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 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 firife,
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 Heaven the diftant fhore.
Secure of endless blifs, with fearless eyes,
He grafps the dagger, and its point defies,
And rubes out of Life, to fnatch the glorious prixe.
How would old Rome rejoice, to hear you tell
How just ber 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,
Refolues to perif, or defend her cause.
Now firft on Albion's theatre we fee,
A perfect image of what man fhould 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 Heaven she shines.
All Souls College,
Oxon.
Left with the Printer by an unknown hand.
OW we may speak, fince Cato fpeaks no more;
Tis praise at length, 'twas rapture all before; When crowded theatres with lös rung.
Sent to the skies, from whence thy genius fprung:
Even civil rage awhile in thine was loft;
And factions firove but to applaud thee moft:
Nor could enjoyment pall our longing taste;
But every night was dearer than the laft,
As when old Rome in a malignant bour
Depriv'd of fome returning conqueror,
Her debt of triumph to the dead difcharg'd,
For fame, for treasure, and her bounds enlarg'd:
And, while his god-like figure mov'd along,
Alternate paffions fir'd th' adoring throng; [tongue.
Tears flow'd from every eye, and shouts from every
So in thy pompous line has Cato far'd,
Grac'd with an ample, tho' late reward:
A greater victor we in him revere;
A nobler triumph crowns his image here.
With wonder, as with pleasure, we furwey
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 flupendous height!
How chafe the conduct, how divine the rage!
A Roman Worthy on a Grecian Stage!
But where fall 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 paffions, to rebel no more!
When, lavish of bis boiling blood, to prove
The cure of flavish life, and flighted love,
Brave Marcus new in early death appears
While Cato counts bis wounds, and not his years ‡
Who, checking private grief, the publick mourns,
Commands the pity he fo greatly scorns.
But when be ftrikes, (to crown his generous part)
That boneft, faunch, impracticable heart;
No tears, no fobs pursue his parting breath;
The dying Roman shames the pomp of death.
O facred Freedom, which the powers beftow To feafon bleffings, and to soften wae ;
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 has flow'd
In frains as precious as his Hero's blood;
Preferve thofe ftrains, an everlasting charm
To keep that blood, and thy remembrance warm:
Be this thy guardian image ftill secure,
In vain fball force invade, or fraud allure;
Our great Palladium shall perform its part,
Fix'd and enforin'd in every British heart.
HE mind to virtue is by werfe fubdu'd;
And the true Poet is a publick good.
This Britain feels, while, by your lines infpir'd,
Her free-born fons to glorious thoughts are fir'd.
In Rome had you espous'd the vanquish'd cause,
Inflam'd her fenate, and upheld her laws;
Your many fcenes had liberty reflor'd;
And giv'n the juft fuccefs to Cato's fword:
O'er Cæfar's arms your genius had prevail'd;
And the Mufe triumph'd, where the Patriot fail'd.
By Mr. POPE.
Spoken by Mr. WILKS.
O awake the foul by tender ftrokes of art,
To raife the genius, and to mend the heart,
To make mankind in conscious virtue bold,
Live o'er each scene, and be what they behold:
For this the Tragic Mufe firft trod the flage,
Commanding tears to fiream thro' every age;
Tyrants no more their favage nature kept,
And foes to virtue wonder'd how they wept.
Our author fhuns by vulgar springs to move
The Heroe's glory, or the Virgin's love;
In pitying love we but our weakness show,
And wild Ambition well deferves its woe.
Here tears fall flow from a more generous cause,
Such tears as Patriots fhed for dying laws:
He bids your breafts with ancient ardor rise,
And calls forth Roman drops from British eyes.
Virtue confefs'd in human shape he draws,
What Plato thought, and God-like Cato was:
No common object to your fight difplays,
But what with pleasure Heaven itself furveys;
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