From other ills, however Fortune frowned; 95 Some refuge in the Muse’s art I found: Reluctant now I touch the trembling string, Bereft of him who taught me how to sing; And these sad accents, murmured o’er his urn, Betray that absence they attempt to mourn. 100 Oh must I then (now fresh my bosom bleeds, And Craggs in death to Addison succeeds) The verse, begun to one lost friend, prolong, And weep a second in the unfinished song! These works divine, which, on his death-bed laid, 105 To thee, O Craggs, the expiring sage conveyed, Great, but ill-omened, monument of fame, Nor he survived to give, nor thou to claim. Swift after him thy social spirit flies, And close to his, how soon! thy coffin lies. 110 Blest pair! whose union future bards shall tell In future tongues: each other’s boast! farewell, Farewell! whom joined in fame, in friendship tried, No chance could sever, nor the grave divide. _Thomas Tickell._ CLXIII _ELEGY TO THE MEMORY OF AN UNFORTUNATE LADY._ What beckoning ghost, along the moonlight shade, Invites my steps, and points to yonder glade? ’Tis she!--but why that bleeding bosom gored, Why dimly gleams the visionary sword? Oh ever beauteous, ever friendly! tell, 5 Is it, in heaven, a crime to love too well? To bear too tender, or too firm a heart, To act a lovers, or a Roman’s part? Is there no bright reversion in the sky, For those who greatly think, or bravely die? 10 Why bade ye else, ye Powers! her soul aspire Above the vulgar flight of low desire? Ambition first sprung from your blest abodes: The glorious fault of angels and of gods: Thence to their images on earth it flows, 15 And in the breasts of kings and heroes glows. Most souls, ’tis true, but peep out once an age, Dull sullen prisoners in the body’s cage: Dim lights of life, that burn a length of years, Useless, unseen, as lamps in sepulchres; 20 Like eastern kings a lazy state they keep, And, close confined to their own palace, sleep. From these perhaps (ere nature bade her die) Fate snatched her early to the pitying sky. As into air the purer spirits flow, 25 And separate from their kindred dregs below; So flew the soul to its congenial place, Nor left one virtue to redeem her race. But thou, false guardian of a charge too good, Thou, mean deserter of thy brother’s blood! 30 See on these ruby lips the trembling breath, These cheeks now fading at the blast of death; Cold is that breast which warmed the world before, And those love-darting eyes must roll no more.