II.

What horror will invade the mind,

When the ftrict Judge, who would be kind,
Shall have few venial faults to find!

III.

The last loud trumpet's wondrous found,
Shall through the rending tombs rebound,
And wake the nations under ground.

IV.

Nature and Death fhall, with furprize,
Behold the pale offender rife,

And view the Judge with confcious eyes.

V.

Then fhall, with univerfal dread,
The facred myftic book be read,
To try the living and the dead.

VI.

The Judge afcends his awful throne,
He makes each fecret fin be known,
And all with fhame confefs their own.
VII.

O then what intereft fhall I make,
To fave my laft important stake,

When the most just have cause to quake
VIII.

Thou mighty, formidable king,
Thou mercy's unexhaufted fpring,
Some comfortable pity bring!

IX. Forget

Nor let my dear-bought foul be loft,

In ftorms of guilty terror toft.

X.

Thou who for me didft feel fuch pain,
Whose precious blood the crofs did stain,
Let not thofe agonies be vain.

XI.

Thou whom avenging powers obey,
Cancel my debt (too great to pay)
Before the fad accounting-day.

XII.

Surrounded with amazing fears,
Whofe load my foul with anguish bears,
I figh, I weep: Accept my tears.

XIII.

Thou who wert mov'd with Mary's grief,
And, by abfolving of the thief,

Haft given me hope, now give relief.

XIV.

Reject not my unworthy prayer,

Preferve me from that dangerous snare
Which death and gaping hell prepare.

XV.

Give my exalted foul a place

Among thy chofen right-hand race;

The fons of God, and heirs of

grace.

XVI. From

XVI.

From that infatiable abyss,

Where flames devour, and serpents hifs,
Promote me to thy feat of blifs.
XVII.

Proftrate my contrite heart I rend,

My God, my Father, and my Friend;

Do not forfake me in

my end.

XVIII.

Well may they curfe their fecond breath,

Who rife to a reviving death ;

Thou great Creator of Mankind,
Let guilty man compaffion find!

PROLO G U E

TO

POMPE Y, A TRAGEDY, Tranflated by Mrs. CATH. PHILIPS, From the French of Monfieur CORNEILLE,

And acted at the Theatre in Dublin.

HE mighty rivals, whose destructive rage

THE

Did the whole world in civil arms engage,
Are now agreed; and make it both their choice,
To have their fates determin'd by your voice.
Cæfar from none but you will have his doom,
He hates th' obfequious flatteries of Rome :
He fcorns, where once he rul'd, now to be try'd,
And he hath rul'd in all the world befide.

When

When he the Thames, the Danube, and the Nile,
Had ftain'd with blood, Peace flourish'd in this isle
And you alone may boast, you never faw
Cæfar till now, and now can give him law.

Great Pompey too, comes as a fuppliant here,
But fays he cannot now begin to fear :

He knows your equal justice, and (to tell
A Roman truth) he knows himself too well.
Succefs, 'tis true, waited on Cæfar's fide,
But Pompey thinks he conquer'd when he died.
His fortune, when fhe prov'd the most unkind,
Chang'd his condition, but not Cato's mind.
Then of what doubt can Pompey's caufe admit,
Since here fo many Cato's judging fit.

But you, bright nymphs, give Cæfar leave to woo, The greatest wonder of the world, but you; And hear a Mufe, who has that hero taught To speak as generously as e'er he fought; Whofe eloquence from fuch a theme deters All tongues but English, and all pens but hers. By the juft Fates your fex is doubly blest, You conquer'd Cæfar, and you praise him best. And you (* illuftrious Sir) receive as due, A prefent destiny preferv'd for you.

Rome, France, and England, join their forces here, To make a poem worthy of your ear.

Accept it then, and on that Pompey's brow,

Who gave fo many crowns, bestow one now.

*To the Lord Lieutenant.

ROSS'S

ROSS'S GHOST.

SHAM

HAME of my life, difturber of my tomb,
Bafe as thy mother's prostituted womb;
Huffing to cowards, fawning to the brave,
To knaves a fool, to credulous fools a knave,
The king's betrayer, and the people's flave.
Like Samuel, at thy necromantic call,

I rife, to tell thee, God has left thee, Saul.
I ftrove in vain th' infected blood to cure;
Streams will run muddy where the fpring 's impure.
In all your meritorious life, we see

Old Taaf's invincible fobriety.

Places of Mafter of the Horfe, and Spy,
You (like Tom Howard) did at once fupply:
From Sidney's blood your loyalty did spring,
You fhew us all your parents, but the king,
From whofe too tender and too bounteous arms
(Unhappy he who fuch a viper warms!
As dutiful a fubject as a fon!)

To your true parent, the whole town, you run.
Read, if you can, how th' old apoftate fell,
Out-do his pride, and merit more than hell:
Both he and you were glorious and bright,
The first and faireft of the fons of light :

But when, like him, you offer'd at the crown,
Like him, your angry father kick'd you down.

THE