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1: iis ad eum in the same grave! I el pa sa magis s mr rise from these ates a wirane df 21 persons, whose names, sum matunei asunder, wille either our J & sur suss, varm i of making this preimris speraly snee I shall want all the patience of aus ir ang murret i và ne fürwing verses.
IF, dumb too long, the drooping Muse inta sa
And left her debt to Acampai
Blame not her silence, Warwick in ieman
And judge, oh, judge, my bosom in your own
What mourner ever felt poetic fres
Slow comes the verse that real we
Grief unaffected suits but with an
Or flowing numbers with a bleeding hear
Can I forget the dismal zigit at gre
My soul's best part for ever to the gate!
How silent did his old companions read
By midnight lamps, the mansions if he dead,
Through breathing statues, then
Through rows of warriors, and rough walks of kings!
What awe did the slow solemn knell inspire!
The pealing organ, and the pansing choir;
The duties by the lawn-rob'd prelate pay'd!
To strew fresh laurels, let the task be mine;
A frequent pilgrim at thy sacred shrine;
Mine with true sighs thy absence to bemoan,
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 griefs be doubled, from thy image free,
And mirth a torment, unchastis'd by thee.
Oft let me range the gloomy isles 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 scars, and prodigal of blood;
Stern patriots, who for sacred freedom stood;
Just men, by whom impartial laws were given;
And saints, who taught, and led, the way to heaven.
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, through 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 battl'd, and the Dragon fell?
Or, mixt with milder Cherubim, to glow
In hymns of love, not ill essay'd below?
Or do'st thou warn poor mortals left behind,
A task well suited to thy gentle mind?
Oh, if sometimes thy spotless form descend,
To me thy aid, thou guardian Genius, lend!
When rage misguides me, or when fear alarms,
When pain distresses, or when pleasure charms,
In silent whisperings 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 ye heavens 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 business calls, or crowded courts invite,
Th' unblemish'd statesman seems to strike my sight;
If in the stage I seek to soothe my care,
I meet his soul, which breathes in Cato there :
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 truth, or rais'd some serious song; There patient show'd us the wise course to steer,
A candid censor, 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 whose brow the antique structures grace,
Rear'd by bold chiefs of Warwick's noble race,
Why, once so lov'd, whene'er thy bower 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 gloom 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 glooms allay'd,
Thy evening breezes, and thy noon-day shade.
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.
Oh! 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 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 survived to give, nor thou to claim.
Swift after him thy social spirit flies,
And close to his, how soon! thy coffin lies.
Blest pair! whose union future bards shall tell
In future tongues: each other's boast! farewell.
Farewell! whom join'd in fame, in friendship try'd,
No chance could sever, nor the grave divide.
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