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Then fhall they triumph, and the British stage
Improve her manners, and refine her age,
More noble characters expofe to view,
And draw her finish'd heroines from you.

Nor you the kind indulgence will refufe,
Skill'd in the labcurs of the deathlefs muse:
The deathless mufe with undiminish'd rays,
Through diftant times the lovely dame conveys;
To Gloriana Waller's harp was frung;
The queen ftill fhines, because the poet fung.
Ev'n all thofe graces, in your frame combin'd,
The common fate of mortal charms may find
(Content our fhort-liv'd praifes to engage,
The joy and wonder of a fingle age),
Unless fome poet, in a lasting song,
To late pofterity their fame prolong,
Inftruct our fons the radiant form to prize,
And fee your beauty with their fathers' eyes.

VERSES

TO THE

AUTHOR OF THE TRAGEDY OF CATO.

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

And factions ftrive who fhall applaud you moft;
Forgive the fond ambition of a friend,
Who hopes himfelt, not you, to recommend ;
And joins th' applaufe which all the learn'd be-
ftow

On one, to whom a perfect work they owe.
To my light fcenes I once infcrib'd your name,
And impotently ftrove to borrow fame;
Soon will that die, which adds thy name to mine;
Let me, then, live, joiu'd to a work of thine.

RICHARD STEELE,

'Tis nobly done thus to enrich the ftage,
And raise the thoughts of a degenerate age;
To fhew how endless joys from freedom spring,
How life in bondage is a worthlefs thing.
The inborn greatnefs of your foul we view,
You tread the paths frequented by the few;
With fo much strength you write, and fo much
eafe,

Virtue and fenfe! how durft you hope to pleafe?
Yet crowds the fentiments of every line
Impartial clapt, and own'd the work divine,
Ev'n the four critics, who malicious came,.
Fager to. cenfure, and refolv'd to blame,
Finding the hero regularly rife,

Great while he lives, but greater when he dies,
Sullen approv'd, too obftinate to melt,
And ficken'd with the pleasures which they felt.
Not fo the fair their paffion fecret kept,
Silent they heard, but, as they heard, they wept;
Tender Husband, dedicated to Mr. Addifog.

When gloriously the blooming Marcus dy'd, And Cato told the gods. I'm fatisfy'd.

See! how your lays the British youth inflame! They long to fhoot and ripen into fame; Applauding theatres disturb their rest, And unborn Cato's heave in every breast; Their nightly dreams, their daily thoughts repeat, And pulfes high with fancied glories beat. So, griev'd to view the Marathonian fpoils, The young Themiftocles vow'd equal toils; Did then his fchemes of future honours draw From the long triumphs which with tears he faw.

How shall I your unrival'd worth proclaim,
Loft in the spreading circle of your fame!
We faw you the great William's praise rehearse,
And paint Britannia's joys in Roman verfe.
We heard at diftance foft enchanting ftrains,
From blooming mountains, and Italian plains.
Virgil began in English dress to fhine,
His voice, his looks, his grandeur, fli!l divine :
From him too foon unfriendly you withdrew,
But brought the tuneful Oxid to our view.
Then the delightful theme of every tongue,
Th' immortal Marlborough, was your darling
fong.

From clime to clime the mighty victor flew,
From clime to clime as fwiftly you purfue.
Still with the hero's glow'd the poet's flame,
Still with his conquefts you enlarg'd your fame.
With boundless raptures here the mufe could fwell
And on your Rofamond for ever dwell :
There opening fweets and every fragrant flower
Luxuriant fmile, a never-fading bower!
Next, human follies kindly to expose,
You change from numbers, but not fink in profe :
Whether in vifionary fcenes you play,
Refine our tastes, or laugh our crimes away.
Now, by the bufkin'd mufe you fhine confest,
The patriot kindles in the poet's breast.
Such energy of fenfe might pleasure raise,
Though unembellish'd with the charms of phrase =
Such charms of phrafe would with fuccefs bæ
crown'd,

Though nonfenfe flow'd in the melodious found.
The chafteft virgin needs no blushes fear,
The learn'd themfelves not uninftructed hear.
The libertine, in pleasures us'd to roll,
And idly fport with an immortal foul,
Here comes, and, by the virtuous heathen taught,
Turns pale, and trembles at the dreadful thought

Whene'er you traverse vaft Numidia's plains,
When Juba feeks the tiger with delight,
What fluggish Briton in his ifle remains!
We beat the thicket, and provoke the fight;
By the defcription warm'd, we fondly fweat,
And in the chilling eaft wind pant with heat.
What eyes behold not, how the ftream refines,
Till by degrees the floating mirror shines ?
While hurricanes in circling eddies-play,
Tear up the fands, and sweep whole plains away,
We fhrink with horror, and confefs our fear,
And all the fudden founding ruin hear.
When royal robes, diftain'd with blood, déceive,
And make poor Marcia beautifully grieve;

When the her fecret thoughts no more conceals,
Forgets the woman, and her flame reveals;
Well may the prince exul with noble pride,
Not for his Libyan crown, but Roman bride.
But I in vain on fingle features dwell,
Where all the parts of the fair piece excel.
So rich the store, so dubious is the feaft,
We know not which to pafs, or which to taste.
The fhining incidents fo juftly fall,

We may the whole new scenes of transport call.
Thus jewellers confound our wandering eyes,
And with variety of gems furprise.
Here fapphires, here the Sardian ftone is feen,
The topaz yellow, and the jafper green.
The coftly brilliant there, confus'dly bright,
From numerous furfaces darts trembling light;
The different colours mingle in a blaze,
Silent we ftand, unable where to praise,
In pleasure fweetly loft ten thousand ways.
Trinity College, Cambridge.

SIE,

L. EUSDEN.

WHEN your generous labour first I view'd,
And Cato's hands in his own blood imbrucd,
That fcene of death fo terrible appears,
My foul could only thank you with her tears.
Yet with fuch wondrous art your skilful hand
Does all the paffions of the foul command,
That ev'n my grief to praise and wonder turn'd,
And envy'd the great death which first I mourn'd.
What pen, but your's, could draw the doubtful
Arife

Of honour struggling with the love of life?
Describe the patriot, obftinately good,
As hovering o'er eternity he flood:
The wide, th' unbounded ocean lay before
His piercing fight, and heaven the distant fhore.
Secure of endless blifs, with fearful eyes,

He grafps the dagger, and its point defies, size.

And rushes out of life to fnatch 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 Juba's in the British youth.
Their generous fouls, when he refigns his breath,
Are pleas'd with rain, and in love with death :
And when her conquering fword Britannia draws,
Refolves to perish, or detend her cause.
Now first on Albion's theatre we fee
A perfect image of what man fhould be;
The glorious character is now expreft,
Of virtue dwelling in a human breaft:
Drawn at full length by your immortal lines,
In Cato's foul, as in her heaven the fhines.
All Souls College, Oxon.

DIGBY COTES.

When crowded theatres with lo's rang
Sent to the skics, from whence thy genius fprung;
Ev'n civil rage a while in thine was loft,
And factions ftrove but to applaud thee moft;
Ner could enjoyment pall our longing taste,
But every night was dearer than the last.

As when old Rome, in a malignant hour
Depriv'd of fome returning conqueror,
Her debt of triumph to the dead discharg'd,
For fame, for treafure, and her bounds enlarg'd;
And while his godlike figure mov'd along,
Alternate paffions 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 revere;

A cobler triumph crowns his image here.
With wonder, as with pleasure, we survey
A theme fo fcanty wrought into a play;
So vaft a pile on fuch foundations plac'd ;
Like Ammon's temple rear'd on Libya's waste :
Behold its glowing paint! its eafy weight!
Its rice proportions and ftupendous height!
How chafte the condu&: How divine the rage!
A Roman worthy, on a Grecian fiage!

But where fhall Cato's praife begin or end;
Inclin'd to melt, and yet untaught to bend,
The firment patriot, and the gentlest friend?
How great his genius, when the traitor crowd
Ready to ftrike the blow their fury vow'd;
Quell'd by his look, and listening to his lore,
Learn, like his paffions, to rebel ao more !
When, lavish of his boiling blood, to prove
The cure of flavish life, and flighted love,
Brave Marcus new in early death appears,
While Cato counts his wounds, and not his years;
Who, checking private grief, the public mourns,
Commands the pity he fo greatly forms;
But when he frikes (to crown bis generous part)
That honest, slaunch, impracticable heart;
No tears, no fobs, pursue his panting breath;
The dying Roman fhames the pomp of death.

O facred freedom! which the powers beftow To season bleffings, and to soften wee; 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 ftrains as precious as his hero's blood; Preferve those ftrains, an everlasting charm To keep that blood and thy remembrance warm; Be this thy guardian image ftill fecure, In vain fhall force invade, or fraud ailure; Our great Palladium shall perform its part, Fix'd and cathrin'd in every British heart.

LEFT WITH THE PRINTER BY AN UNKNOWN HAND'.

Now we may fpeak, fince Cato fpeaks no more 'Tis praife at length, 'twas rapture all before: * These verfcs were by George Jeffreys, Elq.

UPON MR. ADDISON'S CATO. LONG had the tragic mufe forgot to weep, By modern operas quite lull'd asleep : No matter what the lines, the voice was clear i Thus fenfe was facrific'd to please the car.

At laft, * one wit ftood up in our defence,
And dar'd (O impudence) to publish-sense.
Soon then as next the juft tragedian spoke,
The ladies figh'd again, the beaux awoke.
Those heads that 'us'd moft indolent to move
To fing-fong, ballad, and fonata love,
Began their buried fenfes to explore,
And found they now had paffions as before:
The power of nature in their bofoms felt,
In fpite of prejudice, compell'd to melt.

When Cato's firm, all hope of fuccour past,
Holding his ftubborn virtue to the last,
I view, with joy and confcious transport fir'd,
The foul of Rome in one great man retir'd:
In him, as if the by confinement gain'd,
Her powers and energy are higher train'd
Than when in crowds of fenators she reign'd!
Cato well fcorn'd the life that Cæfar gave,
When fear and weakness only bid him fave:
But when a virtue like his own revives
The bero's coztancy-with joy he lives.

Obferve the juftneis of the poet's thoughts, Whofe imallest excellence is want of faults: Without affected pomp and noife he warms; Without the gaudy drefs of beauty charms. Love, the old fubject of the bufia'd mufe, Returns, but fuch as Roman virgins use. A virtuous love, chaftis'd by purest thought, Not from the fancy, but from nature wrought. Britons, with leffen'd wonder, now behold Your former wits, and all your bards of old; Jenton out-vy'd in his own way confels; And own that Shakspeare's felf now pleafes lefs. While Phœbus binds the laurel on his brow, Rife up, ye mufes; and ye poets, bow : Superior worth with admiration greet, And place him nearest to his Phœbus' feat.

ON CAT O.

:

Occafioned by Mr. Aldijon's Tragedy of that name.

BT MR. COFFING.

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

TO MR. ADDISON, ON HIS CATO.

(FROM STEELE'S COLLECTION.)

Is Britain rescued from th' Italian chain, And the dear fong neglected for thy ftrain? • The Spectator.

Are ev'n the fair reclaim'¿? and dare they fit latent on virtue, and be pleas'd with wit? What mufe, but thine, could thus redeem our

taste,

With show deladed, and with found debas'd?
Hard was the task, and worthy of your rage,
You feem the great Alcides of the age:
How gloriously you ride in our defence:
Your caufe is liberty; your armour, fenfe;
The brod of tuneful monfters you control,
Which fink the genius, and degrade the foul:
Those fees to verfe you chace with manly arts,
And kindle Roman fires in Briti hearts.

Oh fix, as well as raife, that noble flame :
Confira. your glory, and prevent our shame.
The routed opera may return again,
Seduce our hearts, and o'er our fpirits reign:
Eva Cato is a doubtfal match for all,
And right, opprest with odds, again may fall;
Let our juft fears your fecond aid implore,
Repeat the stroke, this Hydra springs no more.

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

(FROM STRELE'S COLLECTION.)

In vain, O heavenly maid, do I perufe
Th' inftructive labours of the tragic mule,
If Cato's virtue cannot cure my foul,
And all the jarring paffions there control
In vain-but ab what arguments can prove
Sufficient to refst the furce of love?
I burn like Marcos in th' impetuous fire;
Like him I languish with the fond defire;
Like him I groan beneath the uncay weight,
And ev'n, like him defpairing, with my fate.
Could you with Lucia's eyes behold my pain,
Then would you ftrive to foften your difdzin :
My anxious griels your tender breaft would

move,

And raise compaffion, where they could not love,
But lo, bright Marcia! fee, relatiefs fair,
In Cato's daughter thy whole felf appear.
In thee, alas! her lovely virtues thine,

Her charms, her heavenly beauties, all are thine;
And whilft in moving numbers is difplay'd
Juba's foft pathon for the glorious maid,
Think you behold your lover proftrate lie,
In tendereft accents think you hear me figh:
Then, then be kind-and on my fufferings fmile,
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 filis 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 thoig refpeclive zathurs,

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See the Prologue and Epilogue to Cato among the Poems of Garth and Pope.

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Believe me, Marcus, 'tis an impious greatness, And mixt with too much horror to be envy'd: How does the luftre of our father's actions, Through the dark cloud of ills that cover him, Break out, and burn with more triumphant bright. nefs!

His fufferings fhine, and spread a glory round him;
Greatly unfortunate, he fights the cause
Of honour, virtue, liberty, and Rome.
His sword ne'er fell but on the guilty head;
Oppreffion, tyranny, and power ufurp'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 Cæfar? 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 lenate,
Remnants of mighty battles fought in vain.

By heavens, fuch virtues, join'd with fuch fuccefs,

Diflract my very foul: our father's fortune Would almoft tempt us to renounce his precepts.

Portius.

Remember what our father oft has told us:
The ways of heaven are dark and intricate;
Puzzled in mazes, and perplex'd with errors,
Our understanding traces them in vain,
Loft and bewilder'd in the fruitless fearch;
Nor fees with how much art the windings run,
Nor where the regular confufion ends.
Marcus.

These are fuggeftions of a mind at ease:
Oh Portius, didit thou taste but half the griefs
That wring my foul, thou could't not talk thus
coldly.

Paffion unpity'd and fuccefslefs love
Plant daggers in my heart, and aggravate
My other griefs. Were but my Lucia kind!--

Portius.

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To follow glory, and confefs his father.
Love is not to be reafon'd down, or loft
In high ambition, and a thirit of greatness;
'Tis fecond life, it grows into the foul,
Warms every vein, and bea's in every pulfe.
I feel it here: my refolution melts-
Partius.

Behold young Juba, the Numidian prince!
With how much care he forms himself to glory,
And breaks the fiercenefs of his nave to per
To copy out our father's bright exam.pic.
He loves our fifter Marcia, g'catly loves her;
His eyes, his looks his actions, all betray it :
But ftill the fmother'd fo dne burns within him.
When most it fwells and labours for a vent,
The fenfe of honour and d fire of fame
Drive the big paffion back into his heart.
What shall an African. fhall Juba's heir,
Reproach great Cato's fon, and fhew the world
A virtue wanting in a Roman foul

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Marcus.

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SCENE II.

Sempronius.

Confpiracies no fooner should be form'd Than executed. What means Portius here? I like not that cold youth. I must diffemble, And speak a language foreign to my heart.

Sempronius, Portius. Sempronius.

Good morrow, Portius! let us once embrace, Once more embrace; whilft yet we both are

free.

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