To ftrew fresh laurels let the task be mine,
A frequent pilgrim at thy facred fhrine;
Mine with true fighs 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 fong,
My lyre be broken, and untun'd my tongue,
My grief be doubled, from thy image free,
And mirth a torment, unchastis'd by thee.
Oft' let me range the gloomy aifles 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 triumph'd, or in arts excell'd; Chiefs grac'd with scars, and prodigal of blood; Stern patriots, who for facred freedom stood; Just 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 blifs 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, thro' th' ethereal sky,
From world to world unweary'd does he fly? 50.
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 battled and the Dragon fell?
Or, mix'd 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 misguides 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 thro' the paths thy virtue trod before,
Till blifs fhall join, nor death can part us more.
That awful form (which, so ye Heav'ns decree,
Must still be lov'd and still deplor'd by me)
In nightly visions seldom fails to rife,
Or rous'd by fancy meets my waking eyes.
If bus'nefs calls, or crowded courts invite,
Th' unblemish'd statesman seems to strike my fight;
If in the ftage I feek to footh my care,
I meet his foul, which breathes in Cato there;
If, penfive, to the rural fhades I rove,
His thape o'ertakes me in the lonely grove:
'Twas there of just and good he reason'd strong,
Clear'd some great truth, or rais'd some serious song;
There, patient, show'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 structures grace,
Rear'd by bold chiefs of Warwick's noble race,
Why, once fo lov'd, whene'er thy bower appears, 85
O'er my dim eyeballs glance the fudden tears!'
How sweet were once thy prospects fresh and fair,
Thy floping walks and unpolluted air!
How fweet the glooms beneath thy aged trees,
Thy noontide shadow, and thy ev'ning breeze! 90
His image thy forsaken bowers restore,
Thy walks and airy prospects charm no more;
No more the fummer in thy glooms allay'd,
Thy evening breezes and thy noonday 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 fing,
And these fad 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 fecond in th' unfinish'd fong!
Thefe Works divine, which, on his deathbed laid, To thee, O Craggs! th' expiring fage convey'd, 1c6
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 close to his, how foon! thy coffin lies.
Blefs'd pair! whofe union future bards shall tell
In future tongues; each others' boaft! farewell:
Farewell! whom join'd in fame; in friendship try'd,
No chance could fever; nor the grave divide. 114
... 5.6 F... 25 torg yo
THE AUTHOR'S AGE TWENTY-TWO.
How
ow long, great Poet! shall thy facred lays
Provoke our wonder and transcend our praise ?
Can neither injuries of time or age
Damp thy poetic heat and quench thy rage?
Not fo thy Ovid in his exile wrote,
Grief chill'd his breast,and check'd his rifing thought;
Penfive and fad, his drooping Mufe betrays
The Roman genius in its last decays.
Prevailing warmth has still thy mind possest,
And fecond youth is kindled in thy breast;
Thou mak'ft the beauties of the Romans known,
And England boasts of riches not her own;
Thy lines have heighten'd Virgil's majesty,
And Horace wonders at himself in thee:
Thou teacheft Perfius to inform our isle
In smoother numbers and a clearer style ;
And Juvenal, instructed in thy page,
Edges his fatire and improves his rage.
Thy copy cafts a fairer light on all,
And still outshines the bright original.
Now Ovid boasts th' advantage of thy fong,
And tells his story in the British tongue;
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