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=581428" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Upon The Death Of, Mr. Addison; Inscrib'd To The Earl Of Warwick</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">If yet, my Lord, your Sorrows find relief,<br>And a short Pause succeeds your weighty Grief;<br>With Candour this unwelcome Verse peruse,<br>The last kind Office of a grateful Muse:<br>Nor needs the grateful Muse to court thy Ear,<br>Which sheds for Addison a pious Tear;<br>And jointly sorrows, with pathetick Rage,<br>The greatest Genius of the greatest Age;<br>Whom Rival--wits with Veneration name,<br>And the foul Lips of Party durst not blame.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">What secret Curse attends the Poet--line?<br>How have the Muses urg'd the Wrath divine?<br>Say, holy Sires, is Poetry a Crime?<br>Or whence these Judgments on the Sons of Rhime?<br>Why are the noblest Spirits snatch'd away<br>In their full Blaze of intellectual Day?<br>While Crowds of worthless Drones are left behind,<br>Grown white with Years, the Lumber of Mankind,<br>That loll, fat Canons, in some lazy Stall,<br>Or thoughtless sleep within a College Wall?<br>To its full Length they stretch the mortal Span,<br>Nor lose a Moment of the Age of Man;<br>But dully dreaming out their vital Store,<br>Drop ripe into their Graves, and are no more.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Scarce have our tender Sorrows ceas'd to flow<br>For courtly Garth, and soft--complaining Rowe;<br>Like Ovid witty one; in one conspire<br>Otway's prevailing Art, and Lucan's Fire:<br>Both these together drain'd our lavish Eyes;<br>Will not two Poets in a Year suffice?<br>Shall twelve short Months an Age's Woes ingross,<br>And Addison compleat the Nation's Loss.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Who then in manly Numbers shall record<br>The future, glorious Deeds of Brunswick's Sword?<br>Who now correct the Follies of the Age,<br>Or give new Lustre to the British Stage?<br>With Foreign Stores enrich his native Land,<br>Or deign to youthful Bards his willing Hand?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Great as he was, the Monarch of the Bays,<br>Plac'd far above the reach of mortal Praise;<br>In every Thought tho' Wit Divine appear,<br>Yet aw'd by modest dread and cautions Fear,<br>Seldom (too seldom!) did he put it forth,<br>Still most ambitious to conceal his Worth;<br>Stunn'd with applauding Crowds, he check'd his Flight,<br>And, wearied with Admirers, fear'd to write;<br>In his own Praise he felt a painful Shame,<br>And blush'd at the Abundance of his Fame.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">So the fair Virgin with Confusion hears<br>Her Charms extol'd, and shuts her tortur'd Ears;<br>From the Encomiums of the Youth she flies,<br>And strives to hide the Lustre of her Eyes.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">From this great Master of poetick Art,<br>Ye num'rous Bards that swarm in ev'ry Part,<br>And with laborious Nonsense load the Press,<br>Learn to contemplate more, and scribble less:<br>Learn, from this great Example, to command<br>Your Thirst of Fame, and stop an itching Hand:<br>Think not that Wit in bulky Volumes lies,<br>(Alas what witless Volumes daily rise.)<br>Oft is it wanting in a thousand Lines,<br>And often in a single Couplet shines.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">While others on a part of Learning dwell,<br>Proud in one single Science to excel;<br>And as the scatter'd Stars adorn the Sky,<br>In diff'rent Arts their diff'rent Talents try;<br>Nor aim at more; great Addison alone<br>No Branch of human Knowledge left unknown;<br>But like the Sun inimitably bright,<br>Shone with collected Rays, the source of Light;<br>In Verse or Prose, with more than mortal Art,<br>He struck the Passions, and he warm'd the Heart:<br>Various, but still unrival'd, was his Song,<br>Now soft like Ovid, now like Virgil strong:<br>For ev'ry Theme his Genius was the same,<br>And each new Piece still added to his Fame.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But whither is this Boast of Britain fled?<br>Lies the great Author of our Glory dead?<br>Shall we, tormenting Thought! expect in vain,<br>A second Cato or a new Campain?<br>Why did not gracious Heav'n prolong his Date,<br>And shield him from the Rage of envious Fate?<br>Why did th' Almighty trust this common Good,<br>To the frail Elements of Flesh and Blood;<br>Expos'd to Ills, and subject to Decay,<br>The feeble, short--liv'd Creature of a Day?<br>Why was his Life not boundless as his Mind,<br>To bless the future Ages of Man kind?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But Heav'n to punish our repeated Crimes,<br>Call'd him from Earth to breathe in happier Climes:<br>For now in the gay mansions of the Skies<br>(If there the promis'd Land of Glory lies)<br>With kindred Bards that liv'd in earliest Days,<br>The rev'rend Fathers of harmonious Lays,<br>He joyns his tuneful Voice, his Lyre he strings,<br>And Maro listens whilst his Rival sings;<br>Great Somers fixes on his well known Face,<br>And Cato greets him with a stern Embrace.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Nicholas+Amhurst">Nicholas Amhurst</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=581428" data-title="Upon The Death Of, Mr. Addison; Inscrib'd To The Earl Of Warwick de Nicholas Amhurst" data-description="If yet, my Lord, your Sorrows find relief,
And a short Pause succeeds your weighty Grief;
With Candour this unwelcome Verse peruse,
The last kind Office of a grateful Muse:
Nor needs the grateful Muse to court thy Ear,
Which sheds for Addison a pi..."></div>
</div>
</div>