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Who worships the great God, that instant joius
Thus, darkness aiding intellectual light,
Thou, who shalt wake, when the creation sleeps :
FROM THE LOVE OF FAME ; A SATIRE.
Let high-birth triumph! What can be more great ?. . Nothing-but merit in a low estate. To virtue's humblest son let none prefer. Vice, though descended from the Conqueror.. Shall men, like figures, pass for high, or base,... Slight, or important, only by their place ? . Titles are marks of honest men, and wise;. . The fool, or knave, that wears a title, lies. .
• They that on glorious ancestors enlarge i Produce their debt, instead of their discharge.. Dorset, let those who proudly boast their line,
Vain as false greatness is, the Muse must own
When men of infamy to grandeur soar,
Belus with solid glory will be crown'd;
The man who builds, and wants wherewith to pay, Provides a home from which to run away. In Britain, what is many a lordly seat, But a discharge in full for an estate ?
In smaller compass lies Pygmalion's fame; Not domes, but antique statues, are his flame : Not Fountaine's self more Parian charms has known, Nor is good Pembroke more in love with stone. The bailiffs come (rude men, profanely bold !) And bid him turn his Venus into gold. “ No, sirs,” he cries; “ I'll sooner rot in jail : Shall Grecian arts be truck'd for English bail ? ” Such heads might make their very bustos laugh: His daughter starves ; but Cleopatra's safe...
Men, overloaded with a large estate, * May spill their treasure in a nice conceit: The rich may be polite; but, oh!' 'tis sad To say you're curious, when we swear you're mad. By your revenue measure your expense;
And to your funds and acres join your sense. · No man is bless'd by accident or guess;
True wisdom is the price of happiness;
But how, my Muse, canst thou resist so long
What lords are those saluting with a grin?”
Ambition in the truly noble mind, With sister Virtue is for ever join'd; As in fam'd Lucrece, who, with equal dread, From guilt and shame, by her last conduct, fed : Her virtue long rebell'd in firm disdain, And the sword pointed at her heart in vain; But, when the slave was threaten'd to be laid Dead by her side, her love of fame obey'd.
In meaner minds Ambition works alone;
No mask in basest minds Ambition wears,
THOMAS TICKELL, the son of the Rev. Richard Tickell, was born in 1686, at Bride. kirk, in Cumberland. He took his degree at Queen's College, Oxford, and obtained a fellowship, for which, as he declined to comply with the statutes by taking orders, he procured a dispensation from the Crown. A complimentary poem, addressed to Mr. Addison," on his Opera of Rosamond," attracted the notice of that distinguished man, and led to an intimacy very beneficial to the one and satisfactory to the other. Their friendship continued during the life of Addison, and was of value after his death. Tickell had the charge of publishing his works, and received from him a solemn recommendation to the patronage of Craggs, a recommendation which had the effect of continuing him in his office of Under Secretary of State, to which Mr. Addison had appointed him.
He afterwards became Secretary to the Lords Justices of Ireland, a lucrative situation, which he held till his death in 1740.
The gratitude of Tickell for the friendship of Addison is abundantly proved. The elegy addressed " to the Earl of Warwick, on the death of Mr. Addison," is perhaps
rous of his compositions. “A more sublime or more elegant funeral poem," says Dr. Johnson, “is not to be found in the whole compass of English literature." It was sufficient to negative the assertion that he was indebted to the tasteful and judicious touches of his friend for much of the merit of his earlier productions. In this tribute to his memory, at least, he could have had no such assistance.
He is said to have been a man of most pleasing manners, and of unquestioned honour and integrity; his conversation was gay and lively, and he was " at least a temperate lover of wine and conviviality." It is certain that he contributed to the Spectator, though to what extent is unknown; and for the Guardian he wrote the papers on Pastoral Poetry. Literature, however, was his rel business: he can scarcely be ushered to a high seat in the assembly of British Poets. Through all his " poetry,” according to the quaint expression of Goldsmith, “there is a strain of BALLAD-THINKING to be found;" and probably, to this more rare, if less elevated quality, much of his popularity may be attributed; for, in his own time, it was by no means inconsiderable, although now, with the exception of his lines on the death of Addison, and his pathetic tale of Colin and Lucy, his works are altogether forgotten. The principal of them, indeed, are "party poems," and consequently have little to interest us; one of these “party poems" Dr. Johnson considers to possess high merit: “it expresses contempt without coarseness, and superior without insolence." The longest of his productions is “ Kensington Gardens," having reference to the ancient days, before its gravel walks were paced by dames of Britain, when
- "Its peopled ground
and when Albion, the son of Neptune, wooed a fairy nymph, Kenna, reserved by her sire, Oberon, for Azuriel, whose dwelling stood
· "Where now the skies high Holland House invades," The descendant of the sea king is slain by his rival, and the spells of his fairy-lover convert the dead hero into a snow-drop. The machinery of the poem is defective. Our imaginations cannot picture the “ furious Albion" flinging a dart "feathered from the bee's transparent wing, and its shaft ending in a hornet's sting;" and the confused mixture of Grecian deities and Gothic fairies destroys the illusion which the poet desires to produce. It is however a graceful and elegant composition, and the versification is smooth and correct.
Tickell undertook a translation of the Iliad, of which he published the first book about the period when that of Pope was issued. The circumstance gave rise to "a coolness" between Pope and Addison, who was suspected of having suggested the design and, indeed, of being the actual translator - with a view to injure the pro
Me Fortune and kind Heaven's indulgent care To famous Oxford and the Muses bear, Where of all ranks the blooming youths combine To pay due homage to the mighty Nine, And snatch with smiling joy the laurel crown Due to the learned honours of the gown: Here I the meanest of the tuneful throng Delude the time with an unhallow'd song, Which thus my thanks to much lov’d: Oxford pays.