TO MR. ADDISON, OCCASIONED BY RETURN FROM HANOVER WITH LORD HALIFAX by THOMAS WARTON THE ELDER

O For a Muse of Fire and lofty Style,
To hail Thee welcome to thy native Soil!
Just Art is to my infant Muse unknown,
Let then the Subject for the Verse attone.

Int'rest, that fickle Weathercock of State,
As Party prompts extorts or Praise or Hate;
True, Sterling Merit Prejudice outweighs,
Unblemisht Worth claims universal Praise;
Your Favourite's just Encomium you may boast,
Since Factions strive who shall applaud you most.

Amaz'd we see your finisht Lines impart,
At once the Hero's and the Poet's Art:
How nervous ev'ry Line, and yet how sweet!
Th' harmonious Whole how ev'ry where compleat!
Tho' bold, correct and polisht is thy Song,
Sublime, yet easy; elegant, yet strong:
The beauteous Graces searcht all Nature round,
At length accomplisht @3Addison@1 they found;
There happy in a proper Mansion rest,
And make a Temple of his tuneful Breast.
Methinks I see great @3Philip@1's greater Son,
And hear him wish @3Achilles'@1 Fate his own;
With Envy he admires th' immortal Man,
And Emulation boils in ev'ry Vein;
Happy (says He) who such high Praise receiv'd,
And eterniz'd in sacred @3Homer@1 liv'd.

But happier @3Marlbrô,@1 when fierce Winters come,
And @3Anna@1 calls her conquering Hero home;
Finds here your Muse his matchless Acts rehearse,
While @3Danube@1 choakt with Dead o'erflows the mighty Verse;
He more than sees what you so warmly write,
And gladly thinks himself again in Fight;
Again his Sword, imperial Gift, unsheaths,
And dauntless all around distributes Deaths,
With secret Pleasure vanquishes again,
A second @3Blenheim@1 boasts, a more compleat Campaign.

Nor is great @3Addison@1 confin'd to War,
His copious Muse makes softer Themes his Care;
By Him describ'd our Bards distinguisht shine,
In Him alone their mingled Talents join.

When @3Ovid@1's moving Muse his Verse inspires,
Himself has what in @3Dryden@1 he admires;
In all so just, so easy too in all,
That Art and Nature mutually prevail:
Your Style, Souls, Thoughts, and Numbers so agree,
You're his Interpreter no more, but He.

How can we @3Maro@1's labouring Bees forget,
Each happy Word is as their Honey sweet!

Your Course unwearied you our @3Phæbus@1 run,
And Oh like Him retire, and leave us oft alone!
We mourn your Absence, when We read in You,
What All admire, what's follow'd but by Few,
And by None equal'd——but thy @3Montague!@1

With him @3Germania@1's wondering States you see,
The blest @3Achates@1 of his Embassy.
@3Hesperian@1 Fields have once enjoy'd you too,
That much to @3Virgil@1 owe, but more to You:
Thus @3Homer@1 travel'd, thus where-e'er he came,
Contending Cities ow'd to Him their Fame;
As you his Art, you may their Strife revive,
And for your Birth more than seven Cities strive.

O leave no more, great Man, thy native Land,
Thy @3Rhedycina@1's Tears her Son demand;
Oft I frequent the @3Cherwell@1's winding Stream,
Make That my @3Helicon,@1 and You my Theme.
How pleas'd I seek the solemn Shades alone,
And say, Here sung harmonious @3Addison:@1
Beneath this Oak in Summer-noons has stood,
Lay on this Bank attentive to the Flood.
As the fond Nymph soon finds by conscious Flame,
The wounded Tree that bears her Lover's Name,
So Bards by Instinct led, frequent this Scene,
Nor barely know, but feel where you have been.

Monarch of Poets! while such Bliss I boast,
My Muse is in tumultuous Rapture lost:
Transported with a Patriot-Poet's Worth,
But Language fails to give th'Ideas Birth.

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