The happiest of mankind. Deluded wretch!
Thy thoughts are perishing, thy youthful joys,
Touch'd by the icy hand of grisly death,

Are with'ring in their bloom-But thought extinguish'd

He'll never know the loss, nor feel the bitter
Pangs of disappointment-Then I was wrong
In counting him a wretch: To die well pleas'd,
Is all the happiest of mankind can hope for.
To be a wretch, is to survive the loss

Of every joy, and even hope itself,

As I have done-Why do I mourn him then?
For, by the anguish of my tortur'd soul,
He's to be envied, if compar'd with me.

THOMAS TICKELL.

BORN 1686.-DIED 1740.

THOMAS TICKELL, the son of the Rev. Richard Tickell, was born at Bridekirk, in Cumberland, studied at Oxford, and obtair.ed a fellowship, which he vacated by marrying about his fortieth year. Though he sung the praises of peace when the Tories were negotiating with France, he seems from the rest of his writings, and his close connexion with Addison, to have deserved the epithet of Whiggissimus, which Swift bestowed on him. His

friendship with Addison lasted for life; he accompanied him to Ireland in the suite of Lord Sunderland, became his secretary when Addison was made secretary of state, was left the charge of publishing his works, and prefixed to them his excellent elegy. He was afterwards secretary to the lords justices of Ireland, a place which he held till his death.

TO THE EARL OF WARWICK, ON THE DEATH OF

MR. ADDISON.

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 triumph'd; or in arts excell'd; Chiefs, grac'd 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 assign'd,

What new employments please th' unbody'd 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 battl'd, and the dragon fell;
Or, mix'd with milder cherubim, to głow
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 lov'd 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
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,

my sight;

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.
Thou hill, whose brow the antique structures grace,
Rear'd by bold chiefs of Warwick's noble race,
Why, once so lov'd, whene'er thy bower appears,
O'er my dim eye-balls 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 allay'd,
Thy evening breezes, and thy noon-day shade.
From other hills, however fortune frown'd,
Some refuge in the Muse's art I found;
Reluctant now I touch the trembling string,
Bereft of him who taught me how to sing;
And these sad accents, murmur'd o'er his urn,
Betray that absence they attempt to mourn.
O! must I then (now fresh my bosom bleeds,
And Craggs in death to Addison succeeds)
The verse, begun to one lost friend, prolong,
And weep a second in th' unfinish'd song!

These works divine, which on his death-bed laid
To thee, O Craggs! th' expiring sage convey'd,
Great, but ill-omen'd, monument of fame,
Nor he surviv'd to give, nor thou to claim.