"No further 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. TICKELL. IF, dumb too long, the drooping Muse hath staid Blame not her silence, Warwick, but bemoan, 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, To strew fresh laurels, let the task be mine, My lyre be broken, and untun'd my tongue, Oft let me range the gloomy aisles alone, Proud names, who once the reins of empire held ; Chiefs, grac'd with scars; and prodigal of blood; In what new region to the just assign'd, What new employments please th' unbody'd mind? A winged virtue thro' th' ethereal 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 charms, In silent whisp'rings purer thoughts impart, Or, rous'd by fancy, meets my waking eyes. His shape o'ertakes me in the lonely grove: song; There patient show'd us the wide course to steer, A candid censor, aud 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! How sweet the glooms beneath thy aged trees, Thy walks and airy prospects are no more; From other ills, however fortune frown'd, Some refuge in the Muse's art I found; Reluctant now I touch the trembling string, Bereft of him who taught me how to sing ; And these sad accents, murmur'd o'er his urn, Betray that absence they attempt to mourn. 0 ! must I then (now fresh my bosom bleeds, And Craggs in death to Addison succeeds) The verse, begun to one lost friend, prolong, And weep a second in th' unfinish'd song! These words 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. Bless'd 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. |