Verse > Anthologies > William Stanley Braithwaite, ed. > The Book of Restoration Verse
William Stanley Braithwaite, ed.  The Book of Restoration Verse.  1910.
To the Earl of Warwick, on the Death of Mr. Addison
By Thomas Tickell (1686–1740)
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.
Note 1. This elegy, prefixed to the first volume of Tickell’s edition of Addison’s Works (six vols. 1721), is addressed to Addison’s stepson, the Earl of Warwick. Next thy loved Montagu: Charles Montagu, Earl of Halifax, Addison’s first patron, near whose tomb, in the Chapel of Henry VII, in Westminster Abbey, Addison was buried. [back]
Note 2. Craggs: the younger James Craggs, who succeeded Addison as Secretary of State, and to whose patronage he commended Tickell at his death. [back]

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