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What tho' no sacred 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'erfhade
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 dust alone remains of thee,
'Tis all thou art, and all the proud mall be! 74
Poets themselves must fall like those they sung, Deaf the prais'd ear, and mute the tuneful tongue. Ev'n he, whose soul now melts in mournful lays, Shall sliortly 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 gasp be o'er, The Muse forgot, and thou belov'd no more!
Mr. ADDISON'S Tragedy
C A T O.
TO wake the foul 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 t
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; 10
In pitying Love, we but our weakness show,
And wild Ambition well deserves its. woe.
Here tears shall flow from a more gen'rous cause,
Such tears as Patriots (hed for dying Laws:
He bids your breasts with ancient ardour rise, 15
And calls forth Roman drops from British eyes.
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 sees 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'dRome herCato's figure drawn in state; 30
As her dead Father's rev'rend image past,
The pomp was darken'd, and the day o'ercast;
Ver. 20. But what with pleasure] This alludes to a famous passage of Seneca, which Mr. Addisori afterwards ufcJ .is amott* to his play, when it was printed.
The Triumph ceas'd, tears gush'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 honest scorn the first fam'd Cato view'd Rome learning arts fromGreece,whom she subdu'd; Your scene precariously subsists 'too long 4l
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, 45
As Cato's self had not disdain'd to hear.
Ver. 37. Britons, attend:] Mr. Pope had written it arise, in the spirit of Poetry, and Lberty; but Mr. Addison frighten'd at so daring an expression, which, he thought, squinted at rebellion, would have it alter'd, in the spirit of Prose and Politics, to attend.
Ver. 46. As Cato's self, etc.] This alludes to that famousstory of his going into the Theatre, and immediately coming out again,
Mr.RowE's JANE SHORE,
Design'd for Mrs, Oipujid*
PRodigious this 1 the Frail-one of our Play
From her own Sex mould mercy find to-day!
You might have held the pretty head aside,
Pecp'd in your fans, been serious, thus, and cry'ef.
The Play may pass—but that strange creature,Shore»
I can't—indeed now—I so hate a wjiore— 6
Just as a blockhead rubs his thoughtless skull,
And thanks his stars he was not born a fool;
So from a sister sinner you shall hear,
"How strangely you expose yourself, my dear?"
But let me die, all raillery apart, 11
Our sex arc still forgiving at their heart;
And, did not wicked custom so contrive,
"We'd be the best, good-natyr'd things alive*