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Haftes to learn thee, and learning shall fubmit
Alike to British arms and British wit:

No more fhe 'll wonder, forc'd to do us right,
Who think like Romans could like Romans fight.
Thy Oxford fmiles this glorious work to see,
And fondly triumphs in a fon like thee.

The fenates, confuls, and the gods of Rome,
Like old acquaintance at their native home,
In thee we find each deed each word expreft,
And ev'ry thought that swell'd a Roman breast,
We trace each hint that could thy foul inspire
'With Virgil's judgment and with Lucan's fire.
We know thy worth, and give us leave to boat
We most admire becaufe we know thee most.

TO THE EARL OF WARWICK,

ON THE DEATH OF MR. ADDISON.

Ir dumb too long the drooping Mufe hath stay'd
And left her debt to Addifon unpaid,

Blame not her filence, Warwick! but bemoan,
And judge, oh judge my bofom by your own!
What mourner ever felt poetick fires!
Slow comes the verse that real wo infpires:
Grief unaffected fuits but ill with art,
Or flowing numbers with a bleeding heart.
Can I forget the difmal night that gave
My foul's beft part for ever to the grave!

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How filent did his old companions tread
By midnight lamps the mansions of the dead,
Thro' breathing ftatues, then unheeded things,
Thro' rows of warricurs and thro' walks of kings!
What awe did the flow folemn knell infpire,
The pealing organ and the pausing choir,
The duties by the lawn-rob'd prelate paid,
And the last words that duft to duft convey'd!
While fpeechlefs o'er thy clofing 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 Montague.
To ftrew 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 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 aifles alone,
Sad luxury! to vulgar minds unknown,

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Along the walls where fpeaking marbles show 35
What worthics 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 scars and prodigal of blood,
Stern patriots who for facred Freedom stood,
Juft men by whom impartial laws were giv'n,
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 bow'rs of blifs convey'd
A fairer spirit or more welcome shade.

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In what new region to the juft affign'd, What new employments please th' unbody'd mind? A winged Virtue thro' th' ethereal sky

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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 seraphs 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 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 thro' the paths thy virtue trod before,

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Till blifs fhall join nor death can part us more.

That awful form which, fo the Heav'ns decree,
Muft ftill be lov'd and ftill deplor'd by me,
In nightly vifions feldem fails to rife,

Or rous'd by Fancy meets my waking eyes.
If bus'nefs calls or crowded courts invite

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Th' unblemish'd ftatefman feems to flrike 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 shades I rove,

His fhape o'ertakes me in the lonely grove;

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'Twas there of juft and good he reason'd strong,
Clear'd fome great truth or rais'd some serious song;
There patient show'd us the wife course to steer,
A candid cenfor and a friend severe;
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 loy'd, whene'er thy bow'r appears 85
O'er my dim eyeballs 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 noontide fhadow and thy ev'ning breeze!
His image thy forfaken bow'rs reflore,
Thy walks and airy profpects charm no more,
No more the fummer in thy glooms allay'd,
Thy ev'ning breezes and thy noonday shade.

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From other ills however Fortune frown'd Some refuge in the Mufe'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! must 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!

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Thefe works divine which on his deathbed laid To thee, O Craggs! th' expiring Sage 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,

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And close to his, how foon! thy coffin lies.
Bleft Pair! whofe union future bards fhall tell
In future tongues, each other's boaft, farewell!
Farewell! whom join'd in fame, in friendship try'd,
No chance could fever nor the

grave divide.

AN EPISTLE

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From a Lady in England to a Gentleman at Avignon.

To thee, dear Rover! and thy vanguifh'd friends,
The health fhe wants thy gentle Chloe fends:
'Tho' much you fuffer think I fuffer more,
Worfe than an exile on my native fhore.

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