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00 long hath Love ingrofs'd Britannia's flage,

And funk to foftness all our tragic rage ;
By that alone did empires fall or rise,
And fate depended on a fair one's cyes ;
The fweet infection, mixt with dangerous art,
Debas'd our manhood, while it footh'd the heart.
You scorn to raise a grief thyself muft blame,
Nor from our weakness sleal a vulgar fame :
A Patriot's fall may juftly melt the mind,
And tears flow nobly, Heed for all mankind.

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How do our souls with gen'rous pleafure glow!
Our hearts exulting, while our eyes o'er flow,
When thy firm Hero flands beneath the weight
Of all his sufferings venerably great ;
Rome's poor remains fill feltring by his fide,
With conscious virtue, and becoming pride.

The aged Cak thus rears his head in air,
His fap exhausted, and bis branches bare ;
'MidA forms and earthquakes he maintains bis fate,
Fixt deep in earth, and faflen'd by his weight.
His naked boughs fill lend the shepherds aid,
And his old trunk projects an awful fiade,

Amid the joys triumphant peace bestows,
Our Patriots sadden at his glorious woes,
Awhile they let the world's great bus'ness wait,
Anxious for Rome, and high for Cato's fate.
Here taught how ancient Heroes rose to fame,
Our Britons crowd, and catch the Roman flame.
Where flates and fenates well might lend an ear,
And Kings and Priests without a blush appear.

France boasts no more, but, fearful to engage,
Now first pays homage to her rival's flage,
Haftes to learn thee, and learning shall submit
Alike to British arms, and British wit:
No more

he'll wonder, (forc'd to do us right)
Who think like Romans, cou'd like Romans fight.

Tby Oxford smiles this glorious work to foe,
And fondly triumphs in a fon like thee.
The senates, confuls, and the gods of Rome,
Like old acquaintance at their native home,
In thee we find: each deed, each word expresi,
And every thought that swell'd a Roman breaf.
We trace each hint that could thy soul inspire
With Virgil's judgment, and with Lucan's fire;
We know thy worth, and, give us leave to loafta
We most admire, because we know thee, moji.

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HE N your generous labour forf I view'd,

And Cato's hands in his own blood imbru'd;
That scene of death fo 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 foul command,
That even my grief to praise and wonder turn'd,
And puy'd the great death which forft I mourn'd.

What pen but yours could draw the doubtful Arife,
Of honour Aruggling with the love of life?
Describe the Patriot, obflinately good,
As hovering o'er eternity be ftood:
The wide, th' unbounded ocean lay before
His piercing fight, and Heav'n the distant fore.
Secure of endless bliss, with fearless eyes,
He grasps the dagger, and its point defies,
And russes out of Life, to snatch the glorious prize.
How would old Rome rejoice, to bear you

How just her Patriot liv'd, how great be fell!
Recount bis 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 ruin and in love with death.
And when her conquering sword Britannia draws,
Resolves to perish, or defend her cause,




Now firft on Albion's theatre we fee,
A perfect image of what man should be ;
The glorious chara&ter is now expreff,
of virtue dwelling in a buman breast.
Drawn at full length by your immortal Lines,
In Cato's foul, as in her Heav'n fhe shines.
All Souls College,


books Left with the Printer by an unknown hand,

OW we may speak, fince Cato speaks no more ;

'Tis praise at length, tras rapture all before;
When crowded theatres with lös rung
Sent to the skies, from whence tby genius fprung:
Even civil


awhile in thine was loft ;
And fations Prove but to applaud thee moft:
Nor could enjoyment pall our longing tafte ;
But every night was dearer than the last.

As when old Rome in a malignant hour
Depriv'd of forme returning conqueror,
Her debt of triumph to the dead discharg’d,
For fame, for treasure, and her bounds enlarg‘d:
And, while his god-like figure mov'd along,
Alternate paffrons fir'd tho adoring throng ;

[tongue. Tears flow'd from every eye, and fhouts from every So in thy pompous line has Cato fard, Grac'd with an ample, tho' a late reward: A greater vietor we in him revere ; 4 nobler triumph crowns bis image herez

With wonder, as with pleasure, we furvey
2 theme so scanty wrought into a play;
So vas a pile on such foundations plac'd;
Like Ammon's temple reard on Libya's wafte:
Behold its glowing paint! its easy weight!
Its nice proportions! and Aupendous height !
How chaste the conduct, how divine the rage!

Roman Worthy on a Grecian flage!


But where all Cato's praise begin or end;
Inclin'd to melt, and yet untaught to bend,
The formeft Patriot, and the gentleft Friend!
How great his genius when the traiter crowd
Ready to frike the blow their fury vow'd;
Quelld by his look, and lifning to his lore,
Learn, like his passions, to rebel no more!
When, lavisle of his boiling blood, to prove
The cure of Navis life, and

slighted love,
Brave Marcus new in early death appears
While Cato counts bis wounds, and not his years;
Who, checking private grief, the public mourns,
Commands the pity be so greatly fcorns.
But when he firikes ( to crown his generous part)
That honeft, franch, impracticable b:art ;
No tears, no fobs pursue his parting breath;
The dying Roman Shames the pomp of death.

O sacred Freedom, which the powers beflow To seafor bleffings, and to soften wor ;


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