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WHAT beckoning ghost, along the moonlight ￼shade.
Invites my steps, and points to yonder glade?
Why bade ye else, ye powers! her soul aspirt
From these perhaps (ere nature bade her die)
But thou, false guardian of a charge too good,
See on these ruby lips the trembling breath*
These cheeks now fading at the blast of death;
Cold is that breast which warm'd the world before.
And those love-darting eyes must roll no more.
Thus, if eternal justice rules the ball.
Thus shall your wives, and thus your children fall:
On all the line a sudden vengeance waits,
And frequent hearses shall besiege your gates;
There passengers shall stand, and pointing say
(While the long funerals blacken all the way),
• Lo! these were they, whose souls the furies steel'd.
And curst 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 domestic tear Pleas'd thy pale ghost, or grae'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, Jly strangers honour'd, and by strangers mournM! What though no friends in sable 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 sacred earth allow thee room, Nor hallow'd dirge be mutter'd o'er thy tomb? Yet shall thy grave with rising flowers be dress'd, 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 silver wings o'ershade The ground now sacred by thy reliques made.
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.
Poets themselves must fall, like those they sun:;.
To Mr. Addison's Tragedy ofCato.
TO wake the soul by tender strokes of art, To raise the genins, 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 anthor 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 canse, Such tears as patriots shed for dying laws: He bids your breasts with ancient ardour rise, And calls forth Roman drops from Kritish eyes. Virtue confess'd in human shape he draws, What Plato thought, and godlike Cato was: Ko common object to your sight displays. But what with pleasure Heaven itself surveyi, F
A brave man struggling in the storms of fate,
And greatly falling with a failing state.
While Cato gives his little senate laws,
What bbsom 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?'
Ev'n when proud Caesar'midst trinmphal 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 im^ge past,
The pomp was darken'd, and the dayo'ercast;
The trinmph ceas'd, tears gush'd from every eye;
The world's great victor pass'd unheeded by;
Her last good man dejected Rome ador'd,
And honour'd Caesar's less than Cato's sword.
Britons, attend: be worth like this approv'd. And show, you have the virtue to be mov'd. With honest scorn the first fam'd Cato view'd Rome learning arts from Greece, whom she subdued 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.
TO MR. ROWE'S JANE SHORE.
Designed for Mrs. Qldficld.
"pRODIGlOUS this! the frail-one of our play
From her own sex should mercy find to-day! You might have held the pretty head aside, Fecpy in your fans, been serious, thus, and cried.
'The play may pass—but that strange creature, Shore,
I can't—indeed now—I so hate a whore !--'
Well, if our anthor in the -wife offends,