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will,

life, my

And then, to make them pass the glibber,
Revis'd by Tibbalds, Moore, and Cibber.
He'll treat me as he does my betters,
Publish
my
my

letters;
Revive the libels born to die :
Which Pope must bear as well as I.

Here shift the scene, to represent
How those I love my death lament.
Poor Pope will grieve a month, and Gay
A week, and Arbuthnot a day.

St. John himself will scarce forbear
To bite his pen, and drop a tear.
The rest will give a shrug, and cry,
“ I'm sorry—but we all must die”

*

My female friends, whose tender hearts Have better learn'd to act their parts, Receive the news in doleful dumps : “ The Dean is dead: (Pray what is trumps ?) Then, Lord have mercy on his soul ! (Ladies, I'll venture for the vole.) Six deans, they say, must bear the pall : (I wish I knew what king to call.) Madam, your husband will attend The funeral of so good a friend ?” “No, madam, 'tis a shocking sight; And he's engag'd to-morrow night : My Lady Club will take it ill, If he should fail her at quadrille. He lov'd the Dean—(I lead a heart:) But dearest friends, they say, must part. His time was come; he ran his race; We hope he 's in a better place.”

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Suppose me dead; and then suppose
A club assembled at the Rose;
Where, from discourse of this and that,
I
grow

the subject of their chat.
And while they toss my name about,
With favour some, and some without;
One, quite indifferent in the cause,
My character impartial draws.

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“ Perhaps I may allow the Dean
Had too much satire in his vein,
And seem'd determin'd not to starve it,
Because no age could more deserve it.
Yet malice never was his aim;
He lash'd the vice, but spar'd the name.
No individual could resent,
Where thousands equally were meant :
His satire points at no defect,
But what all mortals may correct ;
For he abhorr'd the senseless tribe
Who call it humour when they gibe :
He spar'd a hump, or crooked nose,
Whose owners set not up for beaux.
True genuine dulness mov'd his pity,
Unless it offer'd to be witty.
Those who their ignorance confest,
He ne'er offended with a jest;
But laugh'd to hear an idiot quote
A verse from Horace learn’d by rote.
Vice, if it e'er can be abash'd,
Must be or ridicul'd or lash'd.
If you resent it, who's to blame ?
He neither knows you, nor your name.
Should vice expect to 'scape rebuke,
Because its owner is a duke?
His friendships, still to few confin'd,
Were always of the middling kind;
No fools of rank, or mongrel breed,
Who fain would pass for lords indeed :
Where titles give no right or power,
And peerage

is a wither'd flower;
He would have deem'd it a disgrace,
If such a wretch had known his face.

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“ He never thought an honour done him, Because a peer was proud to own him; Would rather slip aside, and choose To talk with wits in dirty shoes ; And scorn the tools with stars and garters, So often seen caressing Chartres. He never courted men in station, Nor persons held in admiration ;

Of no man's greatness was afraid,
Because he sought for no man's aid.
Though trusted long in great affairs,
He gave himself no haughty airs :
Without regarding private ends,
Spent all his credit for his friends;
And only chose the wise and good;
No flatterers; no allies in blood :
But succour'd virtue in distress,
And seldom fail'd of good success ;
As numbers in their hearts must own,
Who, but for him, had been unknown.

He kept with princes due decorum;
Yet never stood in awe before 'em.
He follow'd David's lesson just;
In princes never put his trust :
And, would you make him truly sour,
Provoke him with a slave in power.
The Irish senate if

you nam'd,
With what impatience he declaim’d!
Fair Liberty was all his cry;
For her he stood prepar'd to die;
For her he boldly stood alone;
For her he oft expos'd his own.
Two kingdoms, just as faction led,
Had set a price upon his head;
But not a traitor could be found,
To sell him for six hundred pound.

“ Had he but spar'd his tongue and pen,
He might have rose like other men:
But power was never in his thought,
And wealth he valued not a groat :
Ingratitude he often found,
And pitied those who meant the wound;
But kept the tenour of his mind,
To merit well of human-kind;
Nor made a sacrifice of those
Who still were true, to please his foes.
He labour'd many a fruitless hour,
To reconcile his friends in power;
Saw mischief by a faction brewing,
While they pursued each other's ruin ;
But finding vain was all his care,
He left the court in mere despair.”

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AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF DEMAR.

Know all men by these presents, Death the tamer,
By mortgage, hath secur'd the corpse of Demar:
Nor can four hundred thousand sterling pound
Redeem him from his prison under ground.
His heirs might well, of all his wealth possess'd,
Bestow to bury him one iron chest.
Plutus the god of wealth will joy to know
His faithful steward in the shades below,
He walk'd the streets, and wore a threadbare cloak ;
He din'd and supp'd at charge of other folk:
And by his looks, had he held out his palms,
He might be thought an object fit for alms.
So, to the poor, if he refus'd his pelf,
He us'd them full as kindly as himself.

Where'er he went, he never saw his betters ;
Lords, knights, and squires, were all his humble debtors;
And under hand and seal the Irish nation
Were forc'd to own to him their obligation.

He that could once have half a kingdom bought,
In half a minute is not worth a groat.
His coffers from the coffin could not save,
Nor all his interest keep him from the grave.
A golden monument would not be right,
Because we wish the earth upon him light.

Oh London tavern! thou hast lost a friend,
Though in thy walls he ne'er did farthing spend;
He touch'd the pence, when others touch'd the pot;
The hand that sign'd the mortgage paid the shot.

Old as he was, no vulgar known disease
On him could ever boast a power to seize ;
But, as he weigh'd his gold, grim Death in spight
Cast in his dart, which made three moidores light;
*And, as he saw his darling money fail,
Blew his last breath, to sink the lighter scale.
He who so long was current, 'twould be strange
If he should now be cried down since his change.

The sexton shall green sods on thee bestow;
Alas, the sexton is thy banker now!
A dismal banker must that banker be,
Who gives no bills but of mortality.

Joseph Addison, the son of Lancelot Addison, was born at his father's rectory of Milston, in Wiltshire, on the 1st of May, 1672. For the completion of his education, he was sent to the school of the Chartreux, where he formed his memorable friendship with Sir Richard Steele. In 1687 he entered Queen's College, Oxford, where he distinguished himself by some excellent Latin compositions, and by his general cultivation of poetry and criticism. After travelling some years, and having attached himself, as was usual with men of letters in that day, to one of the state parties, he was rewarded with office. When in Ireland with the Marquis of Wharton, he detected the authorship of the Tatler, and forwarded some pleasant papers to Steele, with whom, on the cessation of the Tatler, the Spectator was set up. These publications formed an era in English literature. The greatest triumph of Addison's life soon after occurred, in the successful representation of his Cato. The nation was then on fire with faction, and the Whigs applauded the liberty-preaching lines of the tragedy, as a satire on the Tories, while the Tories, to show that their “withers were unwrung," applauded more vehemently still. His next productions were political pamphlets on various subjects, and Whig Examiners. In 1716 he married the Countess Dowager of Warwick, and in 1717 rose to his highest pitch of elevation, the office of Secretary of State. The concluding years of his life were marked by his famous controversy with Steele. On the 17th of June, 1719, he died.

Addison called Lord Warwick to his death-bed, to show him how a Christian could die. The memory of that death-bed would have been associated with a more truly christian lesson, if it had witnessed the reunion of an old friendship which Addison had betrayed. It is not to be denied that his heart was most cold, if it was not most insincere. Cold as it was, Steele clung to it with unextinguishable fondness. He shared his poverty with him, and never sought to profit by his prosperity. When Addison played the hard and unfeeling creditor, Steele only wept for forgotten days; and when he insultingly spoke of " little Dicky, whose trade it was to write pamphlets," the great heart of Steele sustained him in a dignified and most pathetic silence. If he had spoken, might not these words have fallen from him, such as Mr. Landor has conceived ?—“ Why cannot I see him again in the arm-chair, his right hand upon his heart, under the fawn-coloured waistcoat; his brow erect and clear as his conscience; his wig even and composed as his temper, with measurely curls and antithetical topknots, like his style? The calmest poet, the most quiet patriot; dear Addison! drunk, deliberate, moral, sentimental, foaming over with truth and virtue, with tenderness and friendship, and only the worse in one ruffle for the wine." Those personal habits are here alluded to, for which Addison was notorious. Pope has described the course of his familiar day, before his ill-judged marriage arrested it. His chief companions were Steele, Budgell, Philips, Carey, Davenant, and Colonel Brett. With one or other of these he always breakfasted. He studied all the morning, then dined at a tavern, and went afterwards to Button's. From the coffee-house he went again to a tavern, where he often sate late, and drank too much wine.

In speaking of the poetry of Addison, it is to be remarked, that there is a very obvious distinction between his early and his later style. Dryden was his first model in versification, while Pope was his last. He had more skill in selection, however, than in execution. He debased the style of Dryden, and weakened that of Pope. His greatest poetical work is undoubtedly the tragedy of Cato, which is sufficiently sustained and dignified to hold a high place in the imagination of classical readers, who are content to surrender the more natural and passionate characteristics of tragedy, in return for the embodiment it seems to present of those remote visions of Roman grandeur and stoicism which were so familiar to their youth. In the more subtle accomplishments of scholarship Addison was certainly deficient. His translations from the Classics would alone sufficiently prove this. They are polished and easy, but they want the exactness of the scholar, and are more seriously deficient in the true spirit and genius of classical learning. In a word, the character of Addison's mind was not poetical. He was a fine essayist and a correct critic, and in his life he never failed to sustain the character and respectability of letters. His name is never mentioned in any intellectual circle, without a feeling that the gratitude and reverence paid to it, though perhaps involuntarily, are not unjustly paid.

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