To Mr. Addison; Occasioned by His Prrchasing an Estate in Warwickchester

OCCASIONED BY HIS

PURCHASING AN ESTATE IN WARWICKSHIRE .

T O the gay Town, where guilty pleasure reigns,
The wise good man prefers our humble plains:
Neglected honours on his merit wait,
Here he retires when courted to be great,
The world resigning for this calm retreat.
His soul with wisdom's choicest treasures fraught,
Here proves in practice each sublimer thought,
And lives by rules his happy pen has taught.
Great Bard! how shall my worthless Muse aspire
To reach your praise without your sacred fire?
From the judicious critic's piercing eyes,
To the best-natur'd man secure she flies.
When panting virtue her last efforts made,
You brought your Clio to the virgin's aid;
Presumptuous Folly blush'd, and Vice withdrew,
To Vengeance yielding her abandon'd crew.
'Tis true, confederate wits their forces join,
Parnassus labours in the work divine;
Ye these we read with too-impatient eyes,
And hunt for you through every dark disguise:
In vain your modesty that name conceals,
Which every thought, which every word reveals.
With like success bright Beauty's goddess tries
To veil immortal charms from mortal eyes;
Her graceful port and her celestial mien
To her brave son betray the Cyprian queen;
Odours divine perfume her rosy breast,
She glides along the plain in majesty confest.
Hard was the task, and worthy your great mind,
To please at once and to reform mankind:
Yet when you write, Truth charms with such address,
Pleads Virtue's cause with such becoming grace,
His own fond heart the guilty wretch betrays,
He yields delighted, and convinc'd obeys.
You touch our follies with so nice a skill,
Nature and habit prompt in vain to ill.
Nor can it lessen the Spectator's praise,
That from your friendly hand he wears the bays;
His great design all ages shall commend,
But more his happy choice in such a friend.
So the fair queen of Night the world relieves,
Nor at the sun's superior honour grieves,
Proud to reflect the glories she receives.
When dark oblivion is the warrior's lot,
His merit censur'd, and his wounds forgot;
When burnish'd helms and gilded armour rust,
And each proud trophy sinks in common dust;
Fresh-blooming honours deck the poet's brows,
He shares the mighty blessings he bestows,
His spreading fame enlarges as it flows.
Had not your Muse in her immortal strain
Describ'd the glorious toils on Blenheim's plain,
Ev'n Marlborough might have fought, and Dormer bled in vain.
When Honour calls, and the just cause inspires
Britain's bold sons to emulate their sires,
Your Muse these great examples shall supply,
Like that to conquer, or like this to die.
Contending nations ancient Homer claim,
And Mantua glories in her Maro's name;
Our happier soil the prize shall yield to none,
Ardenna's groves shall boast an Addison.
Ye silvan pow'rs, and all ye rural gods!
That guard these peaceful shades and bless'd abodes,
For your new guest your choicest gifts prepare,
Exceed his wishes, and prevent his pray'r;
Grant him, propitious, freedom, health, and peace,
And as his virtues let his stores increase.
His lavish hand no deity shall mourn,
The pious bard shall make a just return;
In lasting verse eternal altars raise,
And overpay your bounty with his praise.
Tune every reed, touch every string, ye swains!
Welcome the stranger to these happy plains;
With hymns of joy in solemn pomp attend
Apollo's darling and the Muses' friend.
Ye nymphs! that haunt the streams and shady groves,
Forget a while to mourn your absent loves;
In song and sportive dance your joy proclaim,
In yielding blushes own your rising flame:
Be kind, ye nymphs! nor let him sigh in vain.
Each land remote your curious eye has view'd
That Grecian arts or Roman arms subdued;
Search'd every region, every distant soil,
With pleasing labour and instructive toil:
Say then, accomplish'd bard! what god inclin'd
To these our humble plains your generous mind?
Nor would you deign in Latian fields to dwell,
Which none know better, or describe so well.
In vain ambrosial fruits invite your stay,
In vain the myrtle groves obstruct your way,
And ductile streams that round the borders stray.
Your wiser choice prefers this spot of earth,
Distinguish'd by the' immortal Shakspeare's birth;
Where through the vales the fair Avona glides,
And nourishes the glebe with fattening tides:
Flora's rich gifts deck all the verdant soil,
And plenty crowns the happy farmer's toil.
Here, on the painted borders of the flood,
The babe was born, his bed with roses strow'd:
Here, in an ancient venerable dome,
Oppress'd with grief, we view the poet's tomb.
Angels unseen watch o'er his hallow'd urn,
And in soft elegies complaining mourn;
While the bless'd saint, in loftier strains, above
Reveals the wonders of eternal love.
The heav'ns, delighted in his tuneful lays,
With silent joy attend their Maker's praise,
In Heav'n he sings; on earth your muse supplies
The' important loss, and heals our weeping eyes:
Correctly great, she melts each flinty heart
With equal genius, but superior art.
Hail, happy pair! ordain'd by turns to bless,
And save a sinking nation in distress,
By great examples to reform the crowd,
Awake their zeal, and warm their frozen blood.
When Brutus strikes for liberty and laws,
Nor spares a father in his country's cause,
Justice severe applauds the cruel deed,
A lyrant suffers, and the world is freed;
But when we see the godlike Cato bleed,
The nation weeps; and from thy fate, oh, Rome!
Learns to prevent her own impending doom.
Where is the wretch a worthless life can prize,
When senates are no more, and Cato dies?
Indulgent sorrow and a pleasing pain
Heaves in each breast, and beats in every vein.
The' expiring patriot animates the crowd,
Bold they demand their ancient rights aloud,
The dear-bought purchase of their father's blood.
Fair Liberty her head majestic rears,
Ten thousand blessings in her bosom bears;
Serene she smiles, revealing all her charms,
And calls her free-born youth to glorious arms.
Faction's repell'd, and grumbling leaves her prey;
Forlorn she sits, and dreads the fatal day
When castern gales shall sweep her hopes away.
Such ardent zeal your muse alone could raise,
Alone reward it with immortal praise.
Ages to come shall celebrate your fame,
And rescued Britain bless the poet's name.
So when the dreaded pow'rs of Sparta fail'd,
Tyrtaeus and Atheman wit prevail'd.
Too weak the laws by wise Lycurgus made,
And rules severe without the Muses' aid:
He touch'd the trembling strings, the poet's song
Reviv'd the faint, and made the feeble strong;
Recall'd the living to the dusty plain,
And to a better life restor'd the slain.
The victor-host amaz'd, with horror view'd
The' assembling troops, and all the war renew'd;
To more than mortal courage quit the field,
And to their foes the' unfinish'd trophies yield.