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

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And funk to foftness all our tragic rage ;

By that alone did empires fall or rise,

And fate depended on a fair one's eyes; ·
The feet infection, mixt with dangerous art,
Debas'd our manhood, while it footb'd the heart.
You fcorn to raise a grief thyself must blame,
Nor from our weakness fleal a vulgar fame:
A Patriot's fall may jufily melt the mind,
And tears flow nobly, fbed for all mankind.

How do our fouls with gen'rous pleafure glow!
Our hearts exulting, while our eyes o'erflow,
When thy firm Hero ftands beneath the weight
Of all his fufferings venerably great ;
Rome's poor remains still shelt'ring by his fide,
With confcious virtue, and becoming pride.

The aged Cak thus rears his head in air,
His fap exhaufted, and his branches bare;
'Midft forms and earthquakes he maintains his flate,
Fixt deep in earth, and faften'd by his weight.
His naked boughs fill lend the shepherds aid,
And his old trunk projects an awful flade.

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

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

Thy Oxford fmiles this glorious work to fee,
And fondly triumphs in a fon like thee.
The fenates, confuls, and the gods of Rome,
Like old acquaintance at their native home,
In thee we find each deed, each word expreft,
And every thought that fwell'd a Roman breast.
We trace each hint that could thy foul infpire
With Virgil's judgment, and with Lucan's fire;
We know thy worth, and, give us leave to boast,
We moft admire, because we know thee moft.

Queen's-College,

Oxon.

THO. TICKELL.

SIR,

W

HEN your generous labour firft Iview'd,

And Cato's hands in his own blood imbru'd ;
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 even my grief to praise and wonder turn'd,
And envy'd the great death which firft I mourn'd.

What pen but yours could draw the doubtful frife,
Of honour Aruggling with the love of life?
Defcribe the Patriot, obftinately good,

As hovering o'er eternity he flood:

The wide, th' unbounded ocean lay before
His piercing fight, and Heav'n the diftant shore.
Secure of endless blifs, with fearless eyes,

He grafps the dagger, and its point defies,
And rubes 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 ruin and in love with death.
And when her conquering fword Britannia draws,
Refolves to perish, or defend her caufe.

}

Now

New firft on Albion's theatre we fee,
A perfect image of what man should 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 Heav'n fhe fhines.

All Souls College,
Oxon.

DIGEY COTES.

Left with the Printer by an unknown hand, OW we may speak, fince Cato speaks no more ;

N

'Tis praise at length, 'twas rapture all before ; When crowded theatres with Iös rung

Sent to the fkies, from awbence thy genius Sprung :
Even civil rage awhile in thine was left ;
And factions firove but to applaud thee moftr
Nor could enjoyment pall our longing tafte;
But every night was dearer than the laft.

As when old Rome in a malignant hour
Depriv'd of fome returning conqueror,
Her debt of triumph to the dead difcharg'd,

For fame, for treafure, and her bounds enlarg'd:
And, while bis god-like figure mov'd along,

Alternate paffions fir'd th' adoring throng;

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Tears flow'd from every eye, and fhouts from every

So in thy pompous line has Cato far'd,

Grac'd with an ample, tho' a late reward :

A greater victor we in him revere ;

A nobler 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 wafte:
Behold its glowing paint! its eafy weight!
Its nice proportions! and fupendous height!
How chaffe the conduct, how divine the rage!
A Roman Worthy on a Grecian flage!

But where fhall Cato's praife begin or end;
Inclin'd to melt, and yet untaught to bend,
The firmeft Patriot, and the gentleft Friend!
How great his genius when the traitor crowd
Ready to frike the blow their fury vow'd;
Quell'd by his look, and liftning to his lore,
Learn, like his passions, to rebel no 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 scorns.
But when he frikes (to crown his generous part)
That honeft, ftanch, impracticable hɛart ;
No tears, no fobs purfue his parting breath;
The dying Roman fhames the pomp of death:

O facred Freedom, which the powers beftow To feafon bleffings, and to foften woe ;

Plant

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