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 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 e'er was to the bowers of bliss convey'd
A fairer spirit, 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 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 sometimes thy fpotless form defcend,
To me thy aid, thou guardian genius, lend!
When age misguides me, or when fear alarms,
When pain diftreffes, or when pleasure charms,
In filent whisp'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 rise,
Or rous'd by fancy, meets my waking eyes.
If bufinefs calls, or crowded courts invite,
Th' unblemish'd statesman seems to ftrike my fight;
If in the stage I seek 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 juft 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 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 fhadow, 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 Mufe'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 absence they attempt to mourn.
Oh! muft I then (now fresh my bofom bleeds,
And Craggs in death to Addison fucceeds)
The verfe, begun to one loft 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,
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! whofe 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.
F Leinfter fam'd for maidens fair,
Bright Lucy was the grace;
Nor e'er did Liffy's limpid ftream
Reflect a fairer face;
'Till luckless love and pining care
Impair'd her rofy hue,
Her dainty lip, her damask cheek,
And eyes of gloffy blue.
Ah! have you seen a lily pale
When beating rains defcend?
So droop'd this flow-confuming maid,
Her life now near its end.
By Lucy warn'd, of flatt'ring fwains
Take heed, ye easy fair;
Of vengeance due to broken vows,
Ye flatt'ring fwains, beware!
Three times all in the dead of night,
A bell was heard to ring;
And at her window, fhrieking thrice,
The raven flap'd his wing.
Full well the love-lorn maiden knew
The folemn-boding found,
And thus in dying words bespoke
The virgins weeping round.
VII.
"I hear a voice you cannot hear,
"That cries, I must not stay;
"I fee a hand you cannot fee,
"That beckons me away.
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