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O Warwick! (whom the Muse is fond to name,
And kindles, conscious of her future theme)
O Warwick! by divine contagion bright,
How early didst thou catch his radiant light!
By him inspir'd, how shine before thy time,
and leave thy years, and leap into thy prime!
On some warm bank, thus, fortunately borne,
A rose-bud opens to a summer's morn,
70 Full blown ere noon her fragrant pride displays, And shews th' abundance of her purple rays.
Wit, as her bays, was once a barren tree;
We now, surpris'd, her fruitful branches see:
Or, Orange-like, till his auspicious time
It grew indeed, but shiver'd in our clime:
He first the plant to richer gardens led,
And fix'd, indulgent, in a warmer bed:
The nation, pleas’d, enjoys the rich produce,
And gathers from her ornament her use.
When loose from public cares the grove he soughty
And fill'd the leisure interval with thought,
The various labours of his easy page,
A chance amusement, polish'd half an age.
Beyond this truth old bards could scarce invent,
Who durst to frame a world by accident.
What he has sung, how early, and how well, The Thames shall boast, and Roman Tiber tell. A glory more sublime remains in store, Since such his talents, that he sung no more, 90
No fuller proof of pow'r th' Almighty gave,
Making the sea, then curbing her proud wave.
Nought can the genius of his works transcend,
But their fair purpose and important end;
To rouse the war for injur'd Europe's laws,
To steel the patriot in great Brunswick's cause;
With virtue's charms to kindle sacred love,
Or paint the eternal bow'rs of bliss above.
Where hadst thou room, great Author ? where, to roll
The mighty. theme of an immortal scul ?
Thro'pathsunknown, unbeaten, whence were brought
Thy proofs so strong for immaterial thought ?
One let me join, all other may excel,
" How could a morial essence think so well ?".
But why so large in the great writer's praise ?
More lofty subjects should my numbers raise:
In him.(illustrious rivalry !) contend
The statesman, patriot, Christian, and the friend!
His glory such it borders on disgrace
To say he sung the best of human race.
In joy once join'd, in sorrow now for years,
Partner in grief, and brother of my tears,
Tickell ! accept this verse, thy mournful due;
Thou farther shalt the sacred theme pursue ;
And as thy strain describes the matchless man,
Thy life shall second what thy Muse began.
Tho'sweet the numbers, tho' a fire divine
Dart thro' the whole, and burn in ev'ry line,
Who strives not for that excellence he draws,
Is stain'd by fame, and suffers from applause, sho
But haste to thy illustrious task; prepare
The noble work well trusted to thy care,
The gift bequeath'd by Addison's command,
To Craggs made sacred by his dying hand.
Collect the labours, join the various rays,
The scatter'd lig:t in one united blaze;
Then bear to him so true, so truly lov'd,
In life distinguish'd, and in death approv'd,
Th’immortal legacy. He hangs a while
In gen'rous anguish o'er the glorious pile; 130
With anxious pleasure the known page reviews,
And the dear pledge with falling tears bedews.
What tho' thy tears, pour'd o'er thy godlike friend,
Thy other cares for Britain's weal suspend ?
Think not, o Patriot! while thy eyes o'erflow,
Those cares suspended for a private woe;
Thy love to him is to thy country shown;
He mourns for her who mourns for Addison. 138
AL LAST DAY. A POEM. IN THREE BOOKS.
THE FORCE OF RELIGION ; OR VANQUISH'D LOVE.
A POEM, IN TWO BOOKS.
LOVE OF FAME, THE UNIVERSAL PASSION, IN SEVEN
Preface to the Satires,
61 Satire I. To his Grace the Duke of Dorset, 67 Satire II.
18 Satire III.
89 Satire IV. To the Right Hon. Sir Spenser Compton, 99 Satire V. On Women,
109 Satire VI. Ditto, Satire VII. To the Right Hon. Sir Robert Walpole,
Epistles to Mr, Pope, concerning the Authors of