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.
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 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 fpirit flies,
And close to his, how foon! thy coffin lies.
Bleft pair! whofe union future bards fhall 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