A new collection of Original poems Never Printed in any miscellany. By the Author of Sir Walter Raleigh [i.e. George Sewell] |
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AN Imperfect Copy of Verses,
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 | A new collection of Original poems |  |
13
AN Imperfect Copy of Verses,
Occasioned by seeing the Funeral of Mr. ADDISON In Westminster-Abbey.
Ye sacred Seats! ye venerable Urns!
Where Guilded Royalty to Dust returns,
Where Bards, who promis'd everlasting Breath,
Mock their own Boast, and meet their Kings in Death:
Receive the Debt your cruel Mansions crave,
As great, as Nature ever paid the Grave.
Earth open wide! rejoice thy greedy Womb!
Be proud, O Death! and triumph o'er the Tomb!
This was a Conquest—At a single Spoil
To plunder half the Learning of our Isle.
Where Guilded Royalty to Dust returns,
Where Bards, who promis'd everlasting Breath,
Mock their own Boast, and meet their Kings in Death:
Receive the Debt your cruel Mansions crave,
As great, as Nature ever paid the Grave.
14
Be proud, O Death! and triumph o'er the Tomb!
This was a Conquest—At a single Spoil
To plunder half the Learning of our Isle.
In Fields of Battle where the Sword wastes wide,
And You o'er Ruin heap'd in Triumph ride;
Sedate the thinking Mind the Fate surveys,
Of Creatures form'd to last but half our Days:
And often feels a deeper Loss in one,
Mourning a Plato, or an Addison.
And You o'er Ruin heap'd in Triumph ride;
Sedate the thinking Mind the Fate surveys,
Of Creatures form'd to last but half our Days:
And often feels a deeper Loss in one,
Mourning a Plato, or an Addison.
Great Bard! what various Thoughts disturb'd my Head,
When I beheld thee number'd with the Dead?
Distinguish'd only by a decent Care,
To say—what late Immortal Guest lodg'd—there.
Is this, I cry'd,—then rose the Thought profane,
But by thy Virtue check'd, recoil'd again—
“Such Pow'r the Ashes of the Virtuous crave,
“To shoot a secret Influence from the Grave;
“Their Tombs are Lectures, and discharge the Trust
“Of living Eloquence from silent Dust.
When I beheld thee number'd with the Dead?
Distinguish'd only by a decent Care,
To say—what late Immortal Guest lodg'd—there.
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But by thy Virtue check'd, recoil'd again—
“Such Pow'r the Ashes of the Virtuous crave,
“To shoot a secret Influence from the Grave;
“Their Tombs are Lectures, and discharge the Trust
“Of living Eloquence from silent Dust.
Recover'd thus; I view'd around me spread
The scepter'd Monarch, and the mitred Head;
Kings more than dead, as seeming to accuse
Thy Fate, and want of thy recording Muse.
The scepter'd Monarch, and the mitred Head;
Kings more than dead, as seeming to accuse
Thy Fate, and want of thy recording Muse.
| A new collection of Original poems | |