00 long bath Love ingrofs'd Britannia's flage,
And funk to foftness all our tragic rage;
By that alone did empires fall or rife,
And fate depended on a fair one's eyes ;
The fweet 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 justly melt the mind,
And tears flow nobly, shed for all mankind.
How do our fouls with gen'rous pleasure glow!
Our bearts exulting, while our eyes o'erflow,
When thy firm Hero ftands beneath the weight
Of all his fufferings venerably great ;
Rome's poor remains fill shelt’ring by his fide,
With confcious virtue, and becoming pride.
The aged Oak thus rears his head in air,
His fap exhaufted, and his branches bare;
'Midft florms and earthquakes he maintains his flate,
Fixt deep in earth, and faften'd by his weight.
His naked boughs ftill lend the shepherds aid,
And his old trunk projects an awful stade.
4 the joys triumphant peace beftows,
triots fadden at his glorious woes,
they let the world's great bus'ness wait,
for Rome, and figh for Cato's fate.
ught how ancient Heroes rofe to fame,
itons crowd, and catch the Roman flame.
Atates and fenates well might lend an ear,
ngs and Priefts without a blush appear.
nce boafts no more, but, fearful to engage,
Erft pays homage to her rival's flage,
to learn thee, and learning shall submit
to British arms, and British wit:
re fhe'll wonder, (forc'd to do us right)
hink like Romans, cou'd like Romans fight.
Oxford fmiles this glorious work to fee,
Fondly triumphs in a fon like thee.
nates, confuls, and the gods of Rome,
old acquaintance at their native home,
e we find: each deed, each word expreft,
every thought that fwell'd a Roman breast.
race each hint that could thy foul inspire
Virgil's judgment, and with Lucan's fire;
Enow thy worth, and, give us leave to boast,
noft admire, because we know thee moft.
WHEN your generous labour first I'view'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 fout command,
That even my grief to praise and wonder turn'd,
And envy'd the great death which first I mourn'd.
What pen but yours could draw the doubtful frife,
Of honour firuggling 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 fore.
Secure of endless blifs, with fearless eyes,
He grafps the dagger, and its point defies,
And rushes out of Life, to fnatch the glorious prize.
How would old Rome rejoice, to hear you
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 perife, or defend her cause.
firft on Albion's theatre we fee,
rfect image of what man should be ; glorious character is now expreft, wirtue dwelling in a human breaft.
wn at full length by your immortal Lines,
Cato's foul, as in her Heav'n fhe fhines.
t with the Printer by an unknown hand. OW we may speak, fince Cato speaks no more ; 'Tis praife at length, 'twas rapture all before's
=n crowded theatres with Iös rung
to the skies, from whence thy genius fprung:
n civil rage awhile in thine was loft;
factions ftrove but to applaud thee most:
could enjoyment pall our longing tafle;
every night was dearer than the last.
Es when old Rome in a malignant hour
iv'd of fome returning conqueror,
debt of triumph to the dead difcharg'd,
fame, for treasure, and her bounds enlarg'd:
while his god-like figure mov'd along,
=rnate paffions fir'd th' adoring throng;
rs flow'd from every eye, and shouts from every
n thy pompous line has Cato far'd,
c'd with an ample, tho' a late reward:
-reater victor we in him revere;
obler triumph crowns his image bereits
With wonder, as with pleasure, we furvey
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 ftupendous beight!
How chafte the conduct, bow divine the rage!
4 Roman Worthy on a Grecian ftage!
But where fhall Cato's praise begin or end 3
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 lifining 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 so greatly scorns.
But when be frikes (to crown bis generous part)
That boneft, ftanch, impracticable heart;
No tears, no fobs purfue his parting breath;
The dying Roman shames the pomp of death:
O facred Freedom, which the powers beflow To feafon bleffings, and to foften woe ;
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