The different colours mingle in a blaze,
Silent we ftand, unable where to praise,
In pleasure sweetly loft ten thousand ways.

Trinity College, Cambridge.

L. EUSDEN.

SIR,

W

HEN your generous labour first I view'd, And Cato's hands in his own blood imbrued, That scene 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 ev'n 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 ftrife Of honour struggling with the love of life? Defcribe the patriot, obftinately good,

As hovering o'er eternity he stood :

The wide, th' unbounded ocean lay before
His piercing fight, and heaven the distant shore.
Secure of endless blifs, with fearful eyes,

He grafps the dagger, and its point defies,

And rushes out of life to snatch the glorious prize.
How would old Rome rejoice, to hear you tell
How juft her patriot liv'd, how great he fell!
Recount his wondrous probity and truth,
And form new Juba's in the British youth.
R

Their

Their generous fouls, when he resigns his breath,
Are pleas'd with ruin, and in love with death:
And when her conquering fword Britannia draws,
Refolves to perish, or defend her cause.
Now firft on Albion's theatre we fee
A perfect image of what man should be;
The glorious character is now exprest,
Of virtue dwelling in a human breast:
Drawn at full length by your immortal lines,
In Cato's foul, as in her heaven she shines.

All-Souls-College, Oxon.

DIGBY COTES.

LEFT

LEFT WITH THE PRINTER BY AN
UNKNOWN HAND.

Now

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

Sent to the skies, from whence thy genius fprung;
Ev'n civil rage a while in thine was loft,
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 such 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!

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

But where fhall Cato's praise begin or end;
Inclin'd to melt, and yet untaught to bend,
The firmeft patriot, and the gentlest friend?
How great his genius, when the traitor crowd
Ready to strike 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 fcorns;

But when he strikes (to crown his generous part)
That honeft, ftaunch, 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 foften 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 still secure,
In vain fhall force invade, or fraud allure;
Our great palladium fhall perform its part,
Fix'd and enfhrin'd in every British heart.

}

UPON

L

UPON MR. ADDISON'S CATO.

ONG had the Tragic Muse 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 please the ear.
At laft, One Wit ftood up in our defence,
And dar'd (O impudence!) to publifh-fenfe.
Soon then as next the juft tragedian spoke,
The ladies figh'd again, the beaux awoke.
Thofe heads that us'd moft 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 spite 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 weakness only bid him fave:
But when a virtue like his own revives
The hero's conftancy-with joy he lives.
Obferve the juftness of the poet's thoughts
Whose smallest excellence is want of faults:

}

With