A heap of dust alone remains of thee,
'Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall be!

Poets themselves must fall, like those they sung,
Deaf the praised ear, and mute the tuneful tongue.
Even he, whose soul 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 shall tear thee from his heart;
Life's idle business at one gasp be o'er,

The Muse forgot, and thou beloved no more!

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PROLOGUE TO MR ADDISON'S TRAGEDY OF CATO.

To wake the soul 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 savage nature kept,
And foes to virtue wonder'd how they wept.
Our author shuns by vulgar springs to move
The hero's glory, or the virgin's love;
In pitying love, we but our weakness show,
And wild ambition well deserves 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 rise,
And calls forth Roman drops from British eyes.
Virtue confess'd in human shape he draws,
What Plato thought, and godlike Cato was :

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1

No common object to your sight displays,
But what with pleasure 1 Heaven itself surveys,
A brave man struggling in the storms of fate,
And greatly falling with a falling state.
While Cato gives his little senate laws,
What bosom beats not in his country's cause?
Who sees him act, but envies every deed?
Who hears him groan, and does not wish to bleed?
Even when proud Cæsar, 'midst triumphal cars,
The spoils of nations, and the pomp of wars,
Ignobly vain and impotently great,

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Show'd Rome her Cato's figure drawn in state;
As her dead father's reverend image pass'd,
The pomp was darken'd and the day o'ercast;
The triumph ceased, tears gush'd from every eye;
The world's great victor pass'd unheeded by ;
Her last good man dejected Rome adored,
And honour'd Cæsar's less than Cato's sword.
Britons, attend: be worth like this approved,
And show you have the virtue to be moved.
With honest scorn the first famed Cato view'd
Rome learning arts from Greece, whom she subdued; 40
Your scene precariously subsists too long

On French translation, and Italian song.

Dare to have sense yourselves; assert the stage,

Be justly warm'd with your own native rage;
Such plays alone should win a British ear,

As Cato's self had not disdain'd to hear.

'But what with pleasure:' this alludes to a famous passage of Seneca, which Mr Addison afterwards used as a motto to his play, when it was printed.

IMITATIONS OF ENGLISH POETS.1

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I. CHAUCER.

WOMEN ben full of ragerie,

Yet swinken nat sans secresie.
Thilke moral shall ye understond,

From schoole-boy's tale of fayre Irelond:
Which to the fennes hath him betake,
To filche the gray ducke fro the lake.
Right then, there passen by the way
His aunt, and eke her daughters tway.
Ducke in his trowses hath he hent,
Not to be spied of ladies gent.
But ho! our nephew!' crieth one;
'Ho!' quoth another, Cozen John ;'
And stoppen, and lough, and callen out,—
This sely clerke full low doth lout:
They asken that, and talken this,
'Lo here is Coz, and here is Miss.'
But, as he glozeth with speeches soote,
The ducke sore tickleth his erse roote:
Fore-piece and buttons all to-brest,
Forth thrust a white neck, and red crest.
'Te-he,' cried ladies; clerke nought spake :
Miss stared; and gray ducke crieth 'Quaake.'
'O moder, moder!' quoth the daughter,
'Be thilke same thing maids longen a'ter?
Bette is to pyne on coals and chalke,
Then trust on mon, whose yerde can talke.'

'Done by the author in his youth.

II. SPENSER.

THE ALLEY.

1 IN every town, where Thamis rolls his tyde,
A narrow pass there is, with houses low;
Where ever and anon the stream is eyed,

And many a boat soft sliding to and fro.
There oft are heard the notes of infant woe,
The short thick sob, loud scream, and shriller squall

How can ye, mothers, vex your children so?
Some play, some eat, some cack against the wall,
And as they crouchen low, for bread and butter call.

2 And on the broken pavement, here and there, Doth many a stinking sprat and herring lie; A brandy and tobacco shop is near,

And hens, and dogs, and hogs are feeding by ; And here a sailor's jacket hangs to dry. At every door are sunburnt matrons seen, Mending old nets to catch the scaly fry; Now singing shrill, and scolding oft between ; Scolds answer foul-mouth'd scolds; bad neighbourhood, I ween.

3 The snappish cur (the passenger's annoy)
Close at my heel with yelping treble flies;
The whimpering girl, and hoarser-screaming boy,
Join to the yelping treble shrilling cries;
The scolding quean to louder notes doth rise,
And her full pipes those shrilling cries confound;
To her full pipes the grunting hog replies;
The grunting hogs alarm the neighbours round,
And curs, girls, boys, and scolds, in the deep base are
drown'd.

4 Hard by a sty, beneath a roof of thatch,
Dwelt Obloquy, who in her early days
Baskets of fish at Billingsgate did watch,

Cod, whiting, oyster, mack'rel, sprat, or plaice :
There learn'd she speech from tongues that never

cease.

Slander beside her, like a magpie, chatters,

With Envy (spitting cat!), dread foe to peace;
Like a cursed cur, Malice before her clatters,
And vexing every wight, tears clothes and all to

tatters.

5 Her dugs were mark'd by every collier's hand,
Her mouth was black as bull-dog's at the stall:
She scratched, bit, and spared ne lace ne band,
And 'bitch' and 'rogue' her answer was to all;
Nay, even the parts of shame by name would call:
Yea, when she passed by or lane or nook,

Would greet the man who turn'd him to the wall,
And by his hand obscene the porter took,
Nor ever did askance like modest virgin look.

6 Such place hath Deptford, navy-building town,
Woolwich and Wapping, smelling strong of pitch;
Such Lambeth, envy of each band and gown,
And Twick'nam such, which fairer scenes enrich,
Grots, stutues, urns, and Jo-n's dog and bitch,
Ne village is without, on either side,

All up the silver Thames, or all adown;

Ne Richmond's self, from whose tall front are eyed Vales, spires, meandering streams, and Windsor's towery pride.