(The arts with you, fam'd HARCOURT, shall defend, And courtly BOLINGBROKE, the Mufe's friend)

With piercing eye some search where nature plays,'
And trace the wanton through her darksome maze ;
Whence health from herbs; from feeds howgrovesbegun,
How vital streams in circling eddies run.

Some teach, why round the fun the spheres advance,
In the fix'd measures of their myftick dance :
How tides, when heav'd by preffing moons, o'erflow,
And fun-born Iris paints her flow'ry bow.

In happy chains our daring language bound,
Shall sport no more in arbitrary found,

But bufkin'd bards henceforth fhall wifely rage,
And Grecian plans reform Britannia's stage:
'Till Congreve bids her smile, Augusta stands,
And longs to weep when flowing Rowe commands:
Britain's Spectators fhall their ftrength combine
To mend our morals, and our taste refine,
Fight virtue's cause, stand up in wit's defence,
Win us from vice, and laugh us into sense.
Nor, Prior, haft thou hush'd the trump in vain,
Thy lyre shall now revive her mirthful strain,
New tales fhall now be told; if right I see,
The foul of Chaucer is restor'd in thee.
Garth, in majestick numbers, to the stars
Shall raise mock-heroes, and fantastick wars ;
Like the young spreading laurel, Pope, thy name
Shoots up with ftrength, and rifes into fame ;

With Phillips fhall the peaceful vallies ring,
And Britain hear a fecond Spenfer fing;

That much-lov'd youth, whom Utrecht's walls confine,
TO BRISTOL'S praises shall his STRAFFORD's join:
He too, from whom attentive OXFORD draws
Rules for just thinking, and poetick laws,
To growing bards his learned aid shall send,
The ftricteft critick, and the kindest friend.
Ev'n mine, a bashful Mufe, whofe rude effays
Scarce hope for pardon, not aspire to praise,
Cherish'd by you in time may grow to fame,
And mine furvive with BRISTOL's glorious name.
Fir'd with the views this glitt'ring fcene difplays,
And fmit with paffion for my country's praise,
My artless reed attempts this lofty theme,
Where facred Ifis rolls her ancient stream;
In cloister'd domes, the great Philippa's pride,
Where learning blooms, while fame and worth prefide,
Where the fifth Henry arts and arms was taught,
And Edward form'd his Creffy, yet unfought;
Where laurel'd bards have ftruck the warbling ftrings,
The feat of fages, and the nurse of kings.
Here thy commands, O Lancaster, inflame
My eager breast to raise the British name;
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,
Pursue at distance, and his fteps adore,

*XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

To the RIGHT HONOURABLE the

EARL of WARWICK, &c,

On the Death of Mr. ADDISON.
By the Same.

F, dumb too long, the drooping Muse hath stay'd,
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 poetick 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 difmal night, that gave
My foul's best part for-ever to the grave!
How filent did his old companions tread,
By midnight lamps, the manfions of the dead,
Thro' breathing ftatues, 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 pausing choir ;
The duties by the lawn-rob'd prelate pay'd;
And the last words, that duft to dust convey'd!
While fpeechlefs o'er thy clofing grave we bend,
Accept thefe tears, thou dear departed friend,

Oh

Oh
gone for ever, take this long adieu;
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 abfence to bemoan,
And grave with faithful epitaphs thy ftone.
If e'er from me thy lov'd memorial part,
May shame 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 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 are 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 bliss convey'd A fairer fpirit, or more welcome shade. In what new region, to the juft affign'd, What new employments please th' unbody'd mind ? A winged

B 4

A winged virtue, through th' etherial ky,
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 spotless form descend,
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 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,
Muft ftill be lov'd, and ftill deplor'd by me)
In nightly visions seldom fails to rise,
Or rous'd by fancy, meet my waking eyes.

If business calls, or crowded courts invite,
Th' unblemish'd statesman feems to ftrike my fight;
If in the ftage I feek to footh my care,

I meet his foul which breathes in Cato there;
If penfive to the rural fhades I rove,

His fhape o'ertakes me in the lonely grove:

'Twas