THOMAS TICKELL. THOMAS TICKELL, a poet of considerable ele ance, born at Bridekirk, near Carlisle, in 1686, as the son of a clergyman in the county of Cumerland. He was entered of Queen's College, Oxford, in 1701, and having taken the degree of 1. A. in 1708, was elected fellow of his college, rst obtaining from the crown a dispensation from e statute requiring him to be in orders. He then me to the metropolis, where he made himself 10wn to several persons distinguished in letters. Then the negotiations were carrying on which ought on the peace of Utrecht, he published a em entitled "The Prospect of Peace," which n through six editions. Addison, with whom he d ingratiated himself by an elegant poem on his era of Rosamond, speaks highly of "The Proect of Peace," in a paper of the Spectator, in which expresses himself as particularly pleased to find at the author had not amused himself with fables t of the Pagan theology. This commendation ickell amply repaid by his lines on Addison's to, which are superior to all others on that subt, with the exception of Pope's Prologue. Tickell, being attached to the succession of the ouse of Hanover, presented George I. with a poem titled "The Royal Progress ;" and more effecally served the cause by two pieces, one called An Imitation of the Prophecy of Nereus;" the her, "An Epistle from a Lady in England, to a Gentleman at Avignon." Both these are selected for the purpose of the present volume. He was about this time taken to Ireland, by Addison, who went over as secretary to Lord Sunderland. When Pope published the first volume of his translation of the Iliad, Tickell gave a translation of the first book of that poem, which was patronized by Addison, and occasioned a breach between those eminent men. Tickell's composition, however, will bear no poetical comparison with that of Pope, and accordingly he did not proceed with the task. On the death of Addison, he was entrusted with the charge of publishing his works, a distinction which he repaid by prefixing a life of that celebrated man, with an elegy on his death, of which Dr. John"That a more sublime or elegant funeral poem is not to be found in the whole compass of English literature." Another piece, which might be justly placed at the head of sober lyrics, is his "Ode to the Earl of Sunderland," on his installation as a knight of the Garter; which keeping within the limits of truth, consigns a favourite name to its real honours. son says, Or Leinster, fam'd for maidens fair, Oh! have you seen a lily pale, When beating rains descend? By Lucy warn'd, of flattering swains Three times, all in the dead of night, "I hear a voice, you cannot hear, I see a hand, you cannot see, "Ah, Colin! give not her thy vows, Vows due to me alone: Nor thou, fond maid, receive his kiss, "Then bear my corse, my comrades, bear, She spoke, she dy'd, her corse was borne, Then what were perjur'd Colin's thoughts? He shook, he groan'd, he fell. From the vain bride, ah, bride no more! The varying crimson fled, Oft at this grave, the constant hind TO THE EARL OF WARWICK, ON THE DEATH OF MR. ADDISON. Oh, gone for ever; take this long adieu; Oft let me range the gloomy aisles alone, In what new region, to the just assign'd, If business calls, or crowded courts invite, I meet his soul which breathes in Cato there; IF, dumb too long, the drooping Muse hath stay'd, Or, rous'd by Fancy, meets my waking eyes. And left her debt to Addison unpaid, Blame not her silence, Warwick, but bemoan, And judge, oh judge, my bosom by your own. What mourner ever felt poetic fires! Slow comes the verse that real woe inspires : Grief unaffected suits but ill with art, Or flowing numbers with a bleeding heart. Can I forget the dismal night that gave My soul's best part for ever to the grave! How silent did his old companions tread, By midnight lamps, the mansions of the dead, Through breathing statues, then unheeded things, Through rows of warriors, and through walks of kings! What awe did the slow solemn knell inspire; His shape o'ertakes me in the lonely grove; Thou Hill, whose brow the antique struct grace, How sweet the glooms beneath thy aged trees, From other hills, however Fortune frown'd; These works divine, which, on his death-bed laid, rafo thee, O Craggs, th' expiring sage convey'd, Great, but ill-omen'd, monument of fame, or he surviv'd to give, nor thou to claim. wift after him thy social spirit flies, And close to his, how soon! thy coffin lies. lest pair! whose union future bards shall tell future tongues: each other's boast! farewell, arewell! whom join'd in fame, in friendship try'd, no chance could sever, nor the grave divide. As Mar his round one morning took, (Whom some call earl, and some call duke,) And his new brethren of the blade, Shivering with fear and frost, survey'd, On Perth's bleak hills he chanc'd to spy An aged wizard six feet high, With bristled hair and visage blighted, Wall-ey'd, bare-haunch'd, and second-sighted. The grisly sage in thought profound Beheld the chief with back so round, Then roll'd his eye-balls to and fro O'er his paternal hills of snow, And into these tremendous speeches Broke forth the prophet without breeches. "Into what hills betray'd, by thee, This ancient kingdom do I see! Her realms unpeopled and forlorn! Vae's me! that ever thou wert born! Proud English loons (our clans o'ercome) On Scottish pads shall amble home; see them drest in bonnets blue The spoils of thy rebellious crew); see the target cast away, nd chequer'd plaid become their prey, The chequer'd plaid to make a gown or many a lass in London town. "In vain thy hungry mountaineers ome forth in all thy warlike geers, e shield, the pistol, durk, and dagger, which they daily wont to swagger, And oft have sally'd out to pillage "What boots thy high-born host of beggers, "In vain thy lads around thee bandy, "Douglas, who draws his lineage down He'll rout thy foot, though ne'er so many, "But see Argyll, with watchful eyes, Lodg'd in his deep intrenchments lies, Couch'd like a lion in thy way, He waits to spring upon his prey; "Is thus thy haughty promise paid Then down shall fall the king of Perth. ""Tis so decreed: for George shall reign, And traitors be forsworn in vain. Heaven shall for ever on him smile, And bless him still with an Argyll. While thou, pursued by vengeful foes, Condemn'd to barren rocks and snows, And hinder'd passing Inverlocky, Shall burn the clan, and curse poor Jocky." AN EPISTLE FROM A LADY IN ENGLAND TO A GENTLEMAN AT AVIGNON. To thee, dear rover, and thy vanquish'd friends, The health, she wants, thy gentle Chloe sends. Though much you suffer, think I suffer more, Worse than an exile on my native shore. Companions in your master's flight you roam, Unenvy'd by your haughty foes at home; For ever near the royal outlaw's side You share his fortunes, and his hopes divide, On glorious schemes, and thoughts of empire dwell, And with imaginary titles swell. Say, for thou know'st I own his sacred line, Ere to thy cause, and thee, my heart inclin'd, Slept all the morn, and punted half the night: Let not our James, though foil'd in arms, despair, Nor fears the hawker in her warbling note Meanwhile, regardless of the royal cause, Was it for this the Sun's whole lustre fail'd, And sudden midnight o'er the Moon prevail'd! For this did Heaven display to mortal eyes Aerial knights and combats in the skies! Was it for this Northumbrian streams look'd red' And Thames driv'n backward show'd his secret bec False auguries! th' insulting victor's scorn! Ev'n our own prodigies against us turn! O portents construed on our side in vain! Let never Tory trust eclipse again! Run clear, ye fountains! be at peace, ye skies And, Thames, henceforth to thy green borders re To Rome then must the royal wanderer go, And fall a suppliant at the papal toe? His life in sloth inglorious must he wear, One half in luxury, and one in prayer? His mind perhaps at length debauch'd with ease, The proffer'd purple and the hat may please. Shall he, whose ancient patriarchal race To mighty Nimrod in one line we trace, In solemn conclave sit, devoid of thought, And poll for points of faith his trusty vote Be summon'd to his stall in time of need, And with his casting suffrage fix a creed! Shall he in robes on stated days appear, And English heretics curse once a year! Garnet and Faux shall he with prayers invoke And beg that Smithfield piles once more may s Forbid it, Heaven! my soul, to fury wrought, Turns almost Hanoverian at the thought. From James and Rome I feel my heart dec And fear, O Brunswick, 'twill be wholly thine Yet still his share thy rival will contest, And still the double claim divides my breast. The fate of James with pitying eyes I view, And wish my homage were not Brunswick's dr To James my passion and my weakness guide, But reason sways me to the victor's side. hough griev'd I speak it, let the truth appear! ou know my language, and my heart, sincere. En vain did falsehood his fair fame disgrace: What force had falsehood when he show'd his face! a vain to war our boastful clans were led feaps driv'n on heaps, in the dire shock they fled : rance shuns his wrath, nor raises to our shame second Dunkirk in another name : Britain's funds their wealth all Europe throws, nd up the Thames the world's abundance flows: bite of feign'd fears and artificial cries, he pious town sees fifty churches rise: he hero triumphs as his worth is known, nd sits more firmly on his shaken throne. To my sad thought no beam of hope appears hrough the long prospect of succeeding years. he son, aspiring to his father's fame, ows all his sire: another and the same. (e, blest in lovely Carolina's arms, o future ages propagates her charms : ith pain and joy at strife, I often trace he mingled parents in each daughter's face; alf sickening at the sight, too well I spy he father's spirit through the mother's eye: 1 vain new thoughts of rage I entertain, nd strive to hate their innocence in vain. O princess! happy by thy foes confest! lest in thy husband! in thy children blest! s they from thee, from them new beauties born, hile Europe lasts, shall Europe's thrones adorn. ransplanted to each court, in times to come, by smile celestial and unfading bloom, reat Austria's sons with softer lines shall grace, nd smooth the frowns of Bourbon's haughty race. he fair descendants of thy sacred bed, Vid e-branching o'er the western world shall spread, ike the fam'd Banian tree, whose pliant shoot o earthward bending of itself takes root, ill, like their mother plant, ten thousand stand a verdant arches on the fertile land; eneath her shade the tawny Indians rove, r hunt, at large, through the wide echoing grove. O thou, to whom these mournful lines I send, ly promis'd husband, and my dearest friend; nce Heaven appoints this favour'd race to reign, nd blood has drench'd the Scottish fields in vain ; [ust I be wretched, and thy flight partake? r wilt not thou, for thy lov'd Chloe's sake, ir'd out at length, submit to fate's decree? f not to Brunswick, O return to me! 'rostrate before the victor's mercy bend: What spares whole thousands, may to thee extend. hould blinded friends thy doubtful conduct blame, Great Brunswick's virtue shall secure thy fame : jay these invite thee to approach his throne, And own the monarch Heaven vouchsafes to own: The world, convinc'd, thy reasons will approve; Say this to them; but swear to me 'twas love. AN ODE INSCRIBED TO THE EARL OF SUNDERLAND, AT WINDSOR. THOU Dome, where Edward first enroll'd His red-cross knights and barons bold, Whose vacant seats, by Virtue bought, Ambitious emperors have sought: Where Britain's foremost names are found, Once more a son of Spencer waits, These seats our sires, a hardy kind, To the fierce sons of war confin'd, The flower of chivalry, who drew With sinew'd arm the stubborn yew: Or with heav'd pole-ax clear'd the field; Or who, in justs and tourneys skill'd, Before their ladies' eyes renown'd, Threw horse and horseman to the ground. In after-times, as courts refin'd, Our patriots in the list were join'd. Not only Warwick stain'd with blood, Or Marlborough near the Danube's flood, Have in their crimson crosses glow'd; But, on just lawgivers bestow'd, These emblems Cecil did invest, And gleam'd on wise Godolphin's breast. So Greece, ere arts began to rise, Fix'd huge Orion in the skies, And stern Alcides, fam'd in wars, Bespangled with a thousand stars; Till letter'd Athens round the Pole Made gentler constellations roll; In the blue heavens the lyre she strung, And near the Maid the Balance * hung. Then, Spencer, mount amid the band, Where knights and kings promiscuous stand. What though the hero's flame repress'd Burns calmly in thy generous breast! Yet who more dauntless to oppose In doubtful days our home-bred foes! Who rais'd his country's wealth so high, Or view'd with less desiring eye! The sage, who, large of soul, surveys The globe, and all its empires weighs, Watchful the various climes to guide, Which seas, and tongues, and faiths, divide, A nobler name in Windsor's shrine Shall leave, if right the Muse divine, Than sprung of old, abhorr'd and vain, From ravag'd realms and myriads slain. Why praise we, prodigal of fame, The rage that sets the world on flame? My guiltless Muse his brow shall bind Whose godlike bounty spares mankind. For those, whom bloody garlands crown, The brass may breathe, the marble frown, To him through every rescued land, Ten thousand living trophies stand. * Names of constellations. |