The Miscellaneous Works

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 affign'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 heavn's decrees, where wond'ring angels gaze?
Does he delight to hear bold Seraphs tell
How Michael battled, and the dragon fell?
Or, mixt with milder cherubim, to glow
In hymns of love, not ill-effay'd below?
Or doft thou warn poor mortals left behind,
A task well-fuited to thy gentle mind?
Oh, if sometimes thy spotlefs form defcend,
To me thy aid, thou guardian genius, lend!
When rage mifguides me, or when fear alarms,
When pain diftreffes, or when pleasure charms,
In filent whisp'rings purer thoughts impart,
And turn from ill a frail and feeble heart;
Lead through the paths thy virtue trod before,
"Till blifs fhall join, nor death can part us more,
That awful form (which, fo ye heav'ns decree,
Muft ftill be lov'd and ftill deplor'd by me)
In nightly vifions feldom fails to rife,

Or rous'd by fancy meets my waking eyes.

If business calls, or crouded courts invite,
Th' unblemish'd statesman seems to strike my fight;;
If in the ftage I seek to footh my care,.

I meet his foul which breathes in Cato there ;
If penfive to the rural shade I rove,

His shape o'ertakes me in the lonely grove:
Twas there of juft and good he reafon'd strong,
Clear'd fome great truth, or rais'd fome ferious fong;
There patient show'd us the wife course to steer,,
A candid cenfor, and a friend severe ;;

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 ftructures grace,,

Rear'd by bold chiefs of Warwick's noble race,

Why, once fo lov'd, when-e'er thy bower appears,,
O'er my dim eye-balls glance the fudden tears!
How sweet were once thy profpect fresh and fair,,
Thy floping walks, and unpolluted air!.

How sweet the glooms beneath thy aged trees,,
Thy noon-tide fhadow, and thy evening breeze!!
His image thy forfaken bowers restore;

Thy walks and airy profpects charm no more..
No more the fummer in thy glooms allay'd,

Thy evening breezes, and thy noon-day shade.

From other ills, however fortune frown'd,

Some refuge in the mufe's art I found;

Reluctant

Reluctant now I touch the trembling ftring,
Bereft of him, who taught me how to fing,
And these fad accents, murmur'd o'er his urn,
Betray that abfence, they attempt to mourn.
Oh! must I then (now fresh my bofom bleeds,,
And Craggs in death to Addison fucceeds)

The verfe, begun to one loft friend, prolong,
And weep a second in th' unfinish'd fong!

Thefe works divine, which on his death-bed laid
To thee, O Craggs, th' expiring fage convey'd,,
Great, but ill-omen'd monument of fame,
Nor he furviv'd to give, nor thou to claim..
Swift after him thy focial spirit flies,

And close to his, hów foon! thy coffin lies.
Bleft pair! whofe 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 fever, nor the grave

divide.

THO. TICKELL

THE