LEFT WITH THE PRINTER BY AN
UNKNOWN HAND.

Now

OW we may speak, fince Cato speaks no more: 'Tis praise at length, 'twas rapture all before; When crowded theatres with Io's rung

Sent to the fkies, from whence thy genius fprung;
Ev'n civil rage a while in thine was lost,
And factions ftrove but to applaud thee most ;
Nor could enjoyment pall our longing taste,
But every night was dearer than the last.

As when old Rome, in a malignant hour
Depriv'd of fome returning conqueror,
Her debt of triumph to the dead discharg'd,
For fame, for treasure, and her bounds enlarg'd;
And while his godlike figure mov'd along,
Alternate paffions fir'd th' adoring throng;
Tears flow'd from every eye, and shouts from every
tongue;

So in the pompous lines has Cato far'd,

Grac'd with an ample, though a late reward:
A greater victor we in him revere;

A nobler triumph crowns his image here.
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 waste :
Behold its glowing paint! its eafy weight!
Its nice proportions! and ftupendous height!
R 2

How

How chafte the conduct! How divine the rage!
A Roman worthy, on a Grecian stage !

But where shall Cato's praise begin or end;
Inclin'd to melt, and yet untaught to bend,
The firmest patriot, and the gentleft friend?
How great his genius, when the traitor crowd
Ready to ftrike the blow their fury vow'd;
Quell'd by his look, and listening to his lore,
Learn'd, like his paffions, 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 strikes (to crown his generous part)
That honest, staunch, impracticable heart;
No tears, no fobs, pursue his panting breath;
The dying Roman fhames the pomp of death.

O facred freedom! which the powers bestow
To feafon bleffings, and to soften woe;
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 ftrains 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 fecure,
In vain fhall force invade, or fraud allure;
Our great palladium shall perform its part,
Fix'd and enshrin'd in every British heart.

}

UPON

L

UPON MR. ADDISON'S CATO.

ONG had the Tragic Mufe forgot to weep,
By modern Operas quite lull'd asleep :

No matter what the lines, the voice was clear,

Thus fenfe was facrific'd to plcafe the ear.
At laft, One Wit ftood up in our defence,
And dar'd (0 impudence!) to publish-fense.
Soon then as next the juft tragedian spoke,
The ladies figh'd again, the beaux awoke.
Thofe heads that us'd most indolent to move
To fing-fong, ballad, and fonata love,
Began their buried fenfes to explore,

And found they now had paffions as before :
The power of nature in their bofoms felt,
In fpite of prejudice compell'd to melt.

When Cato's firm, all hope of fuccour past,
Holding his ftubborn virtue to the last,
I view, with joy and conscious transport fir'd,
The foul of Rome in one great man retir'd :
In him, as if the by confinement gain'd,
Her powers and energy are higher strain'd
Than when in crowds of fenators fhe reign'd!,
Cato well fcorn'd the life that Cæfar gave,
When fear and weaknefs only bid him fave:
But when a virtue like his own revives
The hero's conftancy-with joy he lives.

Obferve the juftnefs of the poet's thoughts
Whofe fmalleft excellence is want of faults:

Without affected pomp and noise he warms;
Without the gaudy dress of beauty charms.
Love, the old fubject of the buskin'd Muse,
Returns, but fuch as Roman virgins use.
A virtuous love, chaftis'd by pureft thought,
Not from the fancy, but from nature wrought.

Britons, with leffen'd wonder, now behold
Your former wits, and all your bards of old
Jonfon out-vy'd in his own way confess;
And own that Shakespeare's self now pleases lefs,
While Phoebus binds the laurel on his brow,
Rife up, ye Muses; and, ye Poets, bow:
Superior worth with admiration greet,
And place him nearest to his Phoebus' feat.

ON

O N

САТО:

OCCASIONED BY MR. ADDISON'S TRAGEDY

OF THAT NAME.

BY MR. COPPING.

HIS ancient Rome by party-factions rent,

Long fince the generous Cato did lament;
Himfelf united with his country's cause,
Bravely refus'd to live, 'midst dying laws.
Pleas'd with returning liberty to come,
With joy the hero rifes from his tomb;
And in Britannia finds a fecond Rome.
Till by repeated rage, and civil fires,
Th' unhappy patriot again expires;
Weeps o'er her fate, and to the gods retires.

}

}

The verfes of Dr. YOUNG, Mr. TICKELL,

and Mr. HUGHES, on this tragedy, are among the poems of their respective authors.

PRO