t without a charm,
and in illustration of Parnell's gift the final lines of _A Night Piece
on Death_ shall be quoted:

'When men my scythe and darts supply,
How great a king of fears am I!
They view me like the last of things,
They make and then they draw my stings.
Fools! if you less provoked your fears,
No more my spectre form appears.
Death's but a path that must be trod,
If man would ever pass to God;
A port of calms, a state to ease
From the rough rage of swelling seas.
Why then thy flowing sable stoles,
Deep pendent cypress, mourning poles,
Loose scarfs to fall athwart thy weeds,
Long palls, drawn hearses, covered steeds,
And plumes of black that as they tread,
Nod o'er the scutcheons of the dead?
Nor can the parted body know,
Nor wants the soul these forms of woe;
As men who long in prison dwell,
With lamps that glimmer round the cell,
Whene'er their suffering years are run,
Spring forth to greet the glittering sun;
Such joy, though far transcending sense,
Have pious souls at parting hence.
On earth and in the body placed,
A few and evil years they waste;
But when their chains are cast aside,
See the glad scene unfolding wide,
Clap the glad wing, and tower away,
And mingle with the blaze of day.'

[Sidenote: Thomas Tickell (1686-1740).]

Tickell wished to be remembered as the friend of Addison, and with
Addison his name is indissolubly associated. The poem dedicated to the
essayist's memory is perhaps over-praised by Macaulay when he says that
it would do honour to the greatest name in our literature, but it proved
incontestibly that Tickell, as a poet, was superior to the master whom
he so loved and honoured. His reputation hangs upon this elegy, which
Fox pronounced perfect.[34] The _Prospect of Peace_, which passed
through several editions, had at one time a considerable reputation, not
assuredly for its poetry, but because it appealed to the spirit of the
time The style of the poem may be judged from these lines:--

'Accept, great Anne, the tears their memory draws,
Who nobly perished in their sovereign's cause;
For thou in pity bidd'st the war give o'er,
Mourn'st thy slain heroes, nor wilt venture more.
Vast price of blood on each victorious day!
(But Europe's freedom doth that price repay.)
Lamented triumphs! when one breath must tell
That