-tide shadow, and thy evening breeze!
His image thy forfaken bowers restore;
Thy walks, and airy prospects charm no more.
No more the fummer in thy glooms allay'd,
Thy evening breezes, and thy noon-day shade.
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 abfence they attempt to mourn.
Oh! must I then (now fresh my bofom bleeds,
And Craggst in death to Addison fucceeds)
The verfe, begun to one loft friend, prolong,
And weep a fecond in th' unfinish'd fong!
His 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 clofe to his, how foon! thy coffin lies. Bleft pair! whofe union future bards fhall 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.
The Rt. Hon. James Craggs, who suceeeded Mr. Addison in the office of Secretary of State; to whom he dedicated his Works, as a testimony of his friendship.
THESE, as they change, Almighty Father, thefe,
Are but the varied God. The rolling year
Is full of thee. Forth in the pleafing Spring
Thy beauty walks, Thy tenderness and love.
Wide flush the fields; the foft'ning air is balm ;
Echo the mountains round; the foreft fmiles;
And every sense, and every heart is joy :
Then comes thy glory in the Summer-months,
With light and heat refulgent. Then Thy fun
Shoots full perfection through the fwelling year:
And oft Thy voice in dreadful thunder speaks;
And oft at dawn, deep noon, or falling eve,
By brooks and groves, in hollow-whisp'ring gales,
Thy bounty fhines in Autumn unconfin'd,
And spreads a common feast for all that lives.
In Winter, awful Thou! with clouds and ftorms
Around Thee thrown, tempeft o'er tempeft roll'd,
Majestic darkness! on the whirlwind's wing,
Riding fublime, Thou bidft the world adore,
And humbleft Nature with Thy northern blaft.
Mysterious round! what skill, what force divine,
Deep-felt, in these appear! a fimple train,
Yet fo delightful mix'd, with fuch kind art,
Such beauty and beneficence combin'd ;