Cato. Dialogue on medals. Essay on Virgil's Georgies. Poemata. Poems on several occasions. Rosamond; an opera. Story of Salmacis and Hermaphroditus

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 trode before,
'Till bliss shall join, nor death can part us more.

That awful form (which, so ye 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 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 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 noon-tide 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 ills, however fortune frown'd, Some refuge in the muse's art I found:

xxii

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.
Oh! 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.
Swift after him thy social spirit flies,

And close to his, how soon! thy coffin lies.
Blest pair! whose union future bards shall tell
In future tongues: each other's boast! farewel.
Farewel! whom join'd in fame, in friendship try'd,
No chance could sever, nor the grave divide.

THOMAS TICKELL.

THE

CONTENTS.

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TO Mr. Dryden