Miscellaneous Works, in Verse and Prose

There patient fhow'd us the wife course to steer, A candid cenfor, and a friend fevere;

There taught us how to live; and (oh! too high The price for knowledge) taught us how to die. Thou hill, whofe brow the antique ftructures

grace,

Rear'd by bold chiefs of Warwick's noble race, Why, once fo lov'd, when-e'er thy bower appears, O'er my dim eye-balls glance the fudden tears! How sweet were once thy prospects fresh and fair, Thy floping walks, and unpolluted air!

How sweet the gloomes 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 fortune frown'd, Some refuge in the mufe's art I found; Reluctant now I touch the trembling string,

Bereft of him, who taught me how to fing,

And

And these fad accents, murmur'd o'er his urn,
Betray that absence, they attempt to mourn.
Oh! must I then (now fresh my bofom bleeds,
And Craggs in death to Addison fucceeds)
The verse, begun to one loft friend, prolong,
And
weep a second in the unfinish'd fong!

Thefe works divine, which on his death-bed laid
To thee, O Craggs, th' expiring fage 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.
Bleft pair! whose union future bards shall tell
In future tongues: Each other's boaft! farewel.
Farewel! whom join'd in fame, in friendship try❜d,
No chance could fever, nor the grave divide.

THO. TICKELL,

THE

CONTENTS

OF THE

FIRST VOLUME.

'O Mr. Dryden,