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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

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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,

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

That awful form, which, so the Heavens decree,

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!

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How sweet the glooms beneath thy aged trees,
Thy noontide 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 glooms allay'd,
Thy evening breezes, and thy noon-day shade.

From other hills, however Fortune frown'd;
Some refuge in the Muse's art I found :
Reluctant now I touch the trembling string,
Berest 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.
0! 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,
To thee, O Craggs, th' expiring sage convey’d,
Great, but ill-omen'd, monument of fame,
Nor he surviv'd to give, nor thou to claim.
Swift after him thy social spirit flies,
And close to his, how soon! thy coffin lies.
Blest pair! whose union future bards shall tell
In future tongues : each other's boast! farewell,
Farewell! whom join'd in fame, in friendship tried,
No chance could sever, nor the grave divide.

And oft have sallied out to pillage
The hen-roosts of some peaceful village,
Or, while their neighbors were asleep,
Have carried off a lowland sheep.

“What boots thy high-born host of beggars,
Mac-leans, Mac-kenzies, and Mac-gregors,
With popish cut-throats, perjur'd ruflians,
And Foster's troop of ragamuffins ?

“In vain thy lads around thee bandy,
Inflam'd with bagpipe and with brandy.
Doth not bold Sutherland the trusty,
With heart so true, and voice so rusty,
(A loyal soul) thy troops affright,
While hoarsely he demands the fight?
Dost thou not generous llay dread,
The bravest hand, the wisest head ?
Undaunted dost thou hear th' alarms
Of" hoary Athol sheath'd in arms?

Douglas, who draws his lineage down
From thanes and peers of high renown,
Fiery, and young, and uncontrollid,
With knights, and squires, and barons bold,
(His noble household-band) advances,
And on the milk-white courser prances.
Thee Forfar to the combat dares,
Grown swarthy in Iberian wars;
And Monroe, kindled into rage,
Sourly defies thee to engage;
He'll rout thy foot, though ne'er so many,
And horse to boot—if thou hadst any.

“But see Argyle, with watchful eyes,
Lodg'd in his deep intrenchments lies,
Couch'd like a lion in thy way,
He waits to spring upon


prey ;
While, like a herd of timorous deer,
Thy army shakes and pants with fear,
Led by their doughty general's skill,
From frith to frith, from hill lo hill.

“ Is thus thy haughty promise paid
That to the Chevalier was made,
When thou didst oaths and duty barter,
For dukedom, generalship, and garter ?
Three moons thy Jemmy shall command,
With Highland sceptre in his hand,
Too good for his pretended birth,
...Then down shall fall the king of Perth.

“ 'Tis so decreed: for George shall reign,
And traitors be forsworn in vain.
Heaven shall for ever on him smile,
And bless him still with an Argyle.
While thou, pursu'd by vengeful foes,
Condemn’d to barren rocks and snows,
And hinder'd passing Inverlocky,
Shall burn the clan, and curse poor Jocky."

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Dicam insigne, recens, adhuc

Indictum ore alio: non socus in jugis
Ex somnis stupet Euias

Hebrum prospiciens, et nive candidam
Thracen, ac pede barbaro
Lustratam Rhodopen.

As Mar his round one morning took,
(Whom some call earl, and some call duke),
And his new brethren of the blade,
Shivering with fear and frost, survey'd,
On Perth's bleak hills he chanc'd to spy
An aged wizard six feet high,
With bristled hair and visage blighted,
Wall-ey'd, bare-haunchd, and second-sighted.

The grisly sage in thought profound
Beheld the chief with back so round,
Then rollid his eyebails to and fro
O'er his paternal hills of snow,
And into these tremendous speeches
Broke forth the prophet without breeches.

“Into what ills betray'd, by thee,
This ancient kingdom do I see !
Her realms unpeopled and forlorn!
Wae's me! that ever thou wert born!
Proud English loons (our clans o'ercome)
On Scottish pads shall amble home;
I see them drest in bonnets blue
(The spoils of thy rebellious crew);
I see the target cast away,
And chequer'd plaid become their prey,
The chequer'd plaid to make a gown
For many a lass in London town.

“In vain thy hungry mountaineers
Come forth in all thy warlike gears,
The shield, the pistol, dirk, and dagger,
In which they daily wont to swagger,




To thee, dear rover, and thy vanquish'd friends, The health, she wants, thy gentle Chloe sends.

Though much you suffer, think I suffer more, Worse than an exile on my native shore. Companions in your master's flight, you roam, Unenvied by your haughty foes at home; For ever near the royal outlaw's side, You share his fortunes, and his hopes divide,

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.

Where Britain's foremost names are found,
In peace belov'd, in war renown'd,
Who made the hostile nations moan,
Or brought a blessing on their own:

Once more a son of Spencer waits, A name familiar to thy gates; Sprung from the chief whose prowess gain'd The Garter while thy founder reign'd, He offer'd here his dinted shield, The dread of Gauls in Cressi's field, Which, in thy high-arch'd temple rais'd, For four long centuries hath blaz'd.

These seats our sires, a hardy kind, To the fierce sons of war confin’d, The flower of chivalry, who drew With sinew'd arm the stubborn yew: Or with heav'd pole-ax clear'd the field ; Or who, in joust and tourneys skill'd, Before their ladies' eyes renown'd, Threw horse and horseman to the ground.

Though griev'd I speak it, let the truth appear!
You know my language, and my heart, sincere.
In vain did falsehood his fair fame disgrace :
What force had falsehood when he show'd his face!
In vain to war our boastful clans were led
Heaps driv'n on heaps, in the dire shock they fled :
France shuns his wrath, nor raises to our shame
A second Dunkirk in another name:
In Britain's funds their wealth all Europe throws,
And up the Thames the world's abundance flows:
Spite of feign'd fears and artificial cries,
The pious town sees fifty churches rise :
The hero triumphs as his worth is known,
And sits more firmly on his shaken throne.

To my sad thought no beam of hope appears
Through the long prospect of succeeding years.
The son, aspiring to his father's fame,
Shows all his sire: another and the same.
He, blest in lovely Carolina's arms,
To future ages propagates her charms :
With pain and joy at strise, I often trace
The mingled parents in each daughter's face ;
IIalf sickening at the sight, too well I spy
The father's spirit through the mother's eye :
In vain new thoughts of rage I entertain,
And strive to hate their innocence in vain.

O princess! happy by thy foes consest !
Blest in thy husband! in thy children blest!
As they from thee, from them new beauties born,
While Europe lasts, shall Europe's thrones adorn.
Transplanted to each court, in times to come,
Thy smile celestial and unfading bloom,
Great Austria's sons with softer lines shall grace,
And smooth the frowns of Bourbon's haughty race.
The fair descendants of thy sacred bed,
Wide-branching o'er the western world, shall spread
Like the fam'd Banian tree, whose pliant shoot
To earthward bending of itself takes root,
Till, like their mother plant, ten thousand stand
In verdant arches on the fertile land ;
Beneath her shade the tawny Indians rove,
Or hunt, at large, through the wide echoing grove.

O thou, to whom these mournful lines I send, My promis'd husband, and my dearest friend; Since Heaven appoints this favor'd race to reign, And blood has drench'd the Scottish fields in vain ; Must I be wretched, and thy flight partake? Or wilt not thou, for thy lov'd Chloe's sake, Tir'd out at length, submit to fate's decree? If not to Brunswick, O return to me! Prostrate before the victor's mercy bend : What spares whole thousands, may to thee extend. Should blinded friends thy doubtful conduct blame, Great Brunswick's virtue shall secure thy fame : Say these invite thee to approach his throne, And own the monarch Heaven vouchsafes to own : The world, convinc'd, thy reasons will approve; Say this to them; but swear to me 'twas love.

In after-times, as courts refin'd, Our patriols in the list were join'd. Not only Warwick stain'd with blood, Or Marlborough near the Danube's flood, Have in their crimson crosses glow'd ; But, on just lawgivers bestow'd, These emblems Cecil did invest, And gleam'd on wise Godolphin's breast.

So Greece, ere arts began to rise, Fix'd huge Orion in the skies, And stern Alcides, fam'd in wars, Bespangled with a thousand stars ; Till letter'd Athens round the Pole Made gentler constellations roll; In the blue heavens the lyre she strung, And near the Maid the Balance* hung.

Then, Spencer, mount amid the band, Where knights and kings promiscuous stand. What though the hero's flame repress'd Burns calmly in thy generous breast ! Yet who more dauntless to oppose In doubtful days our home-bred focs ! Who rais'd his country's wealth so high, Or view'd with less desiring eye!

The sage, who, large of soul, surveys The globe and all its empires weighs, Watchful the various climes to guide, Which seas, and tongues, and faiths, divide, A nobler name in Windsor's shrine Shall leave, if right the Muse divine, Than sprung of old, abhorr'd and vain, From ravag'd realms and myriads slain.

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