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(The arts with you, fam'd HARCOURT, shall defend,
And courtly BOLINGBROKE, the Muse's friend)
With piercing eye fome search where nature plays,'
And trace the wanton through her darksome maze ;
Whence health from herbs; from seeds howgrovesbegun,
How vital streams in circling eddies run.
Some teach, why round the fun the spheres advance,
In the fix'd measures of their mystick dance :
How tides, when heav'd hy presfing moons, o'erflow,
And fun-born Iris paints her flow'ry bow.
In happy chains our daring language bound,
Shall sport no more in arbitrary sound,
Bat bulkin'd bards henceforth shall wisely rage,
And Grecian plans reform Britannia’s stage :
'Till Congreve bids her smile, Augufta ftands,
And longs to weep when Aowing Rowe commands:
Britain's Spectators shall their strength combine
To mend our morals, and our taste refine,
Fight virtue's cause, stand up in wit's defence,
Win us from vice, and laugh us into sense.
Nor, Prior, halt thou hush'd the trump in vain,
Thy lyre shall now revive her mirthful strain,
New tales shall now be told; if right I see,
The soul of Chaucer is restor'd in thee.
Garth, in majestick numbers, to the stars
Shall raise mock-heroes, and fantastick wars ;
Like the young spreading laurel, Pope, thy name
Shoots up with strength, and rises into fame;

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With Phillips Mhall the peaceful vallies ring,
And Britain hear a second Spenser fing;
That much-lov'd youth, whom Utrecht's walls confine,
TO BRISTOL's praises shall his STRAFFORD's join :
He too, from whom attentive Oxford draws
Rules for just thinking, and poetick laws,
To growing bards his learned aid shall send,
The strictest critick, and the kindest friend.
Ev'n mine, a bashful Muse, whose rude effays
Scarce hope for pardon, not aspire to praise,
Cherish'd by you in time may grow to fame,
And mine survive with Bristol's glorious name.

Fir’d with the views this glitt'ring fcene displays,
And smit with passion for my country's praise,
My artless reed attempts this lofty theme,
Where sacred Ifis rolls her ancient stream;
In cloister'd domes, the great Philippa's pride,
Where learning blooms, while fame and worth preside,
Where the fifth Henry arts and arms was taught,
And Edward form'd his Crefly, yet unfought;
Where laureld bards have struck the warbling strings,
The seat of sages, and the nurse of kings.
Here thy commands, O Lancaster, inflame
My eager breast to raise the British name ;
Urge on my foul, with no ignoble pride,
To woo the Mufe whom Addison enjoy'd,
Şee that bold swan to heav'n sublimely foar,
Pursue at distance, and his steps adore,
B 3

TO

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To the Right HONOURABLE the

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EARL of WARWICK, &c.
On the Death of Mr. ADDISON.

By the Same.
IT

F, 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 poetick 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 filent did his old companions tread,
By midnight lamps, the manfions of the dead,
Thro' breathing statues, then unheeded things,
Thro' rows of warriors, and thro' walks of kings !
What awe did the flow folemn knell inspire ;
The pealing organ, and the pausing choir;
The duties by the ļawn-rob'd prelate pay’d;
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,

Oh

Oh

gone for ever, take this long adieu ;
And sleep in peace, next thy lov'd Montagu !

To strew fresh laurels let the task be mine,
A frequent pilgrim at thy facred fhrine;
Mine with true fighs thy absence to bemoan,
And grave with faithful epitaphs thy stone,
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 ifles alone,
(Sad luxury! to vulgar minds unknown)
Along the walls where speaking marbles show
What worthies form the hallow'd mould 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 bloods
Stern patriots, who for sacred freedom stood ;
Just men, by whom impartial laws are given ;
And saints, 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 bliss convey'd
A fairer spirit, or more welcome shade.

In what new region, to the just aslignid, What new employments please th’unbody'd mind?

B 4

A winged

A winged virtue, through th' etherial kky,
From world to world unweary'd does he fly,
Pr 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 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 talk well suited to thy gentle mind ?
Oh, 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 filent whisp'rings purer thoughts impart,
And tayn 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 aweful form (which, so the heav'ns decree,
Must still be lov!d, and fill deplord by me)
In nightly visions seldom fails to rise,
Or róusd by fancy, meet my waking eyes.
If business calls, or crowded courts invite,
Th’ unblemish?d statesman seems to strike my fight;
If in the stage I seek to footh my care,
I meet his soul which breathes in Cațo there ;
If pensive to the rural shades I rove,
His shape o'ertakes me in the lonely grove :

?Twas

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