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The friendship of Addison has shed a reflected light on some of his contemporaries, and it elevated them, in their own day, to considerable importance. Amongst these was THOMAS TICKELL (16861740), born at Bridekirk, near Carlisle, son of a clergyman, and educated at Queen's College, Oxford. He was a writer in the 'Spectator' and 'Guardian;' and when Addison went to Ireland as secretary to Lord Sunderland, Tickell accompanied him, and was employed in public business. He published a translation of the first book of the Iliad' at the same time with Pope. Addison and the Whigs pronounced it to be the best, while the Tories ranged under the banner of Pope. The circumstance led to a breach of the friendship betwixt Addison and Pope, which was never healed. Addison continued, his patronage, and when made Secretary of State in 1717, he appointed his friend under-secretary. He also left him the charge of publishing his works, and on his death-bed recommended him to Secretary Craggs. Tickell prefixed to the collected works of Addison an elegy on his deceased friend, which is justly considered one of the most pathetic and sublime poems in the language. In 1722, Tickell published a poem, chiefly allegorical, entitled Kensington Gardens; and being in 1724 appointed secretary to the lords-justices of Ireland, he seems to have abandoned the Muses. He died at Bath in 1740, but was buried at Glasneven, near Dublin, where he had long resided. The monumental tablet in Glasneven Church to the memory of Tickell records that his highest honour was that of having been the friend of Addison.' His elegy, and his beautiful ballad of 'Colin and Lucy,' would have served, however, to per

petuate his name, while even his opponent Pope admitted that he was an honest man.'

From the Lines 'To the Earl of Warwick, on the Death of Mr.

Addison.'

Can I forget the dismal night that gave
My soul's best part for ever to the grave?
How silently 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-robed prelate paid:
And the last words that dust to dust conveyed!
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 loved 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 loved memorial part,
May shame afflict this alienated heart;
Of thee forgetful if I form a song,
My lyre be broken, and untuned my tongue,
My grief be doubled from thy image free,
And mirth a torment, unchastised by thee!

Oft let me range the gloomy aisles alone,
Sad luxury! to vulgar minds unknown,
Along the walls where speaking marbles shew
What worthies form the hallowed 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 conveyed
A fairer spirit or more welcome shade.

In what new region, to the just assigned,

What new employments please th' unbodied mind?
A winged virtue, through th' ethereal sky,
From world to world unwearied 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 battled, and the dragon fell;
Or, mixed with milder cherubim, to glow
In hymns of love, not ill essayed 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 deplored by me,
In nightly visions seldom fails to rise,

Or, roused by fancy, meets my waking eyes.

If business calls, or crowded courts invite,

Th' unblemished 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 reasoned strong,
Cleared some great truth, or raised some serious song:
There patient shewed 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.
Thou hill whose brow the antique structures grace,
Reared by bold chiefs of Warwick's noble race,
Why, once so loved, when'er thy bower appears,
O'er my dim eyeballs glance the sudden tears?
How sweet were once thy prospects fresh and fair,
Thy sloping walks, and unpolluted air!
How sweet the glooms beneath thy aged trees,
Thy noontide shadow, and thy evening breeze!
His image thy forsaken bowers restore;
Thy walks and airy prospects charm no more;
No more the summer in thy glooms allayed,
Thy evening breezes, and thy noonday shade.
Colin and Lucy.-A Ballad.

Of Leinster, famed for maidens fair,
Bright Lucy was the grace,
Nor e'er did Liffey's limpid stream
Reflect so sweet a face;

Till luckless love and pining care
Impaired her rosy hue,

Her coral lips and damask cheeks,
And eyes of glossy blue.

Oh! have you seen a lily pale

When beating rains descend?

So drooped the slow-consuming maid,
Her life now near its end.

By Lucy warned, of flattering swains
Take heed, ye easy fair!
Of vengeance due to broken vows,
Ye perjured swains! beware.

Three times all in the dead of night
A bell was heard to ring,
And shrieking, at her window thrice
The raven flapped his wing.

Too well the love-lorn maiden knew
The solemn boding sound,
And thus in dying words bespoke
The virgins weeping round:

'I hear a voice you cannot hear,
Which says I must not stay;
I see a hand you cannot see,
Which beckons me away.

'By a false heart and broken vows
In early youth I die.

Was I to blame because his bride
Was thrice as rich as I?

'Ah, Colin! give not her thy vows,
Vows due to me alone;

Nor thou, fond maid! receive his kiss
Nor think him all thy own.

"To-morrow in the church to wed,
Impatient both prepare;

But know, fond maid! and know, false

man!

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The bridegroom blithe to meet He in his wedding trim so gay, She in her winding-sheet.

Then what were perjured thoughts?

How were these nuptials kept?

Colin's

The bridesmen flocked round Lucy dead,
And all the village wept.

Confusion, shame, remorse, despair,
At once his bosom swell;

The damps of death bedewed his brow;
He shook-he groaned-he fell!

When stretched before her rival's corpse
She saw her husband dead.

Then to his Lucy's new-made grave
Conveyed by trembling swains,
One mould with her, beneath one sod,
For ever he remains.

Oft at this grave the constant hind
And plighted maid are seen;
With garlands gay and true-love knots
They deck the sacred green.

But, swain forsworn! whoe'er thou art,
This hallowed spot forbear;

From the vain bride-ah! bride no Remember Colin's dreadful fate,

more!

The varying crimson fled

And fear to meet him there.

Tickell occasionally tried satire, and the following piece shews a stronger and bolder hand than the bulk of his verses. It was written to ridicule the Jacobite Earl of Mar and his rash enterprise in 1715-16 in favour of the Chevalier.

An Imitation of the Prophecy of Nereus-From Horace, Book iii. Ode 25.

As Mar his round one morning took-
Whom some call earl, and some call
duke-

And his new brethren of the blade,
Shivering with fear and frost, surveyed,
On Perth's bleak hills he chanced to spy
An aged wizard six foot high,

With bristled hair and visage blighted,
Wall-eyed, bare haunched, and second-
sighted.

The grisly sage in thought profound
Beheld the chief with back so round,
Then rolled his eyeballs to and fro
O'er his paternal hills of snow,
And into these tremendous speeches
Brake forth the prophet without breeches:
Into what ills, betrayed by thee
This ancient kingdom do I see!
Her realms unpeopled and forlorn-
Wae's me! that ever thou wert born!
Proud English loons-our clans o'er-

come

On Scottish pads shall amble home;
I see them dressed in bonnet blue-
The spoils of thy rebellious crew-
I see the target cast away,

And checkered plaid become their prey-
The checkered plaid to make a gown
For many a lass in London town.

'In vain the hungry mountaineers Come forth in all their warlike gearsThe shield, the pistol, dirk, and dagger,

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Macleans, Mackenzies, and Macgregors?
Inflamed with bagpipe and with brandy,
In vain thy lads around thee bandy.
Doth not bold Sutherland the trusty,
With heart so true, and voice so rusty-
A loyal soul!-thy troops affright
While hoarsely he demands the fight?
Dost thou not generous Islay dread,
The bravest hand, the wisest head;
Undaunted dost thou hear th' alarms
Of hoary Athole sheathed in arms?

'Douglas, who draws his lineage down From thanes and peers of high renown, Fiery and young, and uncontrolled, With knights and squires and barons bold

His noble household band-advances
And on his milk-white courser prances.
Thee Forfar to the combat dares,
Grown swarthy in Iberian wars,
And Monro kindled into rage,
Sourly defies thee to engage;
He'll rout thy foot, though ne'er so many,
And horse to boot-if thou hadst any!
'But see, Argyle, with watchful eyes,

Lodged in his deep intrenchments lies;
Couched like a lion in thy way,
He waits to spring upon his prey;
While, like a herd of timorous deer,
Thy army shakes and pants with fear
Led by their doughty general's skill
From frith to frith, and hill to hill.

Is this thy haughty promise paid
That to the Chevalier was made,
When thou didst oaths and duty barter
For dukedom, generalship, and garter?
Three moons thy Jamie shall command,

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With Highland sceptre in his hand,
Too good for his pretended birth-
Then down shall fall the King of Perth!
"Tis so decreed, for George shall reign,
And traitors be forsworn in vain.
Heaven shall for ever on him smile,
And bless him still with an Argyle;
While thou, pursued by vengeful foes,
Condemned to barren rocks and snows,
And hindered passing Inverlochy,
Shall burn thy clan, and curse poor
Jocky!'

AMBROSE PHILIPS.

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Among the poets of the day whom Addison's friendship and Pope's enmity raised to temporary importance, was AMBROSE PHILIPS (16711749). He was a native of Shropshire, and educated at St. John's College, Cambridge. He made his appearance as a poet in the same year and in the same volume as Pope-the 'Pastorals' of Philips being the first poem, and the 'Pastorals' of Pope, the last in Tonson's Miscellany' for 1709. They had been printed the year previous. Tickell injudiciously praised Philip's Pastorals as the finest in the language, and Pope resented this unjust depreciation of his own poetry by an ironical paper in the 'Guardian,' calculated to make Philips appear ridiculous. Pretending to criticise the rival Pastorals,' and compare them, Pope gives the preference to Philips, but quotes all his worst passages as his best, and places by the side of them his own finest lines, which he says want rusticity and deviate into downright poetry. Philips felt the satire keenly, and even vowed to take personal vengeance on his adversary, by whipping him with a rod, which he hung up for the purpose in Button's Coffee-house. Pope-faithful to the maxim that a man never forgives another whom he has injured-continued to pursue Philips with his hatred and satire to the close of his life. The pastoral poet had the good sense not to enter the lists with his formidable assailant, and his character and talents soon procured him public employment. In 1715, he was appointed paymaster of the Lottery; he afterwards was selected by Archbishop Boulter, primate of Ireland, as his secretary, and sat for the county of Armagh in the Irish parliament. In 1734, he was made registrar of the Prerogative Court. From these appointments, Philips was able to purchase an annuity of £400 per annum, with which he hoped, as Johnson says, ' to pass some years of life (in England) in plenty and tranquility; but his hope deceived him; he was struck with a palsy, and died, June 18, 1749.' The Pastorals' of Philips are certainly poor productions; but he was an elegant versifier, and Goldsmith has eulogised the opening of his 'Epistle to the Earl of Dorset' as incomparably fine.' A fragment of Sappho, translated by Philips, is a poetical gem so brilliant, that it is thought Addison must have assisted in its composition:

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