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Let joy falute fair Rosamonda's shade,
And wreaths of myrtle crown the lovely maid,
While now perhaps with Dido's ghoft She roves,
And hears and tells the story of their loves, 40
Alike they mourn, alike they bless their fate,
Since love which made them wretched makes them.
Nor longer that relentless doom bemoan [great,
Which gain’d a Virgil and an Addison.
Accept, great Monarch of the British lays! 45
The tribute song an humble fubject pays;
So tries the artiets lark her early flight,
And foars to hail the god of Verfe and Light.
Unrivall’d as unmatch'd be still thy fame,
And thy own laurels shade thy envy'd name! 50
Thy name, the boast of all the tuneful quire,
Shall tremble on the strings of ev'ry lyre
While the charm'd reader with thy thought com-
Feels corresponding joys or sorrows rise, [plies,
And views thy Rosamund with Henry's eyes. 55.
ON HIS TRAGEDY OF CATO.
Too long hath love engrofs'd Britannia’s stage,
And funk to softness all our tragick rage;
By that alone did empires fall or rise,
And fate depended on a fair one's eyes:
The sweet infection mixt with dang'rous art 5
Debas'd our manhood while it sooth'd the heart :
You scorn to raise a grief thyself must blame,
Nor from our weaknefs steal a vulgar fame:
A patriot's fall may juftly melt the mind,
And tears flow nobly shed for all mankind.
How do our souls with gen'rous pleasure glow,
Our hearts exulting while our eyes o'erflow,
When thy firm hero stands beneath the weight
Of all his fuff'rings venerably great,
Rome's poor remains still shelt'ring by his fide
15 With confcious virtue and becoming pride!
The aged oak thus rears his head in air, His sap exhausted and his branches bare; 'Midst forms and earthquakes he maintains his state, Fixt deep in earth and fasten'd by his weight; His naked boughs still lend the shepherds aid, And his old trunk projects an awful shade.
Amidst the joys triumphant peace beftows Our patriots sadden at his glorious woes; A while they let the world's great business wait, 28 Anxious for Rome, and sigh for Cato's fate. Here taught how ancient heroes rose to fame Our Britons crowd and catch the Roman flame, Where states and senates well might lend an car, And kings and priests without a blush appear. 3 France boasts no more,
but fearful to engage Now first pays homage to her rival's stage,
Hastes to learn thee, and learning shall submit
Alike to British arms and British wit:
No more she 'll wonder, forc'd to do us right,
Who think like Romans could like Romans fight.
Thy Oxford smiles this glorious work to see,
And fondly triumphs in a son like thee.
The senates, consuls, and the gods of Rome,
Like old acquaintance at their native home,
In thee we find each deed each word exprest,
And ev'ry thought that swell'd a Roman breast,
We trace each hint that could thy soul inspire
With Virgil's judgment and with Lucan's fire.
We know thy worth, and give us leave to boait
We most admire because we know thee moft.
ON THE DEATH OF MR. ADDISON.
Ir dumb too long the drooping Muse hath stay'd
And left her debt to Addison unpaid,
Blame not her filence, Warwick! but bemoan,
And judge, oh judge my bosom by your own!
What mourner ever felt poetick fires!
Slow comes the verse that real wo inspires :
Grief unaffected suits but ill with art,
Or flowing numbers with a bleeding heart.
Can I forget the dismal night that
My soul's best part for ever to the grave!
How filent did his old companions tread
By midnight lamps the niansions of the dead,
Thro' breathing statues, then unheeded things,
Thro' routs of warricurs and thro' walks of kings!
What awe did the flow folemn knell inspire, 15
The pealing organ and the pausing choir,
The duties by the lawn-rob'd prelate paid,
And the last words that dust to duit convey'd!
While speechless o'er thy closing grave we bend,
Accept these tears thou dear departed friend!
Oh, gone for ever! take this long adieu,
And sleep in peace next thy lov'd Montague.
To strew fresh laurels let the task be mine,
A frequent pilgrim at thy sacred shrine;
Mine with true sighs thy absence to bemoan, 25
And grave with faithful epitaphs thy stone.
If e'er from me thy lov'd memorial part
May shame amict this alienated heart!
Of thee forgetful if I form a fong
My lyre be broken and untun'd my tongue,
30 My grief be doubled from thy image free, And mirth a torment unchastis'd by thee!
Oft' let me range the gloomy aisles alone,
Sad luxury! to vulgar minds unknown,
Along the walls where speaking marbles show
What worthics form the hallow'd mould below:
Proud names! who once the reins of empire held,
In arms who triumph'd or in arts excell'd,
Chiefs grac'd with scars and prodigal of blood,
Stern patriots who for sacred Freedom food, 40
Just men by whom impartial laws were giv’n,
And saints who taught and led the way to heav'n.
Ne'er to these chambers where the mighty reft
Since their foundation came a nobler guest,
Nor e'er was to the bow'rs of bliss convey'd 45
A fairer fpirit or more welcome shade.
In what new region to the just allign’d,
What new employments please th' unbody'd mind?
A winged Virtue thro'th'ethereal sky
From world to world unweary'd does he fly, 50
Or curious trace the long laborious maze
Of Heav'n's decrees where wond'ring angels gaze?
Does he delight to hear bold seraphs tell
How Michael battled and the dragon fell,
Or, mix'd with milder cherubim, to glow 55
In hymns of love not ill essay'd below?
Or dost thou warn poor mortals left behind?
A talk well suited to thy gentle mind.
Oh! if sometimes thy spotless form descend,
To me thy aid, thou guardian Genius! lend. 60
When rage misguides me or when fear alarms,
When pain distresses or when pleasure charms,
In filent whisp'rings purer thoughts impart,
And turn from ill a frail and feeble heart,
Lead thro' the paths thy virtue trod before,
Till bliss shall join nor death can part us more.