Plain Goody would no longer down;
'Twas Madam, in her grogram gown.
Philemon was in great'furprize,
And hardly could believe his eyes,
Amaz'd to fee her look so prim,
And fhe admir'd as much at him.

Thus happy in their change of life
Were, feveral years, this man and wife;
When, on a day which prov'd their last,
Difcourfing o'er old stories past,

They went, by chance, amidft their talk,
To the church-yard, to take a walk :
When Baucis haftily cry'd out,

"My dear, I fee your forehead sprout!"

Sprout!" quoth the man, "what's this you tell us?

I hope you don't believe me jealous :
But yet, methinks, I feel it true;
And, really, your's is budding too
Nay-now I cannot ftir my foot;
It feels as if 'twere taking root."

Description would but tire my muse;
In fhort, they both were turn'd to Yews.
Old Goodman Dobfon of the Green
Remembers he the trees has feen:
He'll talk of them from noon till night,
And goes with folks to fhew the fight:
On Sundays, after ev'ning pray'r,
He gathers all the parish there ;
Points out the place of either Yew;

Here Baucis, there Philemon grew:

Till, once, a parfon of our town,
To mend his barn, cut Baucis down;
At which, 'tis hard to be believ'd
How much the other tree was griev'd,
Grew fcrubby, dy'd a-top, was ftunted;
So the next parfon stubb'd and burnt it.

TO THE

EARL OF WARWICK,

MR.

ON THE DEATH OF

ADDISON.

This elegy (by Mr. Tickell) is one of the finest in our language: there is fo little new that can be: faid upon the death of a friend, after the com-plaints of Ovid, and the Latin Italians, in this way, that one is surprised to see so much novelty in this to strike us, and fo much intereft to affect.

F, dumb too long, the drooping muse hath flay'd,,
And left her debt to Addison unpaid,

I'

Blame not her filence, Warwick, but bemoan,
And judge, oh judge, my bofom by your own.
What mourner ever felt poetic fires !.
Slow comes the verfe 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 foul's beft part for ever to the grave!
How filent did his old companions tread,
By midnight lamps, the manfions of the dead,.
Thro' breathing ftatues, then unheeded things,
Thro' rows of warriors, and thro' walks of kings!

What awe did the flow folemn knell inspire;
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 fighs thy abfence to bemoan,
And grave with faithful epitaphs thy ftone.
If e'er from me thy lov'd memorial part,
May fhame afflict this alienated heart;
Of thee 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, unchaftis'd by thee.

Oft let me range the gloomy ifles alone,
Sad luxury to vulgar minds unknown,
Along the walls, where speaking marbles show
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 fcars, and prodigal of blood;
Stern patriots, who for facred Freedom stood;
Juft men, by whom impartial laws were given ;
And faints who faught, and led the way to Heav'n ;
Ne'er to these chambers, where the mighty rest,
Since their foundation, came a nobler guest;

Nor