Click in the field, then press CTRL+C to copy the HTML code
<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=530268" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>To the Earl of Warwick, on the Death of Mr. Addison</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">If, dumb too long, the drooping Muse hath stay'd,<br>And left her debt to Addison unpaid;<br>Blame not her silence, Warwick, but bemoan,<br>And judge, oh judge, my bosom by your own.<br>What mourner ever felt poetic fires!<br>Slow comes the verse that real woe inspires:<br>Grief unaffected suits but ill with art,<br>Or flowing numbers with a bleeding heart.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Can I forget the dismal night, that gave<br>My soul's best part for ever to the grave!<br>How silent did his old companions tread,<br>By midnight lamps, the mansions of the dead,<br>Through breathing statues then unheeded things<br>Through rows of warriors, and through walks of kings!<br>What awe did the slow solemn knell inspire;<br>The pealing organ, and the pausing choir;<br>The duties by the lawn-rob'd prelate pay'd,<br>And the last words that dust to dust convey'd!<br>While speechless o'er thy closing grave we bend,<br>Accept these tears, thou dear departed friend.<br>Oh gone forever, take this long adieu;<br>And sleep in peace, next thy lov'd Montagu!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">To strew fresh laurels let the task be mine,<br>A frequent pilgrim, at thy sacred shrine;<br>Mine with true sighs thy absence to bemoan,<br>And grave with faithful epitaphs thy stone.<br>If e'er from me thy lov'd memorial part,<br>May shame afflict this alienated heart;<br>Of thee forgetful if I form a song,<br>My lyre be broken, and untun'd my tongue,<br>My griefs be doubled, from thy image free,<br>And mirth a torment, unchastis'd by thee.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Oft let me range the gloomy aisles alone,<br>(Sad luxury! to vulgar minds unknown)<br>Along the walls where speaking marbles show<br>What worthies form the hallow'd mould below:<br>Proud names, who once the reins of empire held;<br>In arms who triumph'd; or in arts excell'd;<br>Chiefs, grac'd with scars, and prodigal of blood;<br>Stern patriots, who for sacred freedom stood;<br>Just men, by whom impartial laws were given;<br>And saints, who taught, and led, the way to Heaven.<br>Ne'er to these chambers, where the mighty rest,<br>Since their foundation, came a nobler guest;<br>Nor e'er was to the bowers of bliss convey'd<br>A fairer spirit, or more welcome shade.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">In what new region, to the just assign'd,<br>What new employments please th' unbodied mind?<br>A winged Virtue, through th' ethereal sky,<br>From world to world unwearied does he fly?<br>Or curious trace the long laborious maze<br>Of Heaven's decrees, where wond'ring angels gaze?<br>Does he delight to hear bold Seraphs tell<br>How Michael battled, and the Dragon fell;<br>Or, mix'd with milder Cherubim, to glow<br>In hymns of love, not ill essay'd below?<br>Or dost thou warn poor mortals left behind,<br>A task well-suited to thy gentle mind?<br>Oh, if sometimes thy spotless form descend,<br>To me thy aid, thou guardian Genius, lend!<br>When rage misguides me, or when fear alarms,<br>When pain distresses, or when pleasure charms,<br>In silent whisperings purer thoughts impart,<br>And turn from ill a frail and feeble heart;<br>Lead through the paths thy virtue trod before,<br>Till bliss shall join, nor death can part us more.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">That awful form (which, so ye Heavens decree,<br>Must still be lov'd and still deplor'd by me),<br>In nightly visions seldom fails to rise,<br>Or, rous'd by fancy, meets my waking eyes.<br>If business calls, or crowded courts invite,<br>Th' unblemish'd statesman seems to strike my sight;<br>If in the stage I seek to soothe my care,<br>I meet his soul, which breathes in Cato there;<br>If pensive to the rural shades I rove,<br>His shape o'ertakes me in the lonely grove;<br>'Twas there of just and good he reason'd strong,<br>Clear'd some great truth, or rais'd some serious song;<br>There patient show'd us the wise course to steer,<br>A candid censor, and a friend severe;<br>There taught us how to live; and (oh! too high<br>The price for knowledge) taught us how to die.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Thou Hill, whose brow the antique structures grace,<br>Rear'd by bold chiefs of Warwick's noble race,<br>Why, once so lov'd, whene'er thy bower appears,<br>O'er my dim eyeballs glance the sudden tears!<br>How sweet were once thy prospects fresh and fair,<br>Thy sloping walks, and unpolluted air!<br>How sweet the glooms beneath thy aged trees,<br>90 Thy noon-tide shadow, and thy evening breeze!<br>His image thy forsaken bowers restore;<br>Thy walks and airy prospects charm no more;<br>No more the summer in thy glooms allay'd,<br>Thy evening breezes, and thy noon-day shade.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">From other ills, however fortune frown'd;<br>Some refuge in the Muse's art I found;<br>Reluctant now I touch the trembling string,<br>Bereft of him, who taught me how to sing;<br>And these sad accents, murmur'd o'er his urn,<br>Betray that absence they attempt to mourn.<br>Oh! must I then (now fresh my bosom bleeds,<br>And Craggs in death to Addison succeeds)<br>The verse, begun to one lost friend, prolong,<br>And weep a second in th' unfinish'd song!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">These works divine, which, on his death-bed laid,<br>To thee, O Craggs, th' expiring sage convey'd,<br>Great, but ill-omen'd monument of fame,<br>Nor he surviv'd to give, nor thou to claim.<br>Swift after him thy social spirit flies,<br>And close to his, how soon! thy coffin lies.<br>Blest pair! whose union future bards shall tell<br>In future tongues: each other's boast! farewell,<br>Farewell! whom join'd in fame, in friendship tried,<br>No chance could sever, nor the grave divide.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Thomas+Tickell">Thomas Tickell</a><div class=q>
<img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share">
<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=530268" data-title="To the Earl of Warwick, on the Death of Mr. Addison de Thomas Tickell" data-description="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 i..."></div>
</div>
</div>