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 assign'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-essay'd below ?
Or dost thou warn poor mortals left behind,
A task well-fuited to thy gentle mind?
Oh, if sometimes thy spotless form descend,
To me thy aid, thou guardian genius, lend!
When rage misguides me, or when fear alarms,
When pain distresses, 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 bliss shall join, nor death can part us more.
That awful form (which, so ye heav'ns decree,
Must still be lov'd and still deplor'd by me)
In nightly visions seldom 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 stage I seek to sooth my care,.
I meet his foul which breathes in Cato there;
If pensive to the rural shade I rove,
His 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 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 structures grace,,
Rear'd by bold chiefs of Warwick's noble race,
Why, once so lov'd, when-e'er thy bower appears,,
O'er my dim eye-balls glance the sudden 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 forsaken 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 muse's art I found;
Reluctant now I touch the trembling string,
Bereft of him, who taught me how to fing,
And these sad accents, murmur'd o'er his urn,
Betray that absence, they attempt to mourn.
Oh! must I then (now fresh my bosom bleeds,,
And Craggs in death to Addison succeeds)
The verse, begun to one loft friend, prolong,
And weep a second in th' unfinish'd song!
These works divine, which on his death-bed laid
To 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 foon! thy coffin lies.
Blest pair! whose 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.
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