The Sun at length declin'd, when ev'ry Guest
Sought his bright Palace, and withdrew to Reft:
Each had his Palace on th' Olympian Hill,
A Mafter-piece of Vulcan's matchlefs Skill
Ev'n he, the God, who Heav'n's great Scepter fways,
And frowns amid the Lightning's dreadful Blaze,
His Bed of State afcending, lay compos'did mal
His Eyes a fweet refreshing
Slumber clos'd;
And at his Side, all glorious to behold, red ton so
Was Juno lodg'd in her Alcove of Gold,sybuj t..
To the Earl of WARWICK, on the Death of Mr. ADDISON.
F, dumb too long, the drooping Mufe hath stay'd,
And left her Debt to Addifon unpaid,
Blame not her Silence, Warwick, but bemoan,
And judge, oh judge, my Bofom by your own.
What Mourner ever felt poetic Fires!
Slow comes the Verse 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 Soul's best Part for ever to the Grave!
How filent did his old Companions tread,
By mid-night Lamps, the Manfions of the Dead,
Thro' breathing Statues, then unheeded Things,
Thro' Rows of Warriors, and thro' Walks of Kings!
What Awe did the flow folemn Knell infpire;
The pealing Organ, and the paufing Choir
The Duties by the Lawn-rob'd Prelate pay'd;
And the laft Words, that Duft to Duft convey'd !
While Speechlefs o'er thy clofing Grave we bend,
Accept thefe Tears, thou dear departed Friend,
Oh gone for Ever, take this long Adieu;
And fleep in Peace, next thy lov'd Montagu.
To ftrew fresh Laurels let the Task be mine,
A frequent Pilgrim, at thy facred Shrine;
Mine with true Sighs 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 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 fhow
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 ftood;
Juft Men, by whom impartial Laws were given ;
And Saints who taught, and led, the Way to Heav'n;
Ne'er to thefe Chambers, where the Mighty reft,
Since their Foundation, came a nobler Guest ;
Nor e'er was to the Bow'rs of Blifs
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?
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 battel'd and the Dragon fell;
Or mixt 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 fpotlefs 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 through 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 ftill deplor'd by me ;
In nightly Visions feldom fails to rise,
Or rous'd by Fancy, meets my waking Eyes.
If Bufinefs calls, or crouded Courts invite ;
Th' unblemish'd Statefman feems to ftrike my Sight;
If in the Stage I feek to footh 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 Juft and Good he reafon'd ftrong,
Clear'd fome great Truth or rais'd fome ferious Song:
There patient fhow'd us the wife Course to steer,
A candid Cenfor, 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, whofe Brow the antique Structures grace,
Rear'd by bold Chiefs of Warwick's noble Race,
Why, once fo lov'd, when-e'er thy Bow'r appears,
O'er my dim Eye-balls glance the fudden Tears!
How fweet were once thy Profpects fresh and fair,
Thy floping Walks, and unpolluted Air!
How fweet the Glooms beneath thy aged Trees,
Thy noon-tide Shadow, and thy ev'ning Breeze!
His Image thy forfaken Bow'rs restore;
Thy Walks and airy Profpects 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 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.
O! must I then, (now fresh my Bofom bleeds,
And Craggs in death to Addison succeeds,):
The Verfe, begun to one loft Friend, prolong,
And weep a fecond in th unfinish'd Song!
Thefe 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 furviv'd to give, nor thou to claim.
Swift after him thy focial Spirit flies,
And close to his, how foon! thy Coffin lies.
Bleft Pair! whofe Union future Bards fhall tell
In future Tongues: each others boaft! farewel,
Farewel! whom join'd in Fame, in Friendship try'd,
No Chance could fever, nor the Grave divide,
COLIN and Lucy. A Ballad.
F Leinster, fam'd for Maidens fair,
Bright Lucy was the Grace;
Nor e'er did Liffy's limpid Stream
Reflect fo fweet a Face:
Till luckless Love, and pining Care,
Impair'd her rofy Hue,
Her coral Lips, and damask Cheeks,
And Eyes of gloffy Blue.
Oh! have you seen a Lily pale,
When beating Rains descend?
So droop'd the flow-confuming Maid,
Her Life now near its end.
By Lucy warn'd, of flatt'ring Swains
Take heed ye easy Fair:
Of Vengeance due to broken Vows,
Ye perjur'd Swains, beware.
Three times, all in the dead of Night,
A Bell was heard to ring;
And fhrieking at her Window thrice,
The Raven flap'd his Wing, das
Too well the love lorn Maiden knew
The folemn boding Sound:
And thus, in dying Words, bespoke,
The Virgins weeping round:
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