who made me an example, that nothing could be indifferent to him, which came recommended by Mr. Addifon.
Could any circumstance be more fevere to me, while I was executing thefe laft commands of the author, than to fee the perfon to whom his works were presented, cut off in the flower of his age, and carried from the high office wherein he had fucceeded Mr. Addifon, to be laid next him in the fame grave! I might dwell upon fuch thoughts, as naturally rife from these minute refemblances in the fortune of two perfons, whose names probably will be feldom mentioned afunder, while either our language or ftory fubfift, were I not afraid of making this preface too tedious; especially fince I fhall want all the patience of the reader for having enlarged it with the following verses.
To the RIGHT HONOURABLE the
F, dumb too long, the drooping mufe hath ftay'd,
And left her debt to Addison unpaid;
Blame not her filence, Warwick, but bemoan,
And judge, oh judge, my bosom by your own.
What mourner ever felt poetic fires!
Slow comes the verse, 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 best part for ever to the grave!
How filent did his old companions tread,
By mid-night 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 last words, that duft to duft convey'd!
While fpeechlefs o'er thy clofing grave we bend,
Accept these 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 fhrine,
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 shame 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 mold below:
Proud names, who once the reins of empire held;
In arms who triumph'd; or in arts excell'd;
Chiefs, grac'd with scars, and prodigal of blood;
Stern patriots, who for facred freedom stood;
Juft men, by whom impartial laws were given;
And faints, who taught, and led, the way to
heav'n.
Ne'er to these chambers, where the Mighty rest,
Since their foundation, came a nobler guest,
Nor e'er was to the bowers of bliss convey'd
A fairer spirit, or more welcome shade.
In what new region, to the just affign'd,
What new employments please th' unbody'd mind?
A winged Virtue, through th' ethereal sky,
From world to world unweary'd does he fly,
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 battel'd, and the dragon fell?
Or, mixt with milder cherubim, to glow
In hymns of love, not ill-effay'd below?
Or doft thou warn poor mortals left behind,
A task 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 diftreffes, or when pleasure charms,
In filent whifp'rings purer thoughts impart,
And turn from ill a frail and feeble heart;
Lead through the paths thy virtue trod before,
'Till blifs fhall join, nor death can parts us more.
That awful form (which, fo ye heav'ns decree,
Must still be lov'd and still deplor❜d by me)
In nightly vifions feldom fails to rise,
Or, rous'd by fancy, meets my waking eyes.
If bufinefs calls, or crouded courts invite,
Th'unblemish'd statesman seems to ftrike my fight;
If in the stage I feek to footh my care,
I meet his foul which breathes in Cato there;
If penfive to the rural fhades I rove,
His shape o'ertakes me in the lonely grove:
'Twas there of juft and good he reafon'd strong,
Clear'd fome great truth, or rais'd some serious fong;
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