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By Mr. Tickle to Ld. Warwick on the death of Addison. --- 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 to your own. What mourner ever felt poetic fires! Slow comes the verse that real woe inspires: Greif unaffected suits but ill with art Or flowing numbers with a bleeding heart. Oft let me range the gloomy ills alone (Sad luxury to vulgar minds unknown) Oh if sometimes thy spotless form descend To me thy aid, thou guardian genius lend 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 & feeble heart Lead thro' the paths, thy virtue trod before Till bliss shall join, nor death can part us more
