THOMAS TICKELL.

Thomas Tickell, a poet of considerable ele- Gentleman at Avignon." Both these are selected gance, born at Bridekirk, near Carlisle, in 1686, for the purpose of the present volume. He was was the son of a clergyman in the county of Cum- about this time taken to Ireland, by Addison, who berland. He was entered of Queen's College, Ox- went over as secretary to Lord Sunderland. When ford, in 1701, and having taken the degree of M. A. Pope published the first volume of his translation of in 1708, was elected fellow of his college, first ob- the Niad, Tickell gave a translation of the first taining from the crown a dispensation from the book of that poem, which was patronized by Addistatute requiring him to be in orders. He then son, and occasioned a breach between those emi. came to the metropolis, where he made himself | nent men. Tickell's composition, however, will known to several persons distinguished in letters. bear no poetical comparison with that of Pope, and When the negotiations were carrying on which accordingly he did not proceed with the task. On brought on the peace of Utrecht, he published a the death of Addison, he was intrusted with the poem entitled “ The Prospect of Peace," which ran charge of publishing his works, a distinction which through six editions. Addison, with whom he had he repaid by prefixing a life of that celebrated ingratiated himself by an elegant poem on his opera man, with an elegy on his death, of which Dr. Johnof Rosamond, speaks highly of “ The Prospect of son says, “That a more sublime or elegant funeral Peace," in a paper of the Spectator, in which he poem is not to be found in the whole compass of expresses himself as particularly pleased to find English literature.” Another piece, which might be that the author had not amused himself with fables justly placed at the head of sober lyrics, is his out of the Pagan theology. This commendation“ Ode to the Earl of Sunderland," on his installaTickell amply repaid by his lines on Addison's tion as a knight of the Garter; which, keeping Cato, which are superior to all others on that sub- within the limits of truth, consigns a favorite name ject, with the exception of Pope's Prologue. to its real honors.

Tickell, being attached to the succession of the Tickell is represented as a man of pleasing manHouse of Hanover, presented George I. with a poem ners, fond of society, very agreeable in conversaentitled “The Royal Progress ;" and more effec- tion, and upright and honorable in his conduct. He tually served the cause by two pieces, one called was married, and left a family. His death took “ An Imitation of the Prophecy of Nereus ;" the place at Bath, in 1740, in the 54th year of his age. other, “ An Epistle from a Lady in England, to a

To-morrow, in the church to wed,

Oh, gone for ever; take this long adieu ;
Impatient, both prepare !

And sleep in peace, next thy lov'd Montague. But know, fond maid ; and know, false man, To strew fresh laurels, let the task be mine, That Lucy will be there!

A frequent pilgrim, at thy sacred shrine ;

Mine with true sighs thy absence to bemoan, “ Then bear my corse, my comrades, bear, And grave with faithful epitaphs thy stone. This bridegroom blithe to meet,

If e'er from me thy lov'd memorial part,
He in his wedding-trim so gay,

May shame afflict this alienated beart;
I in my winding-sheet.”

Of thee forgetful if I form a song,
She spoke, she died, her corse was borne, My lyre be broken, and untun'd my tongue.
The bridegroom blithe lo meet,

My grief be doubled from thy image free,
He in his wedding-trim so gay,

And mirth a torment, unchastis'd by thee.
She in her winding-sheet.

Oft let me range the gloomy aisles alone,

Sad luxury! to vulgar minds unknown, Then what were perjur'd Colin's thoughts ? Along the walls where speaking marbles show How were these nuptials kept?

What worthies form the hallow'd mould below; The bridesmen Rock'd round Lucy dead, Proud names, who once the reins of empire held; And all the village wept.

In arms who triumph’d; or in arts excelld; Confusion, shame, remorse, despair,

Chiefs, grac'd with scars, and prodigal of blood; At once his bosom swell:

Stern patriots, who for sacred freedom stood; The damps of death bedew'd his brow, Just men, by whom impartial laws were given; He shook, he groan'd, he fell.

And saints who taught, and led, the way to heaven;

Ne'er to these chambers, where the mighty rest, From the vain bride, ah, bride no more! Since their foundation, came a nobler guest ; The varying crimson fled,

Nor e'er was to the bowers of bliss convey'd When, stretch'd before her rival's corse, A fairer spirit or more welcome shade. She saw her husband dead.

In what new region, to the just assign'd, Then to his Lucy's new-made grave, What new employments please th' unbodied mind! Convey'd by trembling swains,

A winged Virtue, through th' ethereal sky, One mould with her, beneath one sod, From world to world unwearied does he fly ! For ever he remains.

Or curious trace the long laborious maze

Of Heaven's decrees, where wondering angels gaze? Oft at this grave, the constant hind

Does he delight to hear bold seraphs tell
And plighted maid are seen;

How Michael battled, and the dragon fell ;
With garlands gay, and true-love knots, Or, mix'd with milder cherubim, to glow
They deck the sacred green:

In hymns of love, not ill essay'd below! But, swain forsworn, whoe'er thou art, Or dost thou warn poor mortals left behind, This hallow'd spot forbear;

A task well suited to thy gentle mind ? Remember Colin's dreadful fate,

Oh! if sometimes thy spotless form descend :
And fear to meet him there.

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 whisperings purer thoughts impart,
And turn from ill, a frail and feeble heart;

Lead through the paths thy virtue trod before,
EARL OF WARWICK,

Till bliss shall join, nor death can part us more.

That awful form, which, so the Heavens decree,
ON THE DEATH OF MR. ADDISON.

Must still be lov'd and still deplor'd by me;
IF, dumb too long, the drooping Muse hath stay'd, In nightly visions seldom fails to rise,
And left her debt to Addison unpaid,

Or, rous'd by Fancy, meets my waking eyes.
Blame not her silence, Warwick, but bemoan, If business calls, or crowded courts invite,
And judge, oh judge, my bosom by your own. Th' unblemish'd statesman seems to strike my sight;
What mourner ever felt poetic fires !

If in the stage I seek to sooth my care,
Slow comes the verse that real woe inspires : I meet his soul which breathes in Cato there;
Grief unaffected suits but ill with art,

If pensive to the rural shades I rove,
Or flowing numbers with a bleeding heart. His shape o'ertakes me in the lonely grove;
Can I forget the dismal night that gave

| "Twas there of just and good he reason'd strong. My soul's best part for ever to the grave!

Clear'd some great truth, or rais'd some serious song: How silent did his old companions tread, There patient show'd us the wise course to steer, By midnight lamps, the mansions of the dead, A candid censor, and a friend severe; Through breathing statues, then unheeded things, There taught us how to live; and (oh! too high Through rows of warriors, and through walks of The price for knowledge) taught us how to die. kings !

Thou Hill, whose brow the antique structures What awe did the slow solemn knell inspire ;

grace, The pealing organ, and the pausing choir; Rear’d by bold chiefs of Warwick's noble race, 'The duties by the lawn-rob'd prelate paid ; Why, once so lov’d, whene'er thy bower appears, And the last words that dust to dust convey'd ! O'er my dim eyeballs glance the sudden tears! While speechless o'er thy closing grave we bend, How sweet were once thy prospects fresh and fair, Accept these tears, thou dear departed friend. Thy sloping walks, and unpolluted air!

TO THE

On glorious schemes and thoughts of empire dwell, Nor fears the hawker in her warbling note
And with imaginary titles swell.

To vend the discontented statesman's thought,
Say, for thou know'st I own his sacred line, Though red with stripes, and recent from the thong,
The passive doctrine, and the right divine, Sore smitten for the love of sacred song,
Say, what new succors does the chief prepare ? The tuneful sisters still pursue their trade,
The strength of armies ? or the force of prayer? Like Philomela darkling in the shade.
Does he from Heaven or Earth his hopes derive? Poor Trott attends, forgetful of a fare,
From saints departed, or from priests alive? (stand, And hums in concert o'er his easy chair.
Nor sains nor priests can Brunswick’s troops with- Meanwhile, regardless of the royal cause,
And beads drop useless through the zealot's hand; Fis sword for James no brother sovereign draws.
Heaven to our vows may future kingdoms owe, The pope himself, surrounded with alarms,
But skill and courage win the crowns below. To France his bulls, to Corfu sends his arms,

Ere to thy cause, and thee, my heart inclin'd, And though he hears his darling son's complaint, Or love to party had seduc'd my mind,

Can hardly spare one tutelary saint, In female joys I took a dull delight,

But lists them all to guard his own abodes, Slept all the morn, and punted half the night: And into ready money coins his gods. But now, with fears and public cares possest, The dauntless Swede, pursued by vengeful foes, The church, the church, for ever breaks my rest. Scarce keeps his own hereditary spows; The postboy on my pillow I explore,

Nor must the friendly roof of kind Lorrain And sist the news of every foreign shore, With feasts regale our garter'd youth again. Studious to find new friends, and new allies; Safe, Bar-le-Duc, within thy silent grove What armies march from Sweden in disguise ; The pheasant now may perch, the hare may rove: How Spain prepares her banners to unfold, The knight, who aims unerring from afar, And Rome deals out her blessings, and her gold: Th' adventurous knight, now quits the sylvan war: Then o'er the map my finger, laught to stray, Thy brinded boars may slumber undismay'd, Cross many a region marks the winding way; Or grunt secure beneath the chestnut shade. From sea to sea, from realm to realm I rove, Inconstant Orleans (still ve mourn the day And grow a mere geographer by love:

That trusted Orleans with imperial sway) But still Avignon, and the pleasing coast

Far o'er the Alps our helpless monarch sends, That holds thee banish'd, claims my care the most : Far from the call of his desponding friends. Oft on the well-known spot I fix my eyes, Such are the terms, to gain Britannia's grace! And span the distance that between us lies. And such the terrors of the Brunswick race!

Let not our James, though foil'd in arms, despair, Was it for this the Sun's whole lustre faild, Whilst on his side he reckons half the fair: And sudden midnight o'er the Moon prevail'd! In Britain's lovely isle a shining throng

For this did Heaven display to mortal eyes War in his cause, a thousand beauties strong. Aërial knights and combats in the skies! Th' unthinking victors vainly boast their powers ; Was it for this Northumbrian streams look'd red! Be theirs the musket, while the tongue is ours. And Thames driv'n backward show'd his secret bed! We reason with such fluency and fire,

False auguries! th' insulting victor's scorn! The beaux we bassle, and the learned tire, Ev'n our own prodigies against us turn! Against her prelates plead the church's cause, O portents construed on our side in vain ! And from our judges vindicate the laws.

Let never Tory trust eclipse again! Then mourn not, hapless prince, thy kingdoms lost; Run clear, ye fountains! be at peace, ye skies! A crown, though late, thy sacred brows may boast; And, Thames, henceforth to thy green borders rise ! Heaven seems through us thy empire to decree ; To Rome then must the royal wanderer go, Those who win hearts, have given their hearts to thee. And fall a suppliant at the papal toe?

Hast thou not heard that when, profusely gay, His life in sloth inglorious must he wear, Our well-drest rivals grac'd their sovereign's day, One half in luxury, and one in prayer? We stubborn damsels met the public view His mind perhaps at length debauch'd with ease, In lothesome wormwood, and repenting rue ? The protler'd purple and the hat may please. What Whig but trembled, when our spotless band Shall he, whose ancient patriarchal race In virgin roses whiten'd half the land !

To mighty Nimrod in one line we trace, Who can forget what fears the foe possest, In solemn conclave sit, devoid of thought, When oaken-boughs mark'd every loyal breast ! And poll for points of faith his trusty vote! Less scar'd than Medway's stream the Norman stood, Be summond to his stall in time of need, When cross the plain he spied a marching wood, And with his casting suffrage fix a creed ! Till, near at hand, a gleam of swords betray'd Shall he in robes on stated days appear. The youth of Kent beneath its wandering shade? And English heretics curse once a year!

Those who the succors of the fair despise, Garnet and Faux shall he with prayers invoke, May find that we have nails as well as eyes. And beg that Smithfield piles once more may sinuke! Thy female bards, O prince by fortune crost, Forbid it, Heaven! my soul, to fury wrought, At least more courage than thy men can boast : Turns almost Hanoverian at the thought. Our sex has dar'd the mug-house chiefs to meet, From James and Rome I feel my heart decline, And purchas'd fame in many a well-fought street. And fear, O Brunswick, 'twill be wholly thine ; From Drury-Lane, the region of renown, Yet still his share thy rival will contest, The land of love, the Paphos of the town, And still the double claim divides my breast Fair patriots sallying oft have put to flight The fate of James with pitying eyes I view, With all their poles the guardians of the night, And wish my homage were not Brunswick's due: And bore, with screams of triumph, to their side To James my passion and my weakness guide, The leader's staff in all its painted pride. But reason sways me to the victor's side.