Indulgent Nature smiled in every part,
And filled with joy unknown my ravished heart: 
Attent I listened while the feathered throng
Alternate finished and renewed their song.

* * * * *

THOMAS TICKELL

FROM ON THE DEATH OF MR. ADDISON

Can I forget the dismal night that gave
My soul’s best part forever 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-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 forever! 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 griefs 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 show
  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.

* * * * *

  That awful form (which, so ye 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 showed 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.