"Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, "Mutt'ring his wayward fancies, he would rove; "Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn, "Or craz❜d with care, or cross'd in hopeless love. "One morn I miss'd him on th' accustom'd hill, σε Along the heath, and near his fav'rite tree; "Another came; nor yet beside the rill, "Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he. "The next, with dirges due in sad array, "Slow thro' the church-yard path we saw him "borne. "Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay, "Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn." THE EPITAPH. "HERE rests his head upon the lap of earth, "Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, "No farther seek his merits to disclose, "Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, "(There they alike in trembling hope repose) "The bosom of his Father and his GOD." TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE EARL OF WARWICK, ON THE DEATH OF MR. ADDISON. TICK ELL. If, dumb too long, the drooping Muse hath staid, Blame not her silence, Warwick, but bemoan, Can I forget the dismal night, that gave My soul's best part for ever to the grave? How silent did his old companions tread, To strew fresh laurels, let the task be mine, Oft let me range the gloomy aisles alone, Proud names who once the reins of empire held; Chiefs, grac'd with scars; and prodigal of blood; In what new region, to the just assign'd, What new employments please th' unbody'd mind? A winged virtue thro' th' æthereal 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 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 task well suited to thy gentle mind? O, 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 c arms, In silent whisp'rings purer thoughts impart, Or, rous'd by fancy, meets my waking eyes. His shape o'ertakes me in the lonely grove: song; There patient show'd us the wise course to steer, A candid censor, and a friend sincere; There taught us how to live; and (O! too high The price for knowledge) taught us how to die. Thou hill, whose brow the antique structure grace, Rear'd by bold chiefs of Warwick's noble race, Why, once so lov'd, whene'er thy bow'r appears, O'er my dim eye-balls glance the sudden tears! How sweet were once thy prospects fresh and fair, Thy sloping walks and unpolluted air! |