Thence to their images on earth it flows, 15
And in the breasts of Kings and Heroes glows.
Most souls, 'tis true, but peep out once an age,
Dull fullen pris’ners in the body's cage:
Dim lights of life, that burn a length of years
Useless, unseen, as lamps in sepulchres ;

20
Like Eastern Kings a lazy state they keep,
And close confin'd to their own palace, sleep.

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

25
And fep'rate from their kindred dregs below;
So Aew the soul to its congenial place,
Nor left one virtue to redeem her Race.

But thou, falfe guardian of a charge too good,
Thou, mean deserter of thy brother's blood ! 30
See on these ruby lips the trembling breath,
These cheeks, now fading at the blaft 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,

35
Thus shall your wives, and thus your children fall :
On all the line a sudden vengeance waits,
And frequent herses shall besiege your gates.
There passengers shall stand, and pointing say,
(While the long fun'rals blacken all the way) 40
Lo these were they, whose fouls the Furies steeld,
And curs'' 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

5

10

ce

leIr. to 5

46

60

What can atone (oh ever-injur'd fhade !) Thy fate unpity'd, and thy rites unpaid ? No friend's complaint, no kind domestic tear Pleas'd thy pale ghost, or grac'd thy mournful bier: By foreign hands thy dying eyes were clos'd, 51 By foreign hands thy decent limbs compos’d, By foreign hands thy humble grave adorn’d, By strangers honour'd, and by strangers mourn'd! What tho' no friends in fable weeds

appear, 55 Grieve for an hour, perhaps, then mourn a year, And bear about the mockery of woe To midnight dances, and the public show? What tho' no weeping Loves thy ashes grace, Nor polish'd marble emulate thy face? What tho' no facred earth allow thee room, Nor hallow'd dirge be mutter'd o'er thy tomb? Yet shall thy grave with rising flow'rs be drest, And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast : There shall the morn her earliest tears bestow, 65 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, 69 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!

74 Poets themselves must fall, like those they sung, Deaf the prais'd ear, and mute the tuneful tongue. Ev'n he, whose foul now melts in mourful lays, Shall shortly want the gen'rous 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 galp be o'er,
The Muse forgot, and thou belov'd no more!

PRO,

TO

;

C

10 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, 5 Commanding tears to stream thro' ev'ry 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 Aow from a more gen'rous cause, Such Tears as Patriots shed for dying Laws: He bids your breasts with ancient ardour rise, 15 And calls forth Roman drops from British eyes.

10

Virtue confess'd in human shape he draws,
What Plato thought, and godlike Cato was :
No common object to your sight displays,
But what with pleasure Heav'n itself surveys, 20
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 fees him act, but envies ev'ry deed ? 25
Who hears him groan, and does not wish to bleed?
Ev'n when proud Cæsar, '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 ftate; 30
As her dead Father's rev’rend image past,
The pomp was darken'd, and the day o'ercast;
The Triumph ceasod, tears gufh'd from ev'ry eye;
The World's great Victor pass’d unheeded by;
Her last good man dejected Rome ador'd,

35 And honour'd Cæsar'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 honeft scorn the first fam'd Cato view'd Rome learning arts from Greece, whom she subdu'd;

Your

VER. 20. 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.

VER. 37. Britons, atiend] Mr. Pope had written it arise, in the spirit of Poetry and Liberty ; but Mr. Addison frightend at fo daring an expresion, which, he thought, squinted at rebellion, would have it alter'd, in the spirit of Prose and Politics, to atterda