To the Right Honourable the Earl of WARWICK, &c. On the Death of Mr. ADDISON. Thomas Tickell Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
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Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. T131163 K104099.001 Dodsley, Robert, 1703-1764. A Collection of Poems in Six Volumes. By Several Hands. Vol. I. London printed by J. Hughs, for R. and J. Dodsley 1763 [1st ed. 1758] pp. 22-26. 6v.: music; 8⁰.

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To the Right Honourable the Earl of WARWICK , &c. On the Death of Mr. ADDISON . By the Same . IF , dumb too long , the drooping Muse hath stay'd , And left her debt to Addison unpaid ; Blame not her silence , Warwick , but bemoan , And judge , oh judge , my bosom by your own , What mourner ever felt poetick fires ! Slow comes the verse , that real woe inspires : Grief unaffected suits but ill with art , Or flowing numbers with a bleeding heart . Can I forget the dismal night , that gave My soul's best part for-ever to the grave ! How silent did his old companions tread , By midnight lamps , the mansions of the dead , Thro' breathing statues , then unheeded things , Thro' rows of warriors , and thro' walks of kings ! What awe did the slow solemn knell inspire ; The pealing organ , and the pausing choir ; The duties by the lawn-rob'd prelate pay'd ; And the last words , that dust to dust convey'd ! While speechless o'er thy closing grave we bend , Accept these tears , thou dear departed friend , Oh gone for ever , take this long adieu ; And sleep in peace , next thy lov'd Montagu ! 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 grief be doubled , from thy image free , And mirth a torment , unchastis'd by thee . Oft let me range the gloomy isles 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 sacred freedom stood ; Just men , by whom impartial laws are given ; And saints , 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 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' etherial sky , From world to world unweary'd does he fly , Or curious trace the long laborious maze Of heav'n's decrees , where wond'ring angels gaze ? Does he delight to hear hold seraphs tell How Michael battled , and the dragon fell ? Or , mix'd with milder cherubim , to glow In hymns of love , not ill essay'd below ? 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 age 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 aweful form ( which , so the heav'ns decree , Must still be lov'd , and still deplor'd by me ) In nightly visions seldom fails to rise , Or rous'd by fancy , meet my waking eyes . If business calls , or crowded courts invite , Th' unblemish'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 , Clear'd some great truth , or rais'd some serious song ; There patient show'd us the wise course to steer , A candid censor and a friend sincere ; There taught us how to live ; and ( oh ! too high The price for knowledge ) taught us how to die . Thou hill , whose brow the antique structures grace , Rear'd by bold chiefs of Warwick's noble race , Why , once so lov'd , when-e'er thy bower appears , O'er my dim eye-balls glance the sudden tears ! How sweet were once thy prospects fresh and fair , Thy sloping walks and unpolluted air ! How sweet the glooms beneath thy aged trees , Thy noon-tide shadow , and the 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 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 words 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 ! farewel . Farewel ! whom join'd in fame , in friendship try'd , No chance could sever , nor the grave divide .