VERSES

To the AUTHOR of the

TRAGEDY of CATO.

HILE you the fierce divided Britons awe,

WH

And Cato with an equal virtue draw,
While envy is itself in wonder loft,

And factions ftrive who shall applaud you most;
Forgive the fond ambition of a friend,
Who hopes himself, not you, to recommend,
And join th' applause which all the learn'd bestow
On one, to whom a perfect work they owe.
To my * light scenes I once infcrib'd your name,
And impotently strove to borrow fame:

Soon will that die, which adds thy name to mine;
Let me, then, live, join'd to a work of thine.

Tender Hufband, dedi

cated to Mr. Addison.

VOL. II.

E

RICHARD STEELE.

THOUGH

ΤΗ

HOUGH Cato fhines in Virgil's epic fong, Prescribing laws among th' Elyfian throng; Though Lucan's verfe, exalted by his name, O'er Gods themselves has rais'd the hero's fame; The Roman ftage did ne'er his image fee, Drawn at full length; a task reserv'd for thee. By thee we view the finifh'd figure rife, And awful march before our ravish'd eyes; We hear his voice, afferting virtue's caufe; His fate renew'd our deep attention draws, Excites by turns our various hopes and fears, And all the patriot in thy scene appears.

On Tiber's banks thy thought was firft infpir'd, 'Twas there, to fome indulgent grove retir'd, Rome's ancient fortunes rolling in thy mind, Thy happy mufe this manly work defign'd: Or in a dream thou faw'it Rome's genius ftand, And, leading Cato in his facred hand, Point out th' immortal fubject of thy lays, And ask this labour to record his praise.

'Tis done the hero lives, and charms our age! While nobler morals grace the British stage! Great Shakespear's ghoft, the folemn strain to hear, (Methinks I fee the laurell'd fhade appear!) Will hover o'er the scene, and wond'ring view His fav'rite Brutus rival'd thus by you. Such Roman greatnefs in each action fhines, Such Roman eloquence adorns your lines, That fure the Sibyls books this year foretold, And in fome myftic leaf was feen inroll'd,

• Rome,

Rome, turn thy mournful eyes from Afric's fhore, Nor in her fands thy Cato's tomb explore! * When thrice fix hundred times the circling fun 'His annual race fhall thro' the zodiac run, 'An ifle remote his monument shall rear, 'And ev'ry gen'rous Briton pay a tear.

WHA

J. HUGHES.

HAT do we fee! is Cato then become
A greater name in Britain than in Rome?
Does mankind now admire his virtues more,
Though Lucan, Horace, Virgil wrote before?
How will pofterity this truth explain?
"Cato begins to live in Anna's reign:

The world's great chiefs, in council or in arms,
Rife in your lines with more exalted charms;
İlluftrious deeds in diftant nations wrought,
And virtues by departed heroes taught,

Raife in your foul a pure

immortal flame,

Adorn your life, and confecrate your fame;
To your renown all ages you fubdue,
And Cæfar fought, and Cato bled for you.

All-Souls college,

Oxon.

EDWARD YOUNG,

E 2

'TIS

IS nobly done thus to enrich the stage,

And raise the thoughts of a degenerate age, To fhow, how endless joys from freedom spring: How life in bondage is a worthlefs thing.

The inborn greatness of your foul we view,
You tread the paths frequented by the few.

With so much strength you write, and so much ease,
Virtue, and fenfe! how durft you hope to please?
Yet crowds the fentiments of every line
Impartial clap'd, and own'd the work divine.
Even the four critics, who malicious came,
Eager 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 paffions fecret kept,
Silent they heard, but as they heard, they wept,
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 fancy'd glories beat.
So, griev'd to view the Marathonian spoils,
The young Themistocles vow'd equal toils;

Dil