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 fhall fend,
The ftricteft critick, and the kindeft friend.
Ev'n mine, a bashful Muse, whofe rude essays
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 scene displays,
And fmit with paffion for my country's praise,
My artless reed attempts this lofty theme,
Where facred Ifis rolls her ancient stream;
In cloyster'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
breaft to raise the British name;
Urge on my foul, with no ignoble pride,
To woo the muse whom Addison enjoy'd ;
See that bold fwan to heav'n fublimely foar,
Pursue at distance, and his steps adore.

To the RIGHT HONOURABLE the

EARL of WARWICK, &c.

On the Death of Mr. ADDISON.

By the Same.

F, dumb too long, the drooping Mufe hath stay'd,
And left her debt to Addifon 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 verfe, that real woe inspires:
Grief unaffected fuits but ill with art,
Or flowing numbers with a bleeding heart.
Can I forget the dismal night, that gave
My foul's best part for-ever to the grave!
How filent did his old companions tread,
By mid-night lamps, the mansions 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 paufing choir;
The duties by the lawn-rob'd prelate pay'd;
And the laft words, that duft to dust convey'd!
While speechless o'er thy clofing grave we bend,
Accept thefe tears, thou dear departed friend,

Oh

Oh

gone
for ever, take this long adieu;
And sleep 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 fhame 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, 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 scars, 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 reft,
Since their foundation, came a nobler guest;
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 virtue, through th' ethereal sky,
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 battel'd, 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 fometimes thy fpotless form defcend,
To me thy aid, thou guardian genius, lend!
When rage misguides me, or when fear alarms,
When pain diftreffes, 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,
"Till blifs fhall join, nor death can part us more.
That awful form (which, so the heav'ns decree,
Muft ftill be lov'd and ftill deplor'd by me)
In nightly vifions feldom fails to rise,

Or, rous'd by fancy, meets my waking eyes.

If bufinefs calls, or crouded courts invite,

Th' unblemish'd statesman seems to ftrike my fight;
If in the stage I seek to footh my care,

I meet his foul which breathes in Cato there;

If penfive to the rural shades I rove,

His fhape o'ertakes me in the lonely grove :

'Twas

"Twas there of just and good he reafon'd strong,
Clear'd fome great truth, or rais'd some serious song;
There patient show'd us the wife course to steer,
A candid cenfor, and a friend fevere;

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 ftructures grace,
Rear'd by bold chiefs of Warwick's noble race,
Why, once fo lov'd, when-e'er thy bower appears,
O'er my dim eye-balls glance the fudden tears!
How fweet were once thy prospects fresh and fair,
Thy floping walks, and unpolluted air!
How fweet the glooms beneath thy aged trees,
Thy noon-tide shadow, and thy evening breeze!
His image thy forsaken bowers restore;
Thy walks and airy profpects charm no more;
No more the fummer in thy glooms allay'd,
Thy evening breezes, and thy noon-day fhade.
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 fing,
And these fad accents, murmur'd o'er his urn,
Betray that abfence, they attempt to mourn.
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!

Thefe