Thus Anna saw, and rais'd you to the seat Of honour, and confess'd her servant great; Confess'd, not made him such; for faithful Fame Her trumpet swell'd long since with Granville's name. Tho' you in modesty the title wear,
Your name shall be the title of your heir,
Farther than ermine make his glory known,
And cast in shades the favour of a throne.
From thrones the beam of high distinction springs,
The soul's endowments from the King of kings.
Lo, one great day calls forth ten mighty peers! ·
Produce ten Granvilles in five thousand years.
Anna! be thou content to fix the fate
Of various kingdoms, and controul the great;
But, O! to bid thy Granville brighter shine!
To him that great prerogative resign,
Who the sun's height can raise at pleasure higher,
His lamp illumine, set his flames on fire.
Yet still one bliss, one glary I forbear,
A darling friend whom near your heart you wear; That lovely youth, my Lord, whom you must blame That I grow thus familiar with your name.
He's friendly, open, in his conduct nice;
Nor serve these virtues to atone for vice;
Vice he has none, or such as none wish less,
But friends, indeed, good nature in excess.
You cannot boast the merit of a choice
In making him your own; 'twas Nature's voice,
Which call'd too loud by man to be withstood,
Pleading a tie far nearer than by blood;
Similitude of manners, such a mind,
As makes you less the wonder of mankind.
Such ease his common converse recommends,
As he ne'er felt a passion, but his friend's;
Yet fix'd his principles beyond the force
Of all beneath the sun to bend his course.
Thus the tall cedar, beautiful and fair,
Flatters the motions of the wanton air,
Salutes each passing breeze with head reclin'd,
The pliant branches dance in ev'ry wind;
But fix'd the stem, her upright state maintains,
And all the fury of the North disdains,
How are ye bless'd in such a matchless friend!
Alas! with me the joys of friendship end.
O Harrison! I must, I will complain;
Tears sooth the soul's distress, tho' shed in vain.
Didst thou return, and bless thy native shore
With welcome peace, and is my friend no more!---
Thy task was early done, and I must own
Death kind to thee, but ah! to thee alone.
But 'tis in me a vanity to mourn,
The sorrows of the great thy tomb adorn;
Strafford and Bolingbroke the loss perceive;
They grieve, and make thee envy'd in thy grave.
* His Lordship's nephew who took orders.
Young.]
Sij
With aching heart and a foreboding mind, I night to day in painful journey join'd, When first inform'd of his approaching fate, But reach'd the partner of my soul too late.
'Twas past; his cheek was cold; that tuneful tongue, Which Isis charm'd with its melodious song,
Now languish'd, wanted strength to speak his pain,
Scarce rais'd a feeble groan, and sunk again;
Each art of life, in which he bore a part,
Shot like an arrow thro' my bleeding heart.
To what serv'd all his promis'd wealth and pow'r,
But more to load that most unhappy hour?
Yet still prevail'd the greatness of his mind,
That not in health, or life itself, confin'd,
Felt thro' his mortal pangs Britannia's peace,
Mounted to joy, and smil'd in Death's embrace.
His spirit now just ready to resign,
No longer now his own, no longer mine,
He grasps my hand, his swimming eye-balls roll;
My hand he grasps, and enters in my soul;
Then with a groan---Support me---O! beware
Of holding worth, however great, too dear! *
Pardon, my Lord, the privilege of grief,
That in untimely freedom seeks relief:
To better fate your love I recommend;
O! may you never lose so dear a friend!
The Author here bewails that most ingenious gentleman, Mr. William Harrison, fellow of NewCollege, Oxon.
May nothing interrupt your happy hours!
Enjoy the blessings peace on Europe show'rs:
Nor yet disdain these blessings to adorn;
To make the Muse immortal you was born.
Sing! and in latest time, when story 's dark,
This period your surviving fame shall mark;
Save from the gulf of years this glorious age,
And thus illustrate their historian's page.
The crown of Spain in doubtful balance hung, 540 And Anna Britain sway'd when Granville sung; That noted year Europa sheath'd her sword, When this great man was first saluted Lord.
TO MR. TICKELL.
Occasioned by the death
OF THE RIGHT HON. JOSEPH ADDISON, ESQ. 1719.
--Tu nunc eris alter ab illo.
O LONG with me in Oxford groves confin'd,
In social arts and and sacred friendship join'd;
Fair Isis' sorrow, and fair Isis' boast,
Lost from her side, but fortunately lost;
Thy wonted aid, my dear Companion! bring,
And teach me thy departed friend to sing:
A darling theme! once pow'rful to inspire,
And now to melt, the Muses' mournful choir:
Now, and now first, we freely dare commend
His modest worth, nor shall our praise offend.
Early he bloom'd amid the learned train,
And ravish'd Isis listen'd to his train,
See, see, she cry'd, old Maro's Muse appears,
Wak'd from the slumber of two thousand years:
Her finish'd charms to Addison she brings,
Thinks in his thought, and in his number sings.
All read transported his pure classic page;
Read, and forget their climate and their age.
The State, when now his rising fame was known,
Th' unrivall'd genius challeng'd for her own,
Nor would that one for scenes of action strong,
Should let a life evaporate in song.
As health and strength the brightest charms dispense,
Wit is the blossom of the soundest sense:
Yet few, how few, with lofty thoughts inspir'd,
With quickness pointed, and with rapture fir'd,
In conscious pride their own importance find,
Blind to themselves, as the hard world is blind!
Wit they esteem a gay but worthless pow'r,
The slight amusement of a leisure hour,
Unmindful that, conceal'd from vulgareyes,
Majestic Wisdom wears the bright disguise.
Poor Dido fondled thus, with idle joy,
Dread Cupid, lurking in the Trojan boy;
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