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That charm'd me more, with native mofs o'ergrown,
Than Phrygian marble, or the Parian stone.

I find the fhades that veil'd our joys before;
But, Phaon gone, thofe fhades delight no more.
Here the prefs'd herbs with bending tops betray
Where oft entwin'd in amorous folds we lay;
I kiss that earth which once was prefs'd by you,
And all with tears the withering herbs bedew.
For thee the fading trees appear to mourn,
And birds defer their fongs till thy return:
Night fhades the groves, and all in filence lie,
All but the mournful Philomel and I:
With mournful Philomel I join my strain,
Of Tereus the, of Phaon I complain.

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A fpring

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Invênio fylvam, quae faepe cubilia nobis
Praebuit, et multa texit opaca coma.
At non invenio dominum fylvaeque, meumque.
Vile folum locus eft: dos erat ille loci.
Agnovi preffas noti mihi cefpitis herbas :
De noftro curvum pondere gramen erat.
Incubui, tetigique locum qua parte fuisti;
Grata prius lacrymas combibit herba meas.
Quinetiam rami pofitis lugere videntur

Frondibus; et nullae dulce queruntur aves.
Sola virum non ulta pie moeftiffima mater
Concinit Ifmarium Daulias ales Ityn.
Ales Ityn, Sappho defertos cantat amores

Hactenus, ut media caetera nocte filent.

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From these perhaps (ere Nature bade her die)
Fate fnatch'd her early to the pitying sky.
As into air the purer spirits flow,

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And feparate 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 these 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 thofe love-darting eyes must roll no more.
Thus, if eternal Juftice rules the ball,

Thus fhall your wives, and thus your children fall:
On all the line a fudden vengeance waits,

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And frequent herfes fhall befiege your gates;
There paffengers fhall ftand, and pointing fay,
While the long funerals blacken all the way)
Lo! these were they, whofe fouls the Furies fteel'd,

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And curft with hearts unknowing how to yield.
Thus unlamented pass the proud away,

The gaze of fools, and pageant of a day!

So perifh all, whose breast ne'er learn'd to glow

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For others good, or melt at others woe.

What can atone (oh ever-injur'd fhade !)
Thy fate unpity'd, and thy rites unpaid?
No friend's complaint, no kind domestic tear

Pleafed thy pale ghoft, or graced thy mournful bier: 50

By foreign hands thy dying eyes were clos'd,

By foreign hands thy decent limbs compos'd,

By

By foreign hands thy humble grave adorn'd,

By strangers 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 polish'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 flowers be dress'd,

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And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast:
There shall the morn her earliest tears bestow,
There the first roses of the year shall blow;
While Angels with their filver wings o'ershade
The ground now facred by thy reliques made.

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So, peaceful rests, 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 !

7༠

Poets themselves must fall, like those they fung, 75 Deaf, the prais'd ear, and mute the tuneful tongue. Ev'n he, whofe foul now melts in mournful lays, Shall shortly want the generous tear he pays; Then from his closing eyes thy form shall part, And the last pang fhall tear thee from his heart, Life's idle bufinefs at one gafp be o'er, The Mufe forgot, and thou belov'd no more!

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PRO

PROLOGUE
O GUE

TO

MR. ADDISON'S TRAGEDY

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O F

CAT

O.

To wake the foul by tender strokes of art,

To raise 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 Muse first trod the stage,
Commanding tears to stream through every age;
Tyrants no more their favage nature kept,
And foes to virtue wonder'd how they wept.
Our author fhuns by vulgar fprings to move
The hero's glory, or the virgin's love;

In pitying Love, we but our weakness show,
And wild Ambition well deferves its woe.
Here tears shall flow from a more generous cause,
Such tears as Patriots shed for dying Laws:
He bids your breasts with ancient ardour rife,
And calls forth Roman drops from British eyes.
Virtue confess'd in human shape he draws,
What Plato thought, and godlike Cato was :
No common object to your fight displays,
But what with pleasure Heaven itself surveys,

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A brave

A brave man struggling in the storms of fate,
And greatly falling with a falling ftate.

While Cato gives his little Senate laws,

What bosom beats not in his Country's cause?

Who sees him act, but envies every deed ?

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Who hears him groan, and does not wish to bleed?
Ev'n when proud Cæfar 'midst triumphal cars,

The spoils of nations, and the
pomp of wars,
Ignobly vain, and impotently great,

Show'd Rome her Cato's figure drawn in state;
As her dead father's reverend image past,
The pomp was darken'd, and the day o'ercaft;
The triumph ceas'd, tears gufh'd from every eye;
The world's great Victor pass'd unheeded by ;
Her laft good man dejected Rome ador'd,
And honour'd Cæfar's lefs than Cato's fword.
Britons, attend: be worth like this approv❜d,
And show, you have the virtue to be mov'd.
With honeft fcorn the first fam'd Cato view'd
Rome learning arts from Greece, whom she subdued;
Your scene precariously subsists too long

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On French translation, and Italian song.

Dare to have sense yourselves; affert the stage,

Be juftly warm'd with your own native rage:

Such plays alone should win a British ear,
As Cato's felf had not disdain'd to hear.

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VOL. I.

M

ΕΡΙ

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