ease

And native majesty, are form'd to please,
Behold those arts with a propitious eye,
That suppliant to their great protectress fly!
Then shall they triumph, and the British stage
Improve her manners, and refine her rage,
More noble characters expose to view,
And draw her finish'd heroines from you.

Nor you the kind indulgence will refuse,
Skill'd in the labours of the deathless Muse:
The deathless Muse, with undiminish'd rays,
Through distant times the lovely dame conveys:
To Gloriana Waller's harp was strung;

The queen still shines, because the poet sung.
Ev'n all those graces, in your frame combin'd,
The common fate of mortal charms may find
(Content our short-liv'd praises to engage,
The joy and wonder of a single age),
Unless some poet, in a lasting song,
To late posterity their fame prolong,
Instruct our sons the radiant form to prize,
And see your beauty with their fathers' eyes.

VERSES

TO THE AUTHOR OF THE TRAGEDY OF CATO.

WHILE you the fierce divided Britons awe,
And Cato with an equal virtue draw;
While envy is itself in wonder lost,

And factions strive who shall applaud you most;
Forgive the fond ambition of a friend,
Who hopes himself, not you, to recommend:
And joins th' applause which all the learn'd bestow
On one, to whom a perfect work they owe.
To my light scenes I once inscrib'd your name,
And impotently strove to borrow fame;
Soon will that die, which adds thy name to mine;
Let me, then, live, join'd to a work of thine.
Richard Steele.

'Tis nobly done thus to enrich the stage,
And raise the thoughts of a degenerate age;
To show how endless joys from freedom spring,
How life in bondage is a worthless thing.
The inborn greatness of your soul we view,
You tread the paths frequented by the few;
With so much strength you write, and so much
ease,

Virtue and sense! how durst you hope to please?
Yet crowds the sentiments of every line
Impartial clapt, and own'd the work divine.
Ev'n the sour critics, who malicious came
Eager to censure, and resolv'd to blame,
Finding the hero regularly rise,

Great while he lives, but greater when he dies,

Tender Husband, dedicated to Mr. Addison.

Sullen approv'd, too obstinate to melt,
And sicken'd with the pleasures which they feh.
Not so the fair their passions secret kept,
Silent they heard, but, as they heard, they wept;
When gloriously the blooming Marcus dy'd,
And Cato told the gods, "I'm satisfy'd."

See! how your lays the British youth inflame!
They long to shoot and ripen into fame;
Applauding theatres disturb their rest,
And unborn Catoes heave in every breast;
Their nightly dreams, their daily thoughts repeat,
And pulses high with fancy'd glories beat.
So, griev'd to view the Marathonian spoils,
The young Themistocles vow'd equal toils;
Did then his schemes of future honours draw
From the long triumphs which with tears he saw,
How shall I your unrival'd worth proclaim,
Lost in the spreading circle of your fame!
We saw you the great William's praise rehearse,
And paint Britannia's joys in Roman verse.
We heard at distance soft enchanting strains,
From blooming mountains, and Italian plains.
Virgil began in English dress to shine,
His voice, his looks, his grandeur, still divine:
From him too soon unfriendly you withdrew,
But brought the tuneful Ovid to our view.
Then the delightful theme of every tongue,
Th' immortal Marlborough, was your darling song,
From clime to clime the mighty victor flew,
From clime to clime as swiftly you pursue,
Still with the hero's glow'd the poet's flame,
Still with his conquests you enlarg'd your fame.
With boundless raptures bere the Muse could
swell,

And on your Rosamond for ever dwell:
There opening sweets and every fragrant flower
Luxuriant smile, a never-fading bower!
Next, human follies kindly to expose,

You change from numbers, but not sink in prose:
Whether in visionary scenes you play,
Refine our tastes, or laugh our crimes away.
Now, by the buskin'd Muse you shine confest,
The patriot kindles in the poet's breast.
Such energy of sense might pleasure raise,
Though unembellish'd with the charms of phrase:
Such charms of phrase would with success be
crown'd,

Though nonsense flow'd in the melodious sound.
The chastest virgin needs no blushes fear,
The learn'd themselves not uninstructed hear.
The libertine, in pleasures us'd to roll,
And idly sport with an immortal soul,
Here comes, and, by the virtuous heathen taught,
Turns pak, and trembles at the dreadful thought.
Whene'er you traverse vast Numidia's plains,
What sluggish Briton in his isle remains!
When Juba seeks the tiger with delight,
We beat the thicket, and provoke the fight;
By the description warm'd, we fondly sweat,
And in the chilling east wind pant with heat.
What eyes behold not, how the stream refines,
Till by degrees the floating mirror shines?
While hurricanes in circling eddies play,
Tear up the sands, and sweep whole plains away,
We shrink with horrour, and confess our mar,
And all the sudden sounding ruin hear.
When royal robes, distain'd with blood, deceive,
And make poor Marcia peautifully grieve,
When she her secret thoughts no more conceals,
Forgets the woman, and her flame reveals;

Well may the prince exult with noble pride,
Not for his Libyan crown, but Roman bride.
But I in vain on single features dwell,
Where all the parts of the fair piece excel.
So rich the store, so dubious is the feast,
We know not which to pass, or which to taste.
The shining incidents so justly fall,
We may the whole new scenes of transport call.
Thus jewelers confound our wandering eyes,
And with variety of gems surprise.
Here sapphires, here the Sardian stone is seen,
The topaz yellow, and the jasper green.
The costly brilliant there, confus'dly bright,
From numerous surfaces darts trembling light:
The different colours mingle in a blaze,
Silent we stand, unable where to praise,
In pleasure sweetly lost ten thousand ways.
Trinity College, Cambridge.

SIR,

L. Eusden.

WHEN your generous labour first I view'd,
And Cato's hands in his own blood imbrued,
That scene of death so terrible appears,
My soul could only thank you with her tears.
Yet with such wondrous art your skilful hand
Does all the passions of the soul command,
That ev'n my grief to praise and wonder turn'd,
And envy'd the great death which first I mound.
What pen, but yours, could draw the doubtful

strife

Of honour struggling with the love of life?
Describe the patriot, obstinately good,
As hovering o'er eternity he stood:
The wide, th' unbounded ocean lay before
His piercing sight, and Heaven the distant shore.
Secure of endless bliss, with fearful eyes
He grasps the dagger, and its point defies,
And rushes out of life to snatch the glorious prize.
How would old Rome rejoice, to hear you tell
How just her patriot liv'd, how great he fell!
Recount his wondrous probity and truth,
And form new Jubas in the British youth.
Their generous souls, when he resigns his breath,
Are pleas'd with ruin, and in love with death:
And when her conquering sword Britannia draws,
Resolve to perish, or defend her cause.
Now first on Albion's theatre we see
A perfect image of what man should be;
The glorious character is now exprest,
Of virtue dwelling in a hunan breast:
Drawn at full length by your immortal lines,
In Cato's soul, as in her Heaven she shines.
Alt Souls College, Oxon.

Digby Cotes.

Ev'n civil rage awhile in thine was lost,
And factions strove but to applaud thee most;
Nor could enjoyment pall our longing taste,
But every night was dearer than the last.

As when old Rome, in a malignant hour
Deprived of some returning conqueror,
Her debt of triumph to the dead discharg'd,
For fame, for treasure, and her bounds enlarg'd;
And while his godlike figure mov'd along,
Alternate passions fir'd th' adoring throng;
Tears flow'd from every eye, and shouts from every
tongue;

So in the pompous lines has Cato far'd,
Grac'd with an ample, though a late reward:
A greater victor we in him re⚫ ere;

A nobler triumph crowns his image here.
With wonder, as with pleasure, we survey
A theme so scanty wrought into a play;
So vast a pile on such foundations plac'd;
Like Ammon's temple rear'd on Libya's waste:
Behold its glowing paint! its easy weight!
Its nice proportions! and stupendous height!
How chaste the conduct! how divine the rage!
A Roman worthy, on a Grecian stage!

But where shall Cato's praise begin or end;
Inclin'd to melt, and yet untaught to bend,
The firmest patriot, and the gentlest friend?
How great his genius, when the traitor crowd
Ready to strike the blow their fury vow'd;
Quell'd by his look, and listening to his lore,
Learn, like his passions, to rebel no more!
When, lavish of his boiling blood, to prove
The cure of slavish life, and slighted love,
Brave Marcus new in carly death appears,
While Cato counts his wounds, and not his years;
Who, checking private grief, the public mourns,
Commands the pity he so greatly scorns;
But when he strikes (to crown his generous part)
That honest, staunch, impracticable heart;
No tears, no sobs, pursue his panting breath;
The dying Roman shames the pomp of death.

O sacred freedom! which the powers bestow To season blessings, and to soften woe; Plant of our growth, and aim of all our cares, The toil of ages, and the crown of wars: If, taught by thee, the poet's wit has flow'd In strains as precious as his hero's blood; Preserve those strains, an everlasting charm To keep that blood and thy remembrance warm: Be this thy guardian image still secure, In vain shail force invade, or fraud allure; Our great palladium shall perform its part, Fix'd and enshrin'd in every British heart.

UPON MR. ADDISON'S CATO.

KNOWN HAND'.

Now we may speak, since Cato speaks no more:
'Tis 'praise at length, 'twas rapture all before:
When crowded theatres with Io's rung
Sent to the skies, from whence thy genius sprung;

These verses were by George Jeffreys, esq. which Addison never knew. See Select Collection of Miscellany Poems, vol. vi. p. 59; and see Dr. Johnson's encomium on them in the life of Addison. N.

By modern operas quite lull'd asleep:
No matter what the lines, the voice was clear;
Thus sense was sacrific'd to please the ear.
At last, one wit' stood up in our defence,
And dar'd (O impudence!) to publish-sense.
Soon then as next the just tragedian spoke,
The ladies sigh'd again, the beaux awoke.
Those heads that us'd most indolent to move
To sing-song, ballet, and sonata love,

1 The Spectator.

Began their buried senses to explore,
And found they now had passions as before:
The power of nature in their bosoms felt,
In spite of prejudice compell'd to melt.

When Cato's firm, all hope of succour past,
Holding his stubborn virtue to the last,
I view, with joy and conscious transport fir'd,
The soul of Rome in one great man retir'd:
In him, as if she by confinement gain'd,
Her powers and energy are higher strain'd
Than when in crowds of senators she reign'd!
Cato well scomm'd the life that Cæsar gave,
When fear and weakness only bid him save:
But when a virtue like his own revives
The hero's constancy-with joy he lives.

Observe the justness of the poet's thoughts, Whose smallest excellence is want of faults: Without affected pomp and noise he warms; Without the gaudy dress of beauty charms. Love, the old subject of the buskin❜d muse, Returns, but such as Roman virgins use. A virtuous love, chastis'd by purest thought, Not from the fancy, but from nature wrought. Britons, with lessen'd wonder, now behold Your former wits, and all your bards of old; Jouson out-vy'd in his own way confess; And own that Shakspeare's self now pleases less. While Phoebus binds the laurel on his brow, Rise up, ye Muses; and, ye poets, bow: Superior worth with admiration greet, And place him nearest to his Phoebus' seat.

ON CATO:

OCCASIONED BY MR. ADDISON'S TRAGEDY OF THAT NAME.

By Mr. Copping.

His ancient Rome by party-factions rent,
Long since the generous Cato did lament;
Himself united with his country's cause,
Bravely refus'd to live 'midst dying laws.
Pleas'd with returning liberty to come,
With joy the hero rises from his tomb;
And in Britannia finds a second Rome.
Till by repeated rage, and civil fires,
Th' unhappy patriot again expires;
Weeps o'er her fate, and to the gods retires.

Those foes to verse you chase with manly arts,
And kindle Roman fires in British hearts.
Oh! fix, as well as raise, that noble flame:
Confirm your glory, and prevent our shame.
The routed opera may return again,

Seduce our hearts, and o'er our spirits reign:
Ev'n Cato is a doubtful match for all,
And right, opprest with odds, again may fall;
Let our just fears your second aid implore,
Repeat the stroke, this bydra springs no more.

VERSES SENT TO A LADY, WITH THE TRAGEDY OF CATO.

FROM STEELE'S COLLECTION.

IN vain, O heavenly maid, do I peruse
Th' instructive labours of the tragic Muse,
If Cato's virtue cannot cure my soul,
And all the jarring passions there control,
In vain--but ah! what arguments can prove
Sufficient to resist the force of love?

I burn like Marcus in th' impetuous fire;
Like him I languish with the fond desire;
Like him I groan beneath th' uneasy weight,
And ev'n, like him despairing, wish my fate.
Could you with Lucia's eyes behold my pain,
Then would you strive to soften your disdain:
My anxious griefs your tender breast would more,
And raise compassion, where they could not love.
But lo bright Marcia! see, relentless fair,
In Cato's daughter thy whole self appear.
In thee, alas! her lovely virtues shine,
Her charms, her heavenly beauties, all are thine;
And whilst in moving numbers is display'd
Juba's soft passion for the glorious maid,
Think you behold your lover prostrate lie,
In tenderest accents think you hear me sigh:
Then, then be kind-and on my sufferings smile,
As generous Marcia pitied Juba's toil.
Thou, in whom all the Roman virtues dwell,
Let not the Roman mercy thine excel;
Since love like that of Juba fills my breast,
Let me at length with equal joys be blest.

The verses of Dr. Young, Mr. Tickell, and Mr. Hughes, on this tragedy, are among the poems of their respective authors.

taste,

With show deluded, and with sound debas'd?
Hard was the task, and worthy of your rage,
You seem the great Alcides of the age:
How gloriously you rise in our defence!
Your cause is liberty; your armour, sense;
The brood of tuneful monsters you control,
Which sink the genius, and degrade the soul:

Sempronius, a senator

Juba, prince of Numidia

Syphax, general of the Numidiaus Portius

Marcus sons of Cato

Decius, ambassador from Cæsar

Mr. Booth.

Mr. Keen.

Mr. Mills.

Mr. Wilks.

Mr. Cibber.

Mr. Powel.

Mr. Ryan. Mr. Bowman,

MUTINEERS, GUARDS, ETC.

WOMEN.

Mrs. Oldfield, Mrs. Porter.

Marcia, daughter to Cato

Lucia, daughter to Lucius

PORTIUS.

Utica.

THE dawn is over-cast, the morning lowers,
And heavily in clouds brings on the day,
The great, th' important day, big with the fate
Of Cato and of Rome. Our father's death
Would fill up all the guilt of civil war,
And close the scene of blood. Already Cæsar
Has ravag'd more than half the globe, and sees
Mankind grown thin by his destructive sword:
Should he go further, numbers would be wanting,
To form new battles, and support his crimes.
Ye gods, what havoc does ambition make
Among your works!

MARCUS.

Thy steady temper, Portius,

Can look on guilt, rebellion, fraud, and Cæsar,
In the calm lights of mild philosophy;
I'm tortur'd, ev'n to madness, when I think
On the proud victor: every time he's nam'd
Pharsalia rises to my view-I see

Th' insulting tyrant prancing o'er the field

Lost and bewilder'd in the fruitless search; Nor sees with how much art the windings run, Nor where the regular confusion ends.

Thou see'st not that thy brother is thy rival; But I must hide it, for I know thy temper. [Aside. Now, Marcus, now, thy virtue's on the proof: Put forth thy utmost strength, work every nerve, And call up all thy father in thy soul:

To quell the tyrant love, aud guard thy heart On this weak side, where most our nature fails, Would be a conquest worthy Cato's son.

MARCUS.

Portius, the counsel which I cannot take, Instead of healing, but upbraids my weakness. Bid me for honour plunge into a war Of thickest foes, and rush on certain death, Then shalt thou see that Marcus is not slow To follow glory, and confess his father. Love is not to be reason'd down, or lost In high ambition, and a thirst of greatness; 'Tis second life, it grows into the soul,

slaughter,

His horse's hoofs wet with patrician blood.
Oh Portius, is there not some chosen curse,
Some hidden thunder in the stores of heaven,
Red with uncommon wrath, to blast the man
Who owes his greatness to his country's ruin?

PORTIUS.

Believe me, Marcus, 'tis an impious greatness, And mix'd with too much horrour to be envy'd: How does the lustre of our father's actions, Through the dark cloud of ills that cover him, Break out, and burn with more triumphant brightness! [him;

His sufferings shine, and spread a glory round
Greatly unfortunate, he fights the cause
Of honour, virtue, liberty, and Rome.
His sword ne'er fell but on the guilty head;
Oppression, tyranny, and power usurp'd,
Draw all the vengeance of his arm upon them.

MARCUS.

Who knows not this? But what can Cato do Against a world, a base degenerate world, That courts the yoke, and bows the neck to Cæsar? Pent up in Utica, he vainly forms A poor epitome of Roman greatness, And, cover'd with Numidian guards, directs A feeble army, and an empty senate, Remnants of mighty battles fought in vain. By Heavens, such virtues, join'd with such success, Distract iny very soul: our father's fortune Would almost tempt us to renounce his precepts.

VOL. IX.

I feel it here: my resolution melts→→→

PORTIUS.

Behold young Juba, the Numidian prince! With how much care he forms himself to glory, And breaks the fierceness of his native temper To copy out our father's bright example. He loves our sister Marcia, greatly loves her; His eyes, bis looks, his actions, all betray it: But still the smother'd fondness burns within him. When most it swells and labours for a vent, The sense of honour and desire of fame Drive the big passion back into his heart. What! shall an African, shall Juba's heir, Reproach great Cato's son, and show the world. A virtue wanting in a Roman soul?

MARCUS.

Portius, no more! your words leave stings behind them.

When e'er did Juba, or did Portius, show
A virtue that has cast me at a distance,
And thrown me out in the pursuits of honour?

PORTIUS.

Marcus, I know thy generous temper well; Fling but th' appearance of dishonour on it, It straight takes fire, and mounts into a blaze.

MARCUS.

A brother's sufferings claim a brother's pity.

PORTIUS.

Heaven knows I pity thee: behold my eyes

PP

My father has this morning call'd together To this poor hall bis little Roman senate (The leavings of Pharsalia), to consult If yet he can oppose the mighty torrent That bears down Rome, and all her gods, before it, Or must at length give up the world to Cæsar. SEMPRONIUS.

Not all the pomp and majesty of Rome Can raise her senate more than Cato's presence. His virtues render our assembly awful, They strike with something like religious fear, And make ev'n Cæsar tremble at the head Of armies flush'd with conquest. O my Portius, Could I but call that wondrous man my father, Would but thy sister Marcia be propitious To thy friend's vows; I might be bless'd indeed!

PORTIUS.

Alas! Sempronius, would'st thou talk of love To Marcia, whilst her father's life 's in danger? Thou might'st as well court the pale trembling vestal,

When she beholds the holy flame expiring.

SEMPRONIUS.

The more I see the wonders of thy race, The more I'm charm'd. Thou must take heed, my Portius!

The world has all its eyes on Cato's son.
Thy father's merit sets thee up to view,
And shows thee in the fairest point of light,
To make thy virtues or thy faults conspicuous.

PORTIUS.

Well dost thou seem to check my ling'ring here
On this important hour-I'll straight away;
And while the fathers of the senate meet

In close debate, to weigh th' events of war,
I'll animate the soldiers' drooping courage,
With love of freedom, and contempt of life.
I'll thunder in their ears their country's cause,
And try to rouse up all that's Roman in them.
'Tis not in mortals to command success,
But we'll do more, Sempronius; we'll deserve it.
[Exit.

SEMPRONIUS.

Curse on the stripling! How he apes his sire!
Ambitiously sententious!-But I wonder
Old Syphax comes not; his Numidian genius
Is well dispos'd to mischief, were he prompt
And eager on it; but he must be spurr'd,
And every moment quicken'd to the course.
Cato has us'd me ill: he has refus'd
His daughter Marcia to my ardent vows.
Besides, his baffled arms and ruin'd cause
Are bars to my ambition. Cæsar's favour,
That showers down greatness on his friends, will
raise me

To Rome's first honours. If I give up Cato,
I claim in my reward his captive daughter.
But Syphax comes!-

SCENE III.

SYPHAX, SEMPRONIUS.

SYPHAX.

-Sempronius, all is ready. I've sounded my Numidians, man by man, And find them ripe for a revolt: they all Complain aloud of Cato's discipline, And wait but the command to change their master. SEMPRONIUS.

Believe me, Syphax, there's no time to waste;
Ev'n whilst we speak, our conqueror comes on,
And gathers ground upon us every moment.
Alas! thou know'st not Cæsar's active soul,
With what a dreadful course he rushes on
From war to war: in vain has nature form'd
Mountains and oceans to oppose his passage;
He bounds o'er all, victorious in his march;
The Alps and Pyreneans sink before him;
Through winds, and waves, and storms, he works
his way,

Impatient for the battle: one day more
Will set the victor thundering at our gates.
But tell me, hast thou yet drawn-o'er young Juba?
That still would recommend thee more to Cæsar,
And challenge better terms-

SYPHAX.

-Alas! he's lost, He's lost, Sempronius; all his thoughts are full Of Cato's virtues-But I'll try once more (For every instant I expect him here) If yet I can subdue those stubborn principles Of faith, of honour, and I know not what, That have corrupted his Numidian temper, And struck th' infection into all his soul.

SEMPRONIUS.

Be sure to press upon him every motivę.