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“ 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, ac

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

66 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,

A youth to fortune and to fame unknown; « Fair science frown'd not on his humble birth,

And melancholy mark'd him for her own. Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,

“ Heav'n did a recompence as largely send: " He gave to mis’ry all he had, a tear, “ He gain'd from heav'n ('twas all he wish'd)

a friend.

« 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,
And left her debt to Addison unpaid,
Blame not her silence, Warwick, but bemoan,
And judge, O judge, my bosom by your own.
What mourner ever felt poetic fires !
Slow comes the verse that real woe inspires:
Grief unaffected suits but ill with art,
Or flowing numbers with a bleeding heart.

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,
By midnight lamps, the mansions of the dead,
Thro' breathing statues, then unheeded things,
Thro' rows of warriors, and thro' walks of kings.
What awe did the slow solemn knell inspire!
The pealing organ, and the solemn choir:
The duties by the lawn-rob'd prelate paid,
And the last words that dust to dust convey'd.
While speechless o'er thy closing grave we bend,
Accept these tears, thou dear departed friend;
O, gone for ever, take this long adieu;
And sleep in peace, next thy lov'd Montague!

To strew fresh laurels, let the task be mine,
A frequent pilgrim at thy sacred shrine;
Mine with true sighs thy absence to bemdan,
And grave with faithful epitaphs thy stone.
If e'er from me thy lov'd memorial part,
May shame afflict this alienated heart!
Of thee forgetful if I form a song,
My lyre be broken, and untun'd my tongue,
My grief be doubled, from thy image free,
And mirth a torment unchastis’d by thee.

Oft let me range the gloomy aisles alone, (Sad luxury! to vulgar minds unknown) Along the walls where speaking marbles show What worthies form'd the hallow'd mould below:

Proud names who once the reins of empire held;
In arms who triumph'd, or in art excell'd;
Chiefs, grac'd with scars; and prodigal of blood;
Stern patriots, who for sacred freedom stood;
Just men, by whom impartial laws were giv'n:
And saints who taught and led the way to heav'n.
Ne'er to these chambers where the mighty rest,
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 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,
And turn from ill a frail and feeble heart;
Lead through the paths thy virtue trod before,
Till bliss shall join, nor death can part us more.
That awful form (which, so the heav'ns decree,
Must still be lov'd, and still deplor'd by me)
In nightly visions seldom fails to rise,
Or, rous'd by fancy, meets my waking eyes.
If bus'ness calls, or crowded courts invite,
Th’unblemish'd statesman seems to strike my sight;
If pensive to the rural shades I rove,
His shape o'ertakes me in the lonely grove:
Twas there of just and good he reason'd strong,
Clear'd some great truths, or rais'd some serious

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!

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