flattery, that he was jealous, and fufpicious in his temper, and, as Pope keenly expreffes it,

Bore, like the Turk, no rival near the throne.

That he was jealous of the fame of Pope many have believed, and perhaps not altogether without ground. He preferred rickell's translation of the First Book of Homer to Pope's. His words are, The other has · more of Homer;' when, at the fame time, in a letter to Pope, he strenuously advises him to undertake it, and tells him there is none but he equal to it; which circumstance has made fome people conjecture that Addison was himself the author of the translation imputed to Mr. Tickell. Be this as it may, it is unpleafing to dwell upon the failings and quarrels of great men; let us rather draw a veil over all their errors, and only admire their virtues and their genius, of both which the Author, the incidents of whofe life we have now been tracing, had a large poffeffion. He added much to the purity of the English ftyle in profe; his rhyme is not so flowing, nervous, or manly, as fome of his cotemporaries, but his profe has an original excellence, a smoothness and dignity, peculiar to it. His poetry, as well as fentiments, in Cato, cannot be praised enough.

Mr. Addison was stedfast to his principles, faithful to his friends, a zealous patriot, honourable in public stations, amiable in private life, and as he lived he died, a good man and a pious Chriftian.

TO THE RIGHT HON.

THE EARL OF WARWICK, &c.

Ir, dumb too long, the drooping Muse hath stay'd, And left her debt to Addison unpaid,

IQ

Blame not her filence, Warwick! but bemoan,
And judge, oh judge! my bofom by your own.
What mourner ever felt poetic 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 beft part for ever to the grave!
How filent did his old companions tread,
By midnight 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 pausing choir!
The duties by the lawn-rob'd prelate pay'd,
And the last words that duft to duft convey'd!
While fpeechlefs o'er thy closing grave we bend,
Accept thefe tears, thou dear departed Friend!
Oh! gone
take this long adieu,
And fleep in peace next thy lov'd Montagu!

for ever,

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To ftrew fresh laurels let the task be mine,
A frequent pilgrim at thy facred shrine;
Mine with true fighs thy abfence 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 fong,

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My lyre be broken, and untun'd my tongue,

30

My grief be doubled, from thy image free,
And mirth á torment, unchastis'd by thee.

35

Oft' let me range the gloomy aisles 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; Just men, by whom impartial laws were given; And faints, 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 fpirit or more welcome shade.

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45

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?

C

50

Or, curious, trace the long laborious maze

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Of Heav'n's decrees, where wond'ring angels gaze?
Does he delight to hear bold feraphs tell
How Michael battled and the Dragon fell?
Or, mix'd with milder cherubim, to glow
In hymns of love not ill effay'd below?
Or dost 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 mifguides me, or when fear alarms,
When pain diftreffes, or when pleasure charms,
In filent whifp'rings purer thoughts impart,
And turn from ill a frail and feeble heart;
Lead thro' the paths thy virtue trod before,
'Till blifs fhall join, nor death can part us more.
That awful form (which, fo ye Heav'ns decree,
Muft ftill be lov'd and still deplor'd by me)
In nightly visions feldom fails to rife,

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Or rous'd by fancy meets my waking eyes.
If bus nefs calls, or crowded courts invite,
'Th' unblemish'd statesman feems to strike my fight;
If in the stage I feek to footh my care,

1 meet his foul, which breathes in Cato there;

If, penfive, to the rural fhades I rove,

His shape o'ertakes me in the lonely grove:

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'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!

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Thou hill! whofe brow the antique structures grace,
Rear'd by bold chiefs of Warwick's noble race,
Why, once fo lov'd, whene'er thy bower appears, 85
O'er my dim eyeballs glance the fudden tears!
How sweet were once thy prospects fresh and fair,
Thy floping walks and unpolluted air!
How sweet the glooms beneath thy aged trees,
Thy noontide thadow, and thy ev'ning breeze!
His image thy forsaken bowers restore,
Thy walks and airy prospects charm no more;
No more the fummer in thy glooms allay'd,
Thy evening breezes and thy noonday shade.
From other ills, however Fortune frown'd,
Some refuge in the Mufe'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 verfe begun to one loft friend prolong,
And weep a fecond in th’unfinish'd song!

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These Works divine, which, on his deathbed laid, To thee, O Craggs! th' expiring fage convey'd, 1c6