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Anxious, the charge to all the stars resign'd,
And plac'd a confidence in sea and wind.

Ausonia soon receiv'd her wondering guest,
And equal wonder in her turn confess'd,
To see her fervours rival'd by the pole,
Her lustre beaming from a northern soul:
In like surprise was her Æneas lost,
To find his picture grace a foreign coast.

Now the wide field of Europe he surveys, Compares her kings, her thrones and empires

weighs, In ripen'd judgment and consummate thought; Great work! by Nassau's favour cheaply bought.

He now returns to Britain a support, Wise in her senate, graceful in her court; And when the public welfare would permit, The source of learning, and the soul of wit. 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 born, A rose-bud opens to a summer's morn, Full-blown ere noon her fragrant pride displays, And shows 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 sought,
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.

No fuller proof of power th' Almighty gave,
Making the sea, than 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 th' eternal bowers of bliss above. Where hadst thou room, great author! where to roll The mighty theme of an immortal soul ? [brought Through paths unknown, unbeaten, whence were Thy proofs so strong for immaterial thought? One let me join, all other may excel, “ How could a mortal 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


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 further shalt the sacred theme pursue ;
And, as thy strain describes the matchless man,
Thy life shall second what thy muse began.
Though sweet the numbers, though a fire divine
Dart through the whole, and burn in every line,
Who strives not for that excellence he draws,
Is stain’d by fame, and suffers from applause.

But haste to thy illustrious task; prepare
The noble work well trusted to thy care,
The gift1 bequeath'd by Addison's command,
To Craggs made sacred by his dying hand.
Collect the labours, join the various rays,
The scatter'd light 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 generous anguish o'er the glorious pile;
With anxious pleasure the known page reviews,
And the dear pledge with falling tears bedews.
What though thy tears, pour'd o'er thy godlike

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.

· The publication of his Works.





HOLLES ! immortal in far more than fame!
Be thou illustrious in far more than power.
Great things are small when greater rise to view.
Tho'station'd high, and press’d with public cares,
Disdain not to peruse my serious song,
Which peradventure may push by the world :
Of a few moments rob Britannia's weal,
And leave Europa's counsels less mature !
For thou art noble, and the theme is great.

Nor shall or Europe or Britannia blame
Thine absent ear, but gain by the delay.
Long vers’d in senates and in cabinets,
States' intricate demands and high debates !
As thou of use to those, so this to thee;
And in a point that empire far outweighs,
That far outweighs all Europe's thrones in one.
Let greatness prove its title to be great.
'Tis power's supreme prerogative to stamp
On others' minds an image of its own.
Bend the strong influence of high place, to stem
The stream that sweeps away the country's weal ;
The Stygian stream, the torrent of our guilt.
Far as thou mayst give life to virtue's cause ;
Let not the ties of personal regard,
Betray the nation's trust to feeble hands :

Let not fomented flames of private pique
Prey on the vitals of the public good :
Let not our streets with blasphemies resound,
Nor lewdness whisper where the laws can reach :
Let not best laws, the wisdom of our sires,
Turn satires on their sunk degenerate sons,
The bastards of their blood ! and serve no point
But, with more emphasis to call them fools :
Let not our rank enormities unhinge
Britannia's welfare from divine support.

Such deeds the minister, the prince adorn;

is shown but in such deeds as these : All, all is impotence but acting right; [power ? And where's the statesman but would show his To prince and people thou, of equal zeal ! Be it henceforward but thy second care To grace thy country, and support the throne; Though this supported, that adorn'd so well, A throne superior our first homage claims ; To Cæsar's Cæsar our first tribute due : A tribute which, unpaid, makes specious wrong And splendid sacrilege of all beside : Illustrious followers; we must first be just; And what so just as awe for the supreme? Less fear we rugged ruffians of the north, Than virtue's well-clad rebels nearer home; Less Loyola's disguis'd, all-aping sons, Than traitors lurking in our appetites ; Less all the legions Seine and Tagus send, Than unrein'd passions rushing on our peace : Yon savage mountaineers are tame to these. Against those rioters send forth the laws,

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