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Urge on my foul, with no ignoble pride,
To woo the Mufe whom Addison enjoy'd;
See that bold fwan to heav'n fublimely foar,
Purfue at diftance, and his fteps adore.

To the RIGHT HONOURABLE the

EARL of WARWICK, &c.

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On the Death of Mr. ADDISON.

By the Same.

dumb too long, the drooping Muse hath staid, 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

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 paufing 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 clofing grave we bend,
Accept these tears, thou dear departed friend,
gone for ever, take this long adieu;

Oh

And fleep in peace, next thy lov'd Montagu!

To ftrew 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 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, unchaftis'd by thee.

Oft let me range the gloomy ifles alone, (Sad luxury! to vulgar minds unknown)

Along

Along the walls where speaking marbles fhow
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 rest,
Since their foundation, came a nobler gueft;
Nor e'er was to the bowers of blifs convey'd
A fairer fpirit, or more welcome fhade.

In what new region, to the just affign'd,
What new employments please th' unbody'd mind?
A winged virtue, through th' etherial fky,
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,

Oh, if fometimes thy spotless form defcend,
To me thy aid, thou guardian genius, lend!
When age mifguides me, or when fear alarms,
When pain distreffes, 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 aweful form (which, fo the heav'ns decree,
Must still be lov'd, and still deplor❜d by me)
In nightly visions 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 strike 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 strong,
Clear'd fome great truths, or rais'd fome ferious fong;
There patient show'd us the wife course to steer,
A candid cenfor, and a friend fincere ;

There taught us how to live; and (oh! too high
The price for knowledge) taught us how to die.

Thou

Thou hill, whose 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 sweet the glooms beneath thy aged trees,
Thy noon-tide shadow, and the evening breeze!
His image thy forfaken bowers restore;
Thy walks and airy profpects 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 string,
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! muft I then (now fresh my bofom bleeds,
And Craggs in death to Addison fucceeds)
The verse, begun to one lost friend, prolong,
And weep a fecond in th' unfinish'd fong!

These words divine, which, on his death-bed laid, To thee, O Craggs, th' expiring fage convey'd,

VOL. I.

C

Great,

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