To the Earl of Warwick, on the Death of Mr. Addison

If dumb too long the drooping Muse hath stay'dAnd 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! 5Slow comes the verse that real wo inspires:Grief unaffected suits but ill with art,Or flowing numbers with a bleeding heart.Can I forget the dismal night that gaveMy soul's best part for ever to the grave! 10How silent did his old companions treadBy midnight lamps the mansions of the dead,Thro' breathing statues, then unheeded things,Thro' rows of warriours and thro' walks of kings!What awe did the slow solemn knell inspire, 15The pealing organ and the pausing choir,The duties by the lawn-rob'd prelate paid,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! 20Oh, gone for ever! take this long adieu,And sleep in peace next thy lov'd Montague.To strew fresh laurels let the task be mine,A frequent pilgrim at thy sacred shrine;Mine with true sighs thy absence to bemoan, 25And grave with faithful epitaphs thy stone.If e'er from me thy lov'd memorial partMay shame afflict this alienated heart!Of thee forgetful if I form a songMy lyre be broken and untun'd my tongue, 30My grief be doubled from thy image free,And mirth a torment unchastis'd by thee!Oft' let me range the gloomy aisles alone,Sad luxury! to vulgar minds unknown,Along the walls where speaking marbles show 35What 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 food, 40Just men by whom impartial laws were giv'n,And saints who taught and led the way to heav'n.Ne'er to these chambers where the mighty restSince their foundation came a nobler guest,Nor e'er was to the bow'rs of bliss convey'd 45A fairer spirits or more welcome shade.In what new region to the just assign'd,What new employments please th' unbody'd mind?A winged Virtue thro' th' ethereal skyFrom world to world unweary'd does he fly, 50Or curious trace the long laborious mazeOf Heav'n's decrees where wond'ring angels gaze?Does he delight to hear bold seraph's tellHow Michael battled and the dragon fell,Or, mix'd with milder cherubim, to glow 55In 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. 60When 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 thro' the paths thy virtue trod before, 65Till bliss shall join nor death can part us more.That awful 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 meets my waking eyes. 70If bus'ness calls or crowded courts inviteTh' unblemish'd statesman seems to strike my sight;If in the stage I seek to sooth my careI meet his soul, which breathes in Cato there;If pensive to the rural shades I rove, 75His 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 severe; 80There taught us how to live and (oh! too highThe price for knowledge) taught us how to die.Thou Hill! whose brow the antique structures graceRear'd by bold chiefs of Warwick's noble race,Why, once so lov'd, whene'er thy bow'r appears 85O'er my dim eyeballs 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 noontide shadow and thy ev'ning breeze! 90His image thy forsaken bow'rs restore,Thy walks and airy prospects charm no more,No more the summer in thy glooms allay'd,Thy ev'ning breezes and thy noonday shade.From other ills however Fortune frown'd 95Some 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 urnBetray that absence they attempt to mourn. 100O! 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! 104These works divine which on his deathbed laidTo 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. 110Blest Pair! whose union future bards shall tellIn future tongues, each other's boast, farewell!Farewell! whom join'd in fame, in friendship try'd,No chance could sever nor the grave divide. 114