Page:The Poetical Works of Thomas Tickell (1781).djvu/123

From other ills however Fortune frown'd 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 murmur'd o'er his urn
Betray that absence they attempt to mourn. 100
O! 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 th' unfinish'd song! 104
These works divine which on his deathbed laid
To thee, O Craggs! th' expiring Sage convey'd,
Great but ill omen'd monument of fame,
Nor he surviv'd 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 join'd in fame, in friendship try'd,
No chance could sever nor the grave divide. 114

 

AN EPISTLE

From a Lady in England to a Gentleman at Avignon.

To thee, dear Rover! and thy vanguish'd friends,
The health she wants thy gentle Chloe sends:
Tho' much you suffer think I suffer more,
Worse than an exile on my native shore.