In arme more active than ev'n war requir'd, And in the midst of mighty chiefs admir'd. Of all Heaven's gifts, no temper is fo rare, As to much courage mix'd with fo much care. When martial fire makes all the fpirits boil, And forces youth to military toil; No wonder it fhould fiercely then engage: Women themselves will venture in a rage : But in the midst of all that furious heat, While fo intent on actions brave and great, For other lives to feel fuch tender fears, And, careless of his own, to care for theirs, Is that compofure which a hero makes, And which illuftrious York alone partakes, .

While others vainly ftrive to know thee more, Let me in filent reverence adore; Wishing that human power were higher rais'd,

Who taught him firft the noble art of war.

Oh, wondrous pair! whom equal virtues crown,

Oh worthy of each other's vaft renown!

None but Turenne with York could glory fhare,
And none but York deferve fo great a mafter's care.
Scarce was he come to blefs his native ifle,
And reap the foft reward of glorious toil,
But, like Alcides, ftil new dangers call
His courage forth, and still he vanquish'd all.
At fea, that bloody fcene of boundless rage,
Where floating caftles in fierce flames engage
(Where Mars himself does frowningly command,
And by lieutenants only fights at land);
For his own fame howe'er he fought before,
For England's honour yet he ventur'd more.

In those black times, when, faction raging high,
Valour and Innocence were forc'd to fly,
With York they fled; but not depreft his mind,
Still, like a diamond in the duft, it shin'd. .
When from afar his drooping friends beheld
How in diftrefs he ev'n himfelf excell'd;
How to his envious fate, his country's frown,
His brother's will, he facrific'd his own;
They rais'd their hearts, and never doubted more
But that Heaven would all our joys reftore.
So w black clonds furround heaven's glori-
ous face,

Tempeftuous darkness covering all the place,
If we difcern but the least glimmering ray
Of that bright orb of fire which rules the day,
The cheerful fight our fainting courage warms :
Fix'd upon that we fear no future harms.

ON THE DEITY.

WAETCHED mankind! void of both ftrength and
Dextrous at nothing but at doing ill! [fkill!
In merit humble, in pretenfions high,
Among them none, alas! more weak than I,
And none more blind though ftill I worthlefs
thought

The belt 1 ever spoke, or ever wrote.

But zealous heat exalts the humblest mind; Within my foul fuch ftrong impulfe 1 find The heavenly tribute of due praife to pay: Perhaps 'tis facred, and I must obey.

* The Mɩrcschal de Turenne, VOL. VII.

Thrice happy angels in their high degree, Created worthy of extolling thee!

PROLOGU E

TO THE

ALTERATION OF JULIUS CÆSAR.

HOPE to mend Shakspeare! or to match his style!
'Tis fuch a jeft would make a Stoic fmile.
Too fond of fame, our poet foars too high,
Yet freely owns he wants the wings to fly!
So fenfible of his prefumptuous thought,
That he confeffes while he does the fault:

This to the fair will no great wonder prove,
Who oft in blushes yield to what they love.

Of greatest actions, and of noblest men,
This ftory most deferves a poet's pen:
For who can with a fcene more justly fam'd,
When Rome and mighty Julius are but nam'd
That fate of heroes who the world had brav'd!
That wondrous man who fuch a ftate enflav'd!
Yet leth he was to take fo rough a way,
And after govern'd with fo mild a sway..
At diftance now of feventeen hundred years,
Methinks a lovely ravifher appears;
Whom, though forbid by virtue to excuse,
A nymph might pardon and could scarce refufe.

[now.

'Tis hard, a man fo great fhould fall fo low;
More hard to let fo brave a people bow,
To one themselves have rais'd, who fcorns them

Yet oh! I grieve that Brutus fhould be ftain'd,
Whose life, excepting this one act, remain'd
So pure, that future times will think it feign'd.

But only he can make the reft combine;
The very life and foul of their defign,
The centre, where those mighty spirits join.

Unthinking men no fort of fcruple make;
Others do ill, only for mifchicf's fake;
But even the best are guilty by mistake.

Thus fome for envy, or revenge, intend
To bring the bold usurper to his end;
But for his country Brutus ftabs his friend.

Oh! who can therefore without tears attend
On fuch a life, and fuch a fatal end?

But here our author, befides other faults
Of ill expreffions, and of vulgar thoughts,
Commits one crime that needs an act of grace,
And breaks the law of unity of place:
Yet to fuch noble patriots, overcome
By factious violence, and banish'd Rome,
Athens alone a fit retreat could yield;

And where can Brutus fall, but in Philippi field?
Some critics judge ev'n love itself too mean
A care to mix in fuch a lofty scene,

And with those ancient bards of Greece believe
Friendship has stronger charms to please or grieve;
But our more amorous poet, finding love
Amidst all other cares, ftill fhines above,
Lets not the best of Romans end their lives
Without juft foftnefs for the kindeft wives.
Yet, if ye think his gentle nature such
As to have foften'd this great tale too much,
Soon will your eyes grow dry, and paffion fall,
When ye reflect 'tis all but conjugal.

This to the few and knowing was addrest;
And now 'tis fit I fhould falute the rest.

Most reverend dull judges of the pit,
By nature curs'd with the wrong fide of wit!
You need not care, whate'er you see to-night,
How ill fome players act, or poets write;
Should our mistakes be never so notorious,
You'll have the joy of being more cenforious:
Show your
fmall talent then, let that fuffice ye;
But grow not vain upon it, I advise ye :
Each petty critic can objections raise,
The greatest skill is knowing when to praise.

CHORUSES IN MARCUS BRUTUS.

↑ CHORUS III.

I.

DARK is the maze poor moftals tread;
Wisdom itself a guide will need:
We little thought, when Cæfar bled,
That a worfe Cæfar would fucceed.
And are we under fuch a curse,
We cannot change but for the worse ?

II.

With fair pretence of foreign force,

By which Rome must herself enthral; Thefe, without blushes or remorse, Profcribe the beft, impoverish all.

+ See the first and fecond shoruses, in the Poems of Mr. Pope.