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TO THE TRAGEDY OF BRUTUS.
CHORUS OF ATHENIANS.
YE shades, where sacred truth is fought;
Groves, where immortal sages taught;
Unspotted long with human blood.
Forsaken, friendlcis, tholl ye fly?
When Athens finks by fates unjust,
And Athens rising near the pole!
Ye Gods! what justice rules the ball ?
In ev'ry age, in ev'ry ftate!
CHORUS OF YOUTHS AND VIRGINS.
OH tyrant Love! haft thou possest
The prudent, learn'd, and virtuous breast?
Which Nature hath imprest?
The mild and gen'rous breast?
Brutus for absent Porcia fighs,
What is loose love? a transient gust,
And burn for ever one
Productive as the sun.
Oh, source of ev'ry social tye,
What various joys on one attend,
Whether his hoary fire he spies,
What home-felt raptures move!
With rev'rence, hope, and love.
Hence guilty joys, diftastes, furmises,
Fires that scorch, yet dare not shine.
Sacred Hymen! these are thine.
TO THE MEMORY OF
AN UNFORTUNATE LADY.
WHAT beck’ning ghoft along the moonlight shade
Invites my steps, and points to yonder glade ? 'Tis the !---but why that bleeding botom gord! Why dimly gleams the visionary sword ? Oh ever beauteous, ever friendly! tell,
5 Is it, in heav'n, a crime to love too well? To bear too tender or too firm a heart, To act a lover's or a Roman's part ? Is there no bright reversion in the sky For those who greatly think, or bravely die ?
Why bade ye elle, ye Pow'rs, her soul aspire Above the vulgar flight of low desire ? Ambition first Iprung from your blest abodes, The glorious fault of angels and of gods : Thence to their images on earth it flows,
From there, perhaps, (ere Nature bade her die,)
But thou, falfe guardian of a charge too good,
Thus, if eternal Justite rules the ball,
• 35 Thus shall your wives, and thus your children fall: On all the line a sudden vengeance waits, And frequent herses Mhall besiege your gates; There passengers shall stand, and pointing say, (While the long fun’rals blacken all the way,) Lo! these were they whose souls the Furies steel'd, And curs’d with hearts unknowing how to yield. Thus unlamented pass the proud away, The gaze of fools, and pageant of a day! So perith all, whose breast ne’er learn’d to glow 45 For others' good, or melt at others' woe.
What can atone, (oh ever injur'd fhade !) Thy fatę unpity'd, and thy rites unpaid ? No friend's complaint, no kind domestic tear, Pleas'd thy pale ghost, or grac'd thy mournful bier. By foreign hands thy dying eyes were clos’d, 51 By foreign hands thy decent limbs compos'd, By foreign hands thy humble grave adorn'd; By strangers honour'd, and by strangers mourn'd! What though no friends in sable weeds appear,
Yet shall thy grave with rising flow'rs be dress’d,
So peaceful rests, without a stone, a name,