Could any circumstance be more severe to me, while I was executing these Last Commands of the Author, than to see the Person to whom his Works were presented, cut off in the flower of his age, and carried from the high Office wherein he had succeeded Mr. ADDISON, to be laid next him, in the same grave?  I might dwell upon such thoughts as naturally rise from these minute resemblances in the fortune of two persons, whose names probably will be seldom mentioned asunder while either our Language or Story subsist; were I not afraid of making this Preface too tedious:  especially since I shall want all the patience of the reader, for having enlarged it with the following verses.

To the EARL OF WARWICK

On the Death of MR. ADDISON.

      If dumb too long, the drooping muse hath stay’d
    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;
    The pealing organ, and the pausing choir;
    The duties by the lawn-rob’d prelate paid;
    And the last words, that dust to dust convey’d! 
    While speechless o’er thy closing grave we bend,
    Accept these tears, thou dear departed friend. 
    Oh gone for ever! take this long adieu;
    And sleep in peace, next thy lov’d Montague. 
    To strew fresh laurels, let the task be mine,
    A frequent pilgrim, at thy sacred shrine;
    Mine with true sighs thy absence to bemoan,
    And grave with faithful epitaphs thy stone. 
    If e’er from me thy lov’d memorial part,
    May shame afflict this alienated heart;
    Of thee forgetful if I form a song,
    My lyre be broken, and untun’d my tongue. 
    My grief be doubled from thy image free,
    And mirth a torment, unchastis’d by thee. 
      Oft let me range the gloomy aisles alone,
    Sad luxury! to vulgar minds unknown,
    Along the walls, where speaking marbles show
    What worthies form the hallow’d mould below;
    Proud names who once the reins of empire held;
    In arms who triumphed; or in arts excelled;
    Chiefs graced with scars and prodigal of blood;
    Stern patriots who for sacred freedom stood;
    Just men, by whom impartial laws were given;
    And saints who taught and led the way to heaven;
    Ne’er to these chambers,