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, dumb loo long, the drooping Muse hath flay'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 sires! Slow comes the verfe that real woe infpiresz Grief unassected fuits but ill with art, Or flowing numbers with a bleeding heart. Can I forget the difmal night, that gave My foul's best part for ever to the grave! How silent did his old companions tread, By midnight lamps, the mansions of the dead; Through breathing statues, then unheeded things; Through rows of warriors, and through walks of king* What awe did the flow folemn knell infpire; The pealing organ, and the pausing choir; The duties by the lawn-rob'd prelate pay'd; And the last words, that dust to dust convey'd! While fpeechlefs o'er thy closing grave we bend/ Accept thefe tears, thou dear departed friend! Oh, gone for ever, take this long adieu; And flerp in peace, next thy lov'd Montague!

To strew freih laurels let the talk be mine, A frequent pilgrim at thy facred ihrine;

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 afliict this alienated heart;
Of Ihee forgetful, if I form a fong,
My lyre be broken, and untun'd my tongue;
My grief be doubled, from thy image free;
And mirth a torment, unchaiUz'd by thee.

Oft let me range the gloomy aifles alone,
(Sad luxury! to vulgar minds unknown,)
Along the walls where fpeaking marbles fhow
What worthies from the hallow'd mould below:
Proud names that once the reins of empire held;
In arms who triumph'd; or in arts excell'd;
Chiefs, grae'd with fears, and prodigal of blood;
Stern patriots, who for facred freedom stood;
]ust men, by whom impartial laws were given;
And faints 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 bowers of blifs, convey'd
A fairer fpirit, or a more welcome ihade.

In what new region to the just- aflign'd, What new employments pleafe th' unbody'd mind! A winged virtue, through th'ethereal Iky, From world to world unweary'd does he sty J Or curious trace the long laborious maze 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, uot ill-efl'ay'd below?

Or doll thou warn poor mortals left behind,
A talk 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 distresses, or when pleafure charms,
In silent vhifp'rings purer thoughts impart.
And turn from ill a frail and feeble heart;
Lead through the paths thy virtue trod before,
Till blifs mall join, nor death can part us more.

That awful form, (which, fo ye Heav'ns decree,
Must still be lov'd and still deplor'd by me,)
In nightly visions feldom fails to rife,
Or, rous'd by fancy, meets my waking eyes.
If businefs calls, or crowded courts invite,
Th' unblemuVd statefman feems to strike my sight;
If in the stage I feek to footh my care,
I meet his foul which breathes in Cato there;
If pensive to the rural shades I rove,
His fhape o'ertakes me in the lonely grove:
'Twas there of just and good he reafon'd strong,
Clear'd fome great truth, or rais'd fome ferious fong;
There patient shewed us the wide courfe to steer,
A candid cenfor, and a friend fevere;
There taught us how to live; and (oh! too high
The price fibr knowledge) taught us how to die.

Thou hill, whole 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. 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!

Mow fweet the glooms beneath thy aged trees,
Thy noon-tide fhadow, and thy evening breeze!
His image thy forfaken bowers restore;
Thy walks, and airy profpects charm no more.
No more the fummer in thy glooms allay'd,
Thy evening breezes, and thy noon-day fhade.

From other ills, however foitunC frown'd,
Some refuge in the Mufe's art I found;
Reluctant now 1 touch the trembling string,
Bereft of him, who taught me how to sing;
And thefe fad accents, murmur'd o'er his urn,
Betray that abfence they attempt to mourn.
Oh! must I then (now frefh my bofom bleeds,
And Craggs-f- in death to Addifon fucceeds)
The verfe, begun to one lost friend, prolong,-
And weep a fecond in th' unsinifh'd fong!

His 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 fpirit flies, And clofe to his, how foon! thy coffin lies. Blest pair! whofe union future bards fhall tell In future tongues: each other's boast! farewel :— Farewcl! whom join'd in fame, in friendfhip try'd,No chance could fever, nor the grave divide.

♦ The Rt. Hon. James Craggs, who succeeded Mr. Addisoa in the office of Secretary of State; 10 whom he dedicated las Works, as a testimony of his friendship.





These, as they change, Almighty Father, thefe,
Are hut the varied God. The rolling year
Is full of thee. Forth in the pleasing Spring
Thy heauty walks, Thy tendernefs and love.
Wide flush the sields; the foft'ning air is halm {
Echo the mountains round; the forest fmiles;
And every fenfe, and every heart is joy:
Then comes thy glory in the Summer-months,
With light and heat refulgent. Then Thy fun
Shoots full perfection through the fwelling year:
And oft Thy voice in dreadful thunder fpeaks;
And oft at dawn, deep noon, or falling eve,
By hrooks and groves, in hollow-whifp'ring gales.
Thy hounty shines in Autumn unconsin'd,
And fpreads a common feast for all that lives.
In Winter, awful Thou! with clouds and storms
Around Thee thrown, tempest o'er tempest roll'd,
Majestic darknefs! on the whirlwind's wing,
Riding fuhlime, Thou hidst the world adore,
And humhlest Nature with Thy northern hlast.

Mysterious round! what skill, what force divine,
Deep-felt, in thefe appear! a simple train,
Yet fo delightful mix'd, with fuch kind art,
Such heauty and henesicence comhin'd;

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