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To the mind's ear, and inward sight, Their silence speaks, and shade gives light: While insects from the threshold preach, And minds dispos'd to musing teach: Proud of strong limbs and painted hues, They perish by the slightest bruise; Or maladies, begun within, Destroy more slow life's frail machine; From maggot-youth through change of state, They feel like us the turns of fate; Some born to creep have liv'd to fly, And change earth-cells for dwellings high; And some that did their six wings keep, Before they dy'd been forc'd to creep; They politics like ours profess, The greater prey upon the less: Some strain on foot huge loads to bring; Soune toil incessant on the wing, And in their different ways explore Wise sense of want by future store; Nor from their vigorous schemes desist Till death, and then are never miss'd. Some frolic, toil, marry, increase, Are sick and well, have war and peace, And, broke with age, in half a day Yield to successors, and away. Let not prophane this sacred place, Hypocrisy with Janus' face; Or Pomp, inixt state of pride and care; Court Kindness, Falsehood's polish'd ware; Scandal disguis'd in Friendship's veil, That tells, unask'd, th’ injurious tale; Or art politic, which allows The jesuit-remedy for vows; Or priest, perfuming crowned head, "Till in a swoon Truth lies for dead Or tawdry critic, who perceives No grace, which plain proportion gives, And more than lineaments divine Admires the gilding of the shrine; Or that self-haunting spectre Spleen, In thickest fog the clearest seen; Or Prophecy, which dreams a lie, That fools believe and knaves apply; Or frolic Mirth, prophanely loud, And happy only in a crowd; Or Melancholy's pensive gloom, Proxy in Contemplation's room. O Delia when I touch this string, To thee my Muse directs her wing. Unspotted fair with downcast look Mind not so much the murm'ring brook; Nor fixt in thought, with footsteps slow Through cypress alleys cherish woe: I see the soul in pensive fit, And moping like sick linnet sit. With dewy eye, and moulting wing, Unperch'd, averse to fly or sing; I see the favourite curls begin Bisus’d to toilet discipline) To quit their post, lose their smart air, *} grow again like common hair; And tears, which frequent kerchiefs dry, Raise ared circle round the eye; And by this bur about the Moon, Conjecture more ill weather soon. Love not so much the doleful knell: And news the boding night-birds tell; Nor watch the wainscot's hollow blow; And hensportentous when they crow;
Nor sleepless mind the death-watch beat; In taper find no winding-sheet: Nor in burnt coal a coffin see, Though thrown at others, meant for thee: Or when the coruscation gleams, Find out not first the bloody streams; Nor in imprest remembrance keep Grim tap'stry figures wrought in sleep; Nor rise to see in antique hall The moonlight monsters on the wall, And shadowy spectres darkly pass Trailing their sables o'er the grass, Let vice and guilt act how they please In souls, their conquer'd provinces; By Heaven's just charter it appears, Virtue's exempt from quartering fears, Shall then arm'd fancies fiercely drest, Live at discretion in your breast 2 Be wise, and panic fright disdain, As notions, meteors of the brain; And sights perform'd, illusive scenes By magic lanthorn of the spleen. Come here, from baleful cares releas'd, With Virtue's ticket, to a feast, Where decent Mirth and Wisdom join'd In stewardship, regale the mind. Call back the Cupids to your eyes, I see the godlings with surprise. Not knowing home in such a plight, Fly to and fro, afraid to light. — Far from my theme, from method far, Convey'd in Venus' flying car, I go compell'd by feather'd steeds, That scorn the rein, when Delia leads. No daub of elegiac strain These holy wars shall ever stain; As spiders Irish wainscot flee, Falsehood with them shall disagree; This floor let not the vulgar tread, Who worship only what they dread: Nor bigots who but one way see Through blinkers of authority. Nor they who its four saints defame By making virtue but a name; Nor abstract wit, (painful regale To hunt the pig with slippery tail') Artists, who richly chase their thought, Gaudy without, but hollow wrought; And beat too thin, and tool'd too much To bear the proof and standard touch: Norfops to guard this sylvan ark, With necklace bells in treble bark: Nor cynics growl and fiercely paw, The mastiffs of the moral law. Come, nymph, with rural honours drest, Virtue's exterior form confest, With charms untarnish'd, innocence Display, and Eden shall commence; When thus you come in sober fit, And wisdom is preferr'd to wit; And looks diviner graces tell, Which don't with giggling muscles dwell; And beauty like the ray-clipt Sun, With bolder eye we look upon; Learning shall with obsequious mien Tell all the wonders she has seen; Reason her logic armour quit, And proof to mild persuasion sit; Religion with free thought dispense, And cease crusading against sense;
Philosophy and she embrace,
Towa, Tickell, a poet of considerable elegance, born at Bridekirk, near Carlisle, in 1686, was the son of a clergyman in the county of Cumberland. He was entered of Queen's College, Oxford, in 1701, and having taken the degree of M.A. in 1708, was elected fellow of his college, first obtaining from the crown a dispensation from the statute requiring him to be in orders. He then came to the metropolis, where he made himself known to several persons distinguished in letters. When the negotiations were carrying on which brought on the peace of Utrecht, he published a poem entitled “ The Prospect of Peace,” which ran through six editions. Addison, with whom he had ingratiated himself by an elegant poem on his opera of Rosamond, speaks highly of “The Pro*Pect of Peace,” in a paper of the Spectator, in which he expresses himself as particularly pleased to find that the author had not amused himself with fables out of the Pagan theology. This commendation Tickell amply repaid by his lines on Addison's Cato, which are superior to all others on that sub*t, with the exception of Pope's Prologue. Tickell, being attached to the succession of the House of Hanover, presented George I. with a poem entitled “The Royal Progress;” and more effectually served the cause by two pieces, one called “An Imitation of the Prophecy of Nereus;” the other, “An Epistle from a Lady in England, to a
COLIN AND LUCY. A BALLAD,
O, Leinster, fam'd for maidens fair,
Oh! have you seen a lily pale,
So droop'd the slow-consuming maid,
Lucy warn'd, of flattering swains
Take heed, ye easy fair:
Of vengeance due to broken vows,
Gentleman at Avignon.” Both these are selected for the purpose of the present volume. He was about this time taken to Ireland, by Addison, who went over as secretary to Lord Sunderland. When Pope published the first volume of his translation of the Iliad, Tickell gave a translation of the first book of that poem, which was patronized by Addison, and occasioned a breach between those eminent men. Tickell's composition, however, will bear no poetical comparison with that of Pope, and accordingly he did not proceed with the task. On the death of Addison, he was entrusted with the charge of publishing his works, a distinction which he repaid by prefixing a life of that celebrated man, with an elegy on his death, of which Dr. Johnson says, “That a more sublime or elegant funeral poem is not to be found in the whole compass of English literature.” Another piece, which might be justly placed at the head of sober lyrics, is his “Ode to the Earl of Sunderland,” on his installation as a knight of the Garter; which keeping within the limits of truth, consigns a favourite name to its real honours. Tickell is represented as a man of pleasing manners, fond of society, very agreeable in conversation, and upright and honourable in his conduct. He was married, and left a family. His death took place at Bath, in 1740, the 54th year of his age.
Three times, all in the dead of night,
“I hear a voice, you cannot hear,
“Ah, Colin give not her thy vows,
To-morrow, in the church to wed,
But know, fond maid; and know, false man,
“Then bear my corse, my comrades, bear,
Then what were perjur’d Colin's thoughts?
From the vain bride, ah, bride no more
Oft at this grave, the constant hind
To THE EARL OF WARWICK, ON the DEAth of MR. Addison.
Ir, 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
What awe did the slow solemn knell inspire;
Oh, gone for ever; take this long adieu ;
How sweet the glooms beneath thy aged trees,
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, survey'd, On Perth's bleak hills he chanc'd to spy An aged wizard six feet high, With bristled hair and visage blighted, Wall-ey'd, bare-haunch'd, and second-sighted. The grisly sage in thought profound Beheld the chief with back so round, Then roll'd his eye-balls to and fro O'er his paternal hills of snow, And into these tremendous speeches Broke forth the prophet without breeches. “Into what hills betray'd, by thee, This ancient kingdom do I see! Her realms unpeopled and forlorn Wae's me! that ever thou wert born 4 Proud English loons (our clans o'ercome) On Scottish pads shall amble home; I see them drest in bonnets blue (The spoils of thy rebellious crew); I see the target cast away, And chequer'd plaid become their prey, The chequer'd plaid to make a gown For many a lass in London town. “In vain thy hungry mountaineers Come forth in all thy warlike geers, The shield, the pistol, durk, and dagger, In which they daily wont to swagger,
And of have sally'd out to pillage
FROM A LADY IN ENGLAND TO A GENTLEMAN Air AVIG No N.
To thee, dear rover, and thy vanquish'd friends, The health, she wants, thy gentle Chloe sends. Though much you suffer, think I suffer more, Worse than an exile on my native shore. Companions in your master's flight you roam, Unenvy'd by your haughty foes at home; For ever near the royal outlaw's side You share his fortunes, and his hopes divide,