Poems on Several Occasions :: :: University of Virginia Library

O Warwick! plac'd in awful Height,
In your own native Lustre bright;
In Courts, in Palaces renown'd,
With dazling Titles guarded round;
How shall my trembling Muse draw near?
Or, in what Style bespeak your Ear?
Fain wou'd she rise, fain wou'd she sing,
And spreads and shakes her doubtful Wing:

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But conscious of the Danger run,
Shou'd she approach too near the Sun,
The Fate of Icarus she fears,
And the rash Task a-while forbears.

At length, embolden'd by her Choice,
She dares to raise her feeble Voice:
When Addison's her Theme, in vain
The pressing Impulse I restrain.

No venal Flame my Verse inspires,
Nor vain Ambition fans my Fires;
But love to that immortal Name,
The Fav'rite and the Boast of Fame.
To Thee, to Albion so endear'd,
By Nations, and by Kings rever'd:

249

That Name which diff'rent Tongues resound,
In the remotest Climes renown'd
Where-e'er the Beams of Learning pierce,
Or his own everlasting Verse.

In those sweet Strains what Honey flows!
Melting as Dews or falling Snows:
Smoothly the Numbers bowl along,
Rolling with Pleasure o'er the Tongue.

So, with a free, not careless Rein,
Bounds the light Courser o'er the Plain;
Measures his Strokes with charming Grace,
Gains, without straining, in his Pace:
Sprightly, not fierce, unspent his Force,
With ease He finishes his Course.

250

Who but admires those spotless Lines
Where Fancy in Perfection shines,
Paints an Elysian Land, and shews
Nature in all her brightest Hues?
Judgment the curious Pencil guides,
And o'er the splendid Work presides.
Amidst a thousand, glitt'ring Scenes
Of Citron Groves, and Myrtle Greens;
Of Sun-gilt Streams, and blooming Plains,
And ancient Rome's August Remains,
That in a rich Confusion rose
To view; the skilful Master chose
What strikes most strongly on the Sight
And ravishes with most Delight.
With fine and never-failing Art,
He rang'd and join'd each answ'ring Part;

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Enliv'ning with Poetick Soul
The fair, compleat, harmonious Whole.

Now in his pure, clean Verse We seem
Pleas'd, as with some transparent Stream,
That winding thro' a flow'ry Land
A Bottom shews of Golden Sand.
Now by the rising Subject fir'd,
His Muse, with growing Heat inspir'd,
Claps the strong Wing and tow'rs away
Exulting in the noble Prey;
Keeps her great Theme in ardent Sight
And mounts, and soars, a wond'rous Height!

I feel, I feel the catching Flame,
It spreads, it rushes thro' my Frame:

252

I pant with Extasies unknown,
And utter Transports not my own.

Such, lately in the Rural Shade,
Far from the noisy World convey'd,
I felt; deep-musing on the Page
Where the great Poet spends his Rage.
Next o'er that various Work I bend,
Which all the polish'd Arts commend:
Where Learning's choicest Wealth appears,
Treasures of late or antient Years;
What Greece began, what Rome improv'd
Or Albion by the nine belov'd.
Here the gay Page, with sprightly Airs
And sparkling Wit, dispels our Cares:
In sadder Colours there it draws
Vice, of all Ills the direful Cause.

253

O Warwick! I am all on Fire,
I spurn at every low Desire;
When the bright Leaves to view display
The Regions of eternal Day;
O'er Ages and o'er Ages roll,
And trace the never-fading Soul;
As, rip'ning still, her Beauties grow,
Sill fresh her rising Pleasures flow.
But then, the Sage, to quell our Pride,
Shows us to dust and Worms ally'd;
Leads us among the Mighty Dead
With solemn Thought, and silent Tread
To where, upon the sculptur'd Stone,
O Grave! thy Victories are shown;
Where Poets, Heroes, Kings, around,
Lie mouldring in the vaulted Ground:

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Where now, in Hope, a-while repos'd,
His nobler Ashes are enclos'd.

O much-belov'd, and quickly lost!
How short the Joy we value most!
Much-honour'd! much-lamented Shade!
Ne'er shall thy sacred Laurels fade.
Thy Name unhurt, untarnish'd bears
Its Glories to succeeding Years.
Tho' thirteen Winters round thy Urn
Have roll'd, with sorrowful Return;
Still recent is the fatal Blow,
Still bleeds each Heart with gen'rous Woe,
Britannia still her Grief retains,
And for Her Addison complains.

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O! had He reach'd the farthest Stage
That Heav'n assigns to Mortal Age;
Still had his undiminish'd Ray
Pour'd on the Mind informing Day:
Then had we seen with weeping Eyes
Thee, Socrates! the Good, the Wise,
Greatly resign thy God-like Soul,
And smiling quaff the Martyr's Bowl.
Then too Religion wou'd have shown
The Raptur'd Poet, all her Own,
And heard the consecrated Lays
Sublimely sound the Saviour's Praise.
But (for the Banquets of the Blest
Impatient call'd for such a Guest)

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Scarce had her tuneful Vot'ry brought
The fair First-offering of his Thought;
His Harp within her Temple hung,
Ere Death the pious Harp unstrung:
Snatch'd Him to the Celestial Quire,
And grac'd him with a Seraph's Lyre.

When the Author wrote these Lines he had not heard of the Countess of Warwick's Death.

The Letter from Italy.

Spectators, Tatlers, &c.

Alluding to the Papers on the Immortality of the Soul.

Alluding to the Paper on Westminster Abbey.

Mr. Addison died June 17th 1719.

He intended to have wrote a Tragedy, upon the Story of Socrates; vid. His Life, by Mr. Tickell.

He had form'd a Resolution, before he died, to dedicate his Poetick Talent wholly to Religion.