TO THE TRAGEDY OF BRUTUS.
YE shades, where facred truth is fought;
Groves, where immortal fages taught;
Where heav'nly vifions Plato fir'd,
And Epicurus lay inspir'd!
In vain your guiltless laurels stood
Unfpotted long with human blood.
War, horrid war, your thoughtful walks invades,
And steel now glitters in the Mufes' fhades.
ANTISTROPHE I.
O heav'n-born Sifters! fource of art!
Who charm the fenfe, or mend the heart;
Who lead fair Virtue's tram along,
Moral Truth and myttic Song!
To what new clime, what diftant sky,
Fortaken, friendlefs, fhall ye fly?
Say, will ye blefs the bleak Atlantic fhore?
Or bid the furious Gaul be rude no more?
When Athens finks by fates unjust,
When wild Barbarians (purn her duft;
Perhaps ev'n Britain's utmost shore
Shall cafe to blush with strangers' gore:
See Arts her favage fons control,
And Athens rifing near the pole !
'Till fome new tyrant lifts his purple hand,
And civil madnefs tears them from the land.
ANTISTROPHE II.
Ye Gods! what justice rules the ball?
Freedom and arts together fall;
Fools grant whate'er Ambition craves,
And men, once ignorant, are flaves.
Oh curs'd effects of civil hate,
In ev'ry age, in ev'ry state!
hen the luft of tyrant pow'r fucceeds,
Some Athens perishes, fome Tully bleeds.
CHORUS OF YOUTHS AND VIRGINS.
OH tyrant Love! haft thou possest
The prudent, learn'd, and virtuous breast?
Wifdom and wit in vain reclaim,
And arts but foften us to feel thy flame.
Love, fort intruder, enters here,
But ent'ring learns to be fincere.
Marcus with biuthes owns he loves,
And Brutus tenderly reproves.
Why, Virtue, doft thou blame defire
Which Nature hath impreft?
Why, Nature, doft thou fooneft fire
The mild and gen'rous breast?
Love's purer flames the gods approve ;
The gods and Brutus bend to love:
Brutus for abfent Porcia fighs,
And fterner Caffius melts at Junia's eyes,
What is loofe love? a tranfient guft,
Spent in a fudden storm of luft,
A vapour fed from wild defire,
A wand'ring, felf-confuming fire.
But Hymen's kinder flames unite,
And burn for ever one;
Chafte as cold Cynthia's virgin light,
Productive as the fun.
Oh, fource of ev'ry focial tye,
United wish, and mutual joy!
What various joys on one attend,
As fon, as father, brother, husband, friend!
Whether his hoary fire he spies,
While thousand grateful thoughts arise;
Or meets his fpoufe's fonder eye,
Or views his fmiling progeny;
What tender paffions take their turns,
What home-felt raptures move!
His heart now melts, now leaps, now burns,
With rev'rence, hope, and love.
Hence guilty joys, diftaftes, furmises,
Hence falfe tears, deceits, difguifes,
Dangers, doubts, delays, furprises,
Fires that scorch, yet dare not shine.
Pureft love's unwafting treasure,
Conftant faith, fair hope, long leisure,
Days of eafe, and nights of pleasure;
Sacred Hymen! these are thine.
TO THE MEMORY OF
AN UNFORTUNATE LADY.
WHAT beck'ning ghoft along the moon-light shade
Invites my steps, and points to yonder glade?
'Tis the !---but why that bleeding bofom gor'd!
Why dimly gleams the vifionary fword?
Oh ever beauteous, ever friendly! tell,
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 reverfion in the sky
For thofe who greatly think, or bravely die?
Why bade ye elfe, ye Pow'rs, her foul afpire
Above the vulgar flight of low defire ?
Ambition first fprung from your blest abodes,
The glorious fault of angels and of gods:
Thence to their images on earth it flows,
And in the breasts of kings and heroes glows.
Moft fouls, 'tis true, but peep out once an age,
Dull fullen pris'ners in the body's cage:
Dim lights of life, that burn a length of years
Ufelefs, unfeen, as lamps in fepulchres;
Like eaftern kings a lazy ftate they keep,
And, clofe confin'd to their own palace, fleep.
From thefe, perhaps, (ere Nature bade her die,)
Fate fnatch'd her early to the pitying sky.
As into air the purer fpirits flow,
And fep'rate from their kindred dregs below;
So flew the foul to its congenial place,
Nor left one virtue to redeem her race.
But thou, falfe guardian of a charge too good,
Thou, mean deferter of thy brother's blood!
See on thefe ruby lips the trembling breath,
Thefe cheeks now fading at the blaft of death:
Cold is that breast which warm'd the world before,
And those love-darting eyes must roll no more.
Thus, if eternal Juftite rules the ball,
Thus fhall your wives, and thus your children fall:
On all the line a fudden vengeance waits,
And frequent herfes fhall befiege your gates;
There paffengers fhall ftand, and pointing fay,
(While the long fun'rals blacken all the way,)
Lo! these were they whose fouls 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 perish all, whose breast ne'er learn'd to glow
For others' good, or melt at others' woe.
What can atone, (oh ever injur'd shade!)
Thy fate unpity'd, and thy rites unpaid?
No friend's complaint, no kind domeftic tear,
Pleas'd thy pale ghoft, or grac'd thy mournful bier.
By foreign hands thy dying eyes were clos'd,
By foreign hands thy decent limbs compos'd,
By foreign hands thy humble grave adorn'd;
By ftrangers honour'd, and by strangers mourn'd!
What though no friends in fable weeds appear,
Grieve for an hour, perhaps, then mourn a year,
And bear about the mockery of woe
To midnight dances, and the public show?
What though no weeping Loves thy ashes grace,
Nor polifh'd marble emulate thy face?
What though no facred earth allow thee room,
Nor hallow'd dirge be mutter'd o'er thy tomb?
Yet fhall thy grave with rifing flow'rs be dress'd,
And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast:
There fhall the Morn her earliest tears beftow,
There the first roses of the year shall blow;
While angels with their filver wings o'ershade
The ground, now facred by thy relics made.
So peaceful refts, without a stone, a name,
What once had beauty, titles, wealth, and fame.
How lov'd, how honour'd once, avails thee not,
To whom related, or by whom begot;
A heap of duft alone remains of thee;
'Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall be !
VOL. I.
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