XX

To strew fresh laurels, let the task be' mine; A frequent pilgrim at thy sacred shrine; Mine with true sighs thy absence to bemoan, And grave with faithful epitaphs thy stone. If e'er from me thy lov'd memorial part, May shame afflict this alienated heart; Of thee forgetful if I form a song, My lyre be broken, and untun'd my tongue, My griefs be doubled, from thy image free, And mirth a torment, unchastis'd by thee.

Oft let me range the gloomy iles 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 triumphd, or in arts excell'd; Chiefs, grac'd with scars, and prodigal of blood; Stern patriots, who for sacred freedom stood; Just men, by whom impartial laws were given; And saints, who taught, and led the way to

heaven. 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 assign'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 heaven's decrees, where wond'ring angels gaze? Does he delight to hear bold Seraphs tell Hov Michael battled, and the Dragon fell? Or, mixt with milder Cherubim, to glow In hymns of love, not ill essay'd below?

xxi
Or dost thou warn poor mortals left behind,
A task well suited to thy gentle mind ?
Oh, if sometimes thy spotless form descend,
To me thy aid, thou guardian Genius, lend !
When rage misguides me, or when fear alarms,
When pain distresses, or when pleasure charms,
In silent whisp’rings purer thoughts impart,
And turn from ill a frail and feeble heart;
Lead through the paths thy virtue trod before,
'Till bliss shall join, nor death can part us more.

That awful form (which, so ye heavens decree,
Must still be lov’d, and still deplor'd by me)
In nightly visions seldom fails to rise, 31
Or, rous'd by fancy, meets my waking eyes.
If business calls, or crowded courts invite,
Thunblemish'd statesman seems to strike my

sight; If in the

stage I seek to sooth my care,
I meet his soul, which breathes in Cato there :
If pensive to the rural shades I rove,
His shape o'ertakes me in the lonely grove: !
'Twas there of Just and Good he reason'd strong
Cleard some great truth, or rais'd some serious

song,
There patient shew'd us the wise course to stees
A candid censor, and a friend severe ;
There taught us how to live ; and (oh! too hgh
The price for knowledge) taught us how to vie.

Thou hill, whose brow the antique strictures

grace, Rear'd by bold chiefs of Warwick's noblerace, Why, once so lov’d, whene'er thy bower appears, O'er my

dim eye-balls glance the sudden cears? How sweet were once thy prospects, fresh and fair, Thy sloping walks, and unpolluted air !

xxii How sweet the glooms beneath thy aged trees, Thy noon-tide shadow, and thy evening breeze! His image thy forsaken bowers restore ; Thy walks and airy prospects charm no more; No more the summer in thy gloom's allay'd, Thy evening breezes, and thy noon-day shade.

From other ills, however Fortune frown’d, Some refuge in the Muse's art I found : Reluctant now I touch the trembling string; Bereft of him who taught me how to sing, And these sad accents, murmur'd o'er his urn, Betray that absence they attempt to mourn. Oh ! must I then (now fresh my bosom bleeds, And Craggs in death to Addison succeeds) The verse, begun to one lost friend, prolong, And weep a second in th' unfinish'd song!

These works divine, which, on his death-bed

laid,s) : ; ? To thee, O, Craggš, th’expiring Sage convey'd; Great, but ill-omen'd, monument of fame; lor he surviv'd to give, nor thou to claim. Svift after him thy social spirit flies, .. And close to his, how soon! thy coffin lies. Blet pair ! whose union future bards shall tell In dture tongues : each other's boast! farewell. Farevell! whom join'd in fame, in friendship try'd,

ou No clance could sever, nor the grave divide.

5-6 THOMAS TICKELL

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