For us they languish, and for us they die:
And shall they languish, shall they die, in vain?
Ungrateful, shall we grieve their hovering shades,
Which wait the revolution in our hearts?
Shall we disdain their silent, soft address;
Their posthumous advice, and pious prayer?
Senseless, as herds that graze their hallow'd graves,
Tread under foot their agonies and groans;
Frustrate their anguish, and destroy their deaths?

"Is virtue, then, and piety the same?"
No; piety is more; 'tis virtue's source;
Mother of every worth, as that of joy.
Men of the world this doctrine ill digest:
They smile at piety; yet boast aloud
Good-will to men; nor know they strive to part
What nature joins; and thus confute themselves.
With piety begins all good on earth;
'Tis the first-born of rationality.

Conscience, her first law broken, wounded lies;
Enfeebled, lifeless, impotent to good;

A feign'd affection bounds her utmost power.
Some we can't love, but for the Almighty's sake ;
A foe to God was ne'er true friend to man;
Some sinister intent taints all he does;
And, in his kindest actions, he's unkind.
On piety, humanity is built;
And on humanity, much happiness;
And yet still more on piety itself.

A soul in commerce with her God is heaven;
Feels not the tumults and the shocks of life;
The whirls of passions, and the strokes of heart.
A Deity believ'd, is joy begun;

A Deity ador'd, is joy advanc'd;
A Deity belov'd, is joy matur'd.

Each branch of piety delight inspires;

Faith builds a bridge from this world to the next,
O'er death's dark gulf, and all its horror hides ;
Praise, the sweet exhalation of our joy,
That joy exalts, and makes it sweeter still;
Prayer ardent opens heaven, lets down a stream
Of glory on the consecrated hour

Of man, in audience with the Deity.

Who worships the great God, that instant joins
The first in heaven, and sets his foot on hell.

Thus, darkness aiding intellectual light,
And sacred silence whispering truths divine,
And truths divine converting pain to peace,
My song the midnight raven has outwing'd,
And shot, ambitious of unbounded scenes,
Beyond the flaming limits of the world,
Her gloomy flight. But what avails the flight
Of fancy, when our hearts remain below?
Virtue abounds in flatteries and foes;

'Tis pride to praise her; penance to perform.
To more than words, to more than worth of tongue,
Lorenzo! rise, at this auspicious hour;

An hour, when Heaven's most intimate with man;
When, like a falling star, the ray divine
Glides swift into the bosom of the just;
And just are all, determin'd to reclaim;
Which sets that title high within thy reach.
Awake, then thy Philander calls: awake!
Thou, who shalt wake, when the creation sleeps:
When, like a taper, all these suns expire;
When Time, like him of Gaza in his wrath,
Plucking the pillars that support the world,
In Nature's ample ruins lies entomb'd;
And midnight, universal midnight! reigns.

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,
Produce their debt, instead of their discharge.
Dorset, let those who proudly boast their line,
Like thee, in worth hereditary, shine.

Vain as false greatness is, the Muse must own
We want not fools to buy that Bristol stone.
Mean sons of earth, who on a South-Sea tide
Of full success, swam into wealth and pride,
Knock with a purse of gold at Anstis' gate,
And beg to be descended from the great.

When men of infamy to grandeur soar,
They light a torch to show their shame the more.
Those governments which curb not evils, cause;
And a rich knave's a libel on our laws.

Belus with solid glory will be crown'd;
He buys no phantom, no vain empty sound;
But builds himself a name; and, to be great,
Sinks in a quarry an immense estate!
In cost and grandeur, Chandos he'll outdo;
And Burlington, thy taste is not so true.
The pile is finish'd; every toil is past;
And full perfection is arriv'd at last;

When lo! my lord to some small corner runs,
And leaves state-rooms to strangers and to duns.
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.

66

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;
Yet few without long discipline are sage;
And our youth only lays up sighs for age.

But how, my Muse, canst thou resist so long
The bright temptation of the courtly throng,
Thy most inviting theme? The court affords
Much food for satire ;-it abounds in lords.
"What lords are those saluting with a grin?"
One is just out, and one as lately in.

"How comes it then to pass, we see preside
On both their brows an equal share of pride?”
Pride, that impartial passion, reigns through all,
Attends our glory, nor deserts our fall.
As in its home it triumphs in high place,
And frowns a haughty exile in disgrace.
Some lords it bids admire their hands so white,
Which bloom, like Aaron's, to their ravish'd sight:
Some lords it bids resign; and turns their wands,
Like Moses', into serpents in their hands.
These sink, as divers, for renown; and boast,
With pride inverted, of their honours lost.
But against reason sure 'tis equal sin,
The boast of merely being out, or in.

*

*

*

*

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, fled :
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;
But with such art puts Virtue's aspect on,
That not more like in feature and in mien,
The god and mortal in the comic scene.
False Julius, ambush'd in this fair disguise,
Soon made the Roman liberties his prize.

No mask in basest minds Ambition wears,
But in full light pricks up her ass's ears:
All I have sung are instances of this,
And prove my theme unfolded not amiss.

H

THOMAS TICKELL, the son of the Rev. Richard Tickell, was born in 1686, at Bridekirk, 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 the finest and most vigorous 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 assist

ance.

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 relaxation and not his 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 superiority 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

With fairy domes and dazzling towers was crown'd;
Where in the midst those verdant pillars spring,

Rose the proud palace of the Elfin king;"

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 prospects of a prosperous rival. The project was abandoned.