If 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!
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!
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;
The pealing organ, and the pausing choir;
The duties by the lawn-rob'd prelate paid;
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.
Oh gone for ever! take this long adieu;
And sleep in peace, next thy lov'd 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,
And grave with faithful epitaphs thy stone.
If e'er from me thy lov'd memorial part,
May shame afflict this alienated heart;
Of thee forgetful if I form a song,
My lyre be broken, and untun'd my tongue.
My grief be doubled from thy image free,
And mirth a torment, unchastis'd by thee.
Oft let me range the gloomy aisles alone,
Sad luxury! to vulgar minds unknown,
Along the walls, where speaking marbles show
What worthies form the hallow'd mould below;
Proud names who once the reins of empire held;
In arms who triumphed; or in arts excelled;
Chiefs graced with scars and prodigal of blood;
Stern patriots who for sacred freedom stood;
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
A fairer spirit or more welcome shade.
In what new region to the just assigned,
What new employments please th' unbody'd mind;
A wingèd virtue, through th' ethereal sky
From world to world unweary'd does he fly?
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 battl'd and the dragon fell,
Or mixed 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 suited 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 silent whisperings 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 the heavens decree,
Must still be loved and still deplor'd by me
In nightly visions seldom fails to rise,
Or rous'd by fancy, meets my waking eyes.
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,
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 serious song:
There patient show'd us the wise course to steer,
A candid censor, and a friend severe;
There taught us how to live; and (oh! too high
The price for knowledge) taught us how to die.
Sir RICHARD STEELE.
Dedicatory Epistle to WILLIAM CONGREVE.
[This Dedication is prefixed to the Second Edition of ADDISON's Drummer, 1722.]
To Mr. CONGREVE: occasioned by Mr. TICKELL's Preface to the four volumes of Mr. ADDISON's Works.
Sir,
This is the second time that I have, without your leave, taken the liberty to make a public address to you.
However uneasy you may be, for your own sake, in receiving compliments of this nature, I depend upon your known humanity for pardon; when I acknowledge that you have this present trouble, for mine. When I take myself to be ill treated with regard to my behaviour to the merit of other men; my conduct towards you is an argument of my candour that way, as well as that your name and authority will be my protection in it. You will give me leave therefore, in a matter that concerns us in the Poetical World, to make you my judge whether I am not injured in the highest manner! for with men of your taste and delicacy, it is a high crime and misdemeanour to be guilty of anything that is disingenuous. But I will go into my matter.
Upon my return from Scotland, I visited Mr. TONSON's shop, and thanked him for his care in sending to my house, the Volumes of my dear and honoured friend Mr. ADDISON; which are, at last, published by his Secretary, Mr. TICKELL: but took occasion to observe, that I had not seen the Work before it came out; which he did not think fit to excuse any otherwise than by a recrimination, that I had put into his hands, at a high price, a Comedy called The Drummer; which, by my zeal for it, he took to be written by Mr. ADDISON, and of which, after his [ADDISON's] death, he said, I directly acknowleged he was the author.
To urge this hardship still more home, he produced a receipt under my hand, in these words—