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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 bas flow'd
In Arains as precious as his Hero's blood;
Preserve those frains, an everlasting charm
To keep that blood, and thy remembrance warm:
Be this thy guardian image Aill secure,
In vain jhall force invade, or fraud allure;
Our great Palladium fall perform its part,
Fix'd and inflərin'd in every British beart.


HE mind to virtue is by verfe fubdu'd;

And the true Poet is a public good,
This Britain feels, while, by your lines inspir'd,
Her free-born fons to glorious thoughts are fir’d.
In Rome had you espous’d the vanquish'd cause,
Inflam'd ber fenate, and upheld her laws;
Your many Scenes bad liberty restor ds. inn
And giv'n the just success to Cato's fword:
O'er Cæsar's arms your Genius bad prevaild;
And the Muse triumph’d, where the Patriot faild.




By Mr.P.OPE.
Spoken by Mr. WIL KS.

wake the foul by tender strokes of art, T.

To raise the genius, and to mend the beart,
To make mankind in conscious virtue bold,
Live o'er each feene, and be what they behold;
For this the Tragic Muse first trod the fage,
Commanding tears to Aream thro' every ago
Tyrants no more their favage nature kept,
And foes to virtue-wonderd how they wept.
Our author jauns by vulgar springs to move
The Hero's glory, or the Virgin's love ;
In pitying love we but our weakness flow,
And wild Ambition well deserves its wor.
Here tears shall flow from a more generous cause,
Such tears as Patriots feed for dying larus :
He bids your breasts with ancient ardor rife,
And calls forth Roman drops from British eyes.
Virtue confefi'd in human shape he draws,
What Plato thought, and God-like Cato was :
No common object to your fight displays,
But what with pleasure Heav'n itself surveys ;

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A brave man struggling in the forms of fate,
And greatly falling with a falling flate !
While Cato gives his little Senate laws,
What boom beats not in his country's cause ?
Who fees bim act, but envies every deed ?
Who hears him groan, and does not will to bleed?
Even when proud Cæsar 'midl triumphal cars,
The spoils of nations, and the pomp of Wars,
Ignobly vain, and impotently great,
Show'd Rome her Cato's figure drawn in ftate
As her dead father's reverend image pafi,
The pomp was darken d, and the day o'ercaft,
The triumph cealt tears guhd from every eye,
The world's great victor pass’d unheeded by ;
Her last good man dejected Rome ador’d,
And honour'd Cæsar's less than Cato's sword.

Britons attend: be worth like this approv'd,
And show you have the virtue to be mov'd.
With honeft fcorn the forf.fam'd Cato view'd
Rome learning arts from Greece, whom she fubdu'da
Our scene precariously subfifts too long
On French translation, and Italian song:
Dare to have sense yourselver; affert the stage,
Be juftly warm'd with your own native rage.
Such plays alone should please a British ear,
As Cato's self had not disdain'd to bear.

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SCENE a large Hall in the Governor's

Palace of Utica.


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HE dawn is over-caft, the morning lours,
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 Cæfar
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.


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