| |
| IF, 1 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 poetic fires? | 5 |
| 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? | 10 |
| How silent did his old companions tread, | |
| By midnight lamps, the mansions of the dead, | |
| Through breathing statues, then unheeded things, | |
| Through rows of warriors, and through walks of kings. | |
| What awe did the slow solemn knell inspire; | 15 |
| The pealing organ, and the pausing choir; | |
| The duties by the lawn-robed 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. | 20 |
| Oh, gone forever, take this long adieu, | |
| And sleep in peace, next thy loved 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, | 25 |
| And grave with faithful epitaphs thy stone. | |
| If e’er from me thy loved memorial part, | |
| May shame afflict this alienated heart; | |
| Of thee forgetful if I form a song, | |
| My lyre be broken, and untuned my tongue; | 30 |
| My grief be doubled from thy image free, | |
| And mirth a torment, unchastised by thee. | |
| Oft let me range the gloomy aisles alone, | |
| Sad luxury! to vulgar minds unknown— | |
| Along the walls where speaking marbles show | 35 |
| 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, graced with scars, and prodigal of blood, | |
| Stern patriots who for sacred freedom stood; | 40 |
| Just men, by whom impartial laws were given, | |
| And saints who taught, and led the way to Heaven. | |
| 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 | 45 |
| 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’ ethereal sky | |
| From world to world unweary’d does he fly? | 50 |
| Or curious trace the long laborious maze | |
| Of Heaven’s decrees, where wondering angels gaze? | |
| Does he delight to hear bold seraphs tell | |
| How Michael battled, and the dragon fell; | |
| Or mixed, with milder cherubim, to glow | 55 |
| 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! | 60 |
| 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, | 65 |
| Till bliss shall join, nor death can part us more. | |
| That awful form, which, so the Heavens decree, | |
| Must still be loved and still deplored by me; | |
| In nightly visions seldom fails to rise, | |
| Or, roused by Fancy, meets my waking eyes. | 70 |
| If business calls, or crowded courts invite, | |
| Th’ unblemish’d statesman seems to strike my sight; | |
| If in the stage I seek to soothe my care, | |
| I meet his soul which breathes in Cato there; | |
| If pensive to the rural shades I rove, | 75 |
| His shape o’ertakes me in the lonely grove; | |
| ’Twas there of just and good he reasoned strong, | |
| Cleared some great truth, or raised some serious song: | |
| There patient showed us the wise course to steer, | |
| A candid censor, and a friend severe; | 80 |
| 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, | |
| Reared by bold chiefs of Warwick’s noble race, | |
| Why, once so loved, whene’er thy bower appears, | 85 |
| O’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 evening breeze. | 90 |
| 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 noonday shade. | |
| From other hills, however Fortune frown’d, | 95 |
| 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, murmured o’er his urn, | |
| Betray that absence, they attempt to mourn. | 100 |
| O! must I then (now fresh my bosom bleeds, | |
| And Craggs 2 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 | 105 |
| To thee, O Craggs, th’ expiring sage convey’d, | |
| Great, but ill-omened, monument of fame, | |
| Nor he survived to give, nor thou to claim. | |
| Swift after him thy social spirit flies, | |
| And close to his, how soon! thy coffin lies. | 110 |
| Blest pair! whose union future bards shall tell | |
| In future tongues: each other’s boast! farewell, | |
| Farewell! whom joined in fame, in friendship tried, | |
| No chance could sever, nor the grave divide. | |
