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If, dumb too long, the drooping Muse hath ftay'd,
And left her debt to Addison unpaid;
Blame not her filence, Warwick, but bemoan,
And judge, oh 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 mid-night lamps, the mansions of the dead, Thro' breathing statues, then unheeded things, Thro' rowes of warriors, and thro' walks of kings! What awe did the slow folemn bell inspire ; 15 The pealing organ, and the pausing choir;


* Born 1686; dyed 1740.

The duties by the lawn-rob'd prelate pay'd;
And the last words, that duft to dust convey'd!
While speechless o'er thy closing grave we bend,
Accept these tears, thou dear departed friend, 20
Oh gene for ever, take this long adieu ;
And sleep in peace, next thy lov'd Montagu.

To strew fresh laurels let the talk be mine,
A frequent pilgrim, at thy facred shrine,
Mine with true fighs thy absence to bemoan, 25
And grave with faithful epitaphs thy stone.
If e'er from me thy lov'd memorial part,
May shame amiet this alienated heart;
Of thee forgetful if I form a song,
My lyre be broken, and untun'd my tongue, 30
My grief be doubled, from thy image free,
And mirth a torment, unchastis'd by thee.

Oft let me range the gloomy .ailes' alone, (Sad luxury ! to vulgar minds unknown) Along the walls where speaking marbles show 35 What worthies form the hallow'd mold 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 sacred freedom ftood; 40 Just men, by whom impartial laws were given'; And saints, who taught, and led, the way to heav'n.

V. 33. Iles.

Ne'er to these chambers, where the mighty rest,
Since their foundation, came a nobler guest,
Nor e'er was to the bow'rs of bliss convey'd 45
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' ethereal sky,
From world to world unweary'd does he fly, 50
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 battel'd, and the Dragon fell?
Or, mix'd with milder Cherubim, to glow

55 In hymns of love, not ill-essay'd below? Or dost thou warn poor mortals left behind, A talk well suited to thy gentle mind ? Oh, if sometimes thy spotless form descend, To me thy aid, thou guardian Genius, lend! 60 When rage misguides me, or when fear alarms, When pain distresses, 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, 65 'Till bliss shall join, nor death can part us more.

That awful form (which, so ye 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. 70

If business calls, or crouded courts invite,
Th' unblemish'd statesman seems to strike

my fight;
If in the stage I seek to sooth my care,
I meet his soul which breathes in Cato there;
If pensive to the rural shades I rove,

75 His fhape o'ertakes me in the lonely grove: 'Twas there of Just and Good he reason'd strong, Clear'd some great truth, or rais'd some serious song; There patient show'd us the wise course to steer, A candid censor, and a friend severe;

80 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 structures grace, Rear'd by bold chiefs of Warwick's noble race, Why, once so lov'd, when-e'er thy bower appears, O'er my dim eye-balls glance the sudden tears! How sweet were once thy prospects fresh and fair, Thy floping walks, and unpolluted air! How sweet the gloomes beneath thy aged trees, Thy noon-tide shadow, and thy evening breeze! His image thy forsaken bowers restore ; Thy walks and airy prospects charm no more. No more the summer in thy gloomes allay'd, Thy evening breezes, and thy noon-day shade.

From other ills, however fortune frown'd, 95 Some refuge in the muse's art I found; Reluctant now I touch the trembling ftring, Bereft of him, who taught me how to sing i


And these fad accents, murmur'd o'er his urn,
Betray that absence, they attempt to mourn. 100
Oh! must I then (now fresh my bofom bleeds,
And Craggs in death to Addison fucceeds)
The verse, begun to one loft friend, prolong,
And weep a second in th’unfinish’d fong!

These works divine, which on his death-bed laid,
To thee, O Craggs, th’expiring Sage convey'd,
Great, but ill-omen'd monument of fame,
Nor he surviv'd to give, nor thou to claim.
Swift after him thy social spirit flies,
And close to his, how soon! thy coffin lies, 110
Blest pair! whose union future bards shall tell
In future tongues : each other's boast! farewel.
Farewel! whom join'd in fame, in friendship try'd,
No chance could sever, nor the

grave divide.



Much had I heard of fair Francelia's name,
The lavish praises of the babler, Fame:
I thought them such, and went prepar’d to pry,
And trace the charmer with a critick's eye,

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