TO THE

EARL OF WARWICK,

MR.

ON THE DEATH OF

ADDISON.

This elegy (by Mr. Tickell) is one of the fineft in our language: there is fo little new that can be faid upon the death of a friend, after the complaints of Ovid, and the Latin Italians, in this way, that one is furprised to fee fo much novelty in this to ftrike us, and fo much interest to affect.

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 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 dismal 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,
Thro' breathing ftatues, 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 lawn-rob'd prelate pay'd;
And the laft words, that duft to duft convey'd!
While speechless o'er thy closing grave we bend,
Accept these tears, thou dear departed friend;
Oh gone
for ever, take this long adieu;
And fleep in peace, next thy lov'd Montagu.
'To firew 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 shame 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, unchaftis'd by thee.

Oft let me range the gloomy ifles alone,
Sad luxury! to vulgar minds unknown,
Along the walls, where fpeaking 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 fcars, and prodigal of blood;
Stern patriots, who for facred Freedom stood;
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

Nor e'er was to the bow'rs of bliss convey'd
A fairer fpirit, or more welcome shade.

In what new region, to the juft affign'd, What new employments please th' unbody'd mind; A winged Virtue, through th' etherial sky, From world to world, unweary'd, does he fly? Or, curious, trace the long laborious maze Of Heaven's decrees, where wond'ring angels gaze? Does he delight to hear bold feraphs 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 dost thou warn poor mortals left behind, A task well fuited to thy gentle mind? Oh! if, fometimes, thy fpotlefs form defcend; To me, thy aid, thou guardian genius, lend! When Rage mifguides 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 ftill 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 business calls, or crowded courts invite ; Th' unblemish'd statesman seems to ftrike my fight;

If in the stage 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 reafon'd ftrong,
Clear'd fome great truth, or rais'd fome ferious fong:
There, patient, show'd us the wife course to steer,
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, when e'er thy bow'r 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 fweet the glooms beneath thy aged trees,
Thy noon-tide fhadow, and thy ev'ning breeze!
His image thy forsaken bow'rs 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 fhade.
From other ills, however Fortune frown'd,
Some refuge in the muse'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.
O! muft I, then, (now fresh my bofom bleeds,
And Craggs in death to Addifon fucceeds)
The verfe, begun to one loft friend, prolong,
And weep a fecond in th' unfinish'd fong!

Thefe

Thefe works divine, which on his death-bed laid,
To thee, O Craggs, th' expiring fage 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.