From these perhaps (ere Nature bade her die) Fate fnatch'd her early to the pitying sky.
As into air the purer spirits flow,
And feparate from their kindred dregs below;
So flew the foul to its congenial place,
Nor left one virtue to redeem her race.
But thou, falfe guardian of a charge too good,
Thou, mean deferter of thy brother's blood!
See on these ruby lips the trembling breath,
These cheeks, now fading at the blast of death;
Cold is that breaft which warm'd the world before,
And those love-darting eyes must roll no more.
Thus, if eternal Juftice rules the ball,
Thus fhall your wives, and thus your children fall:
On all the line a fudden vengeance waits,
And frequent herfes fhall befiege your gates;
There paffengers shall stand, and pointing fay,
While the long funerals blacken all the way)
Lo! these were they, whofe fouls the Furies fteel'd,
And curft with hearts unknowing how to yield.
Thus unlamented pafs 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
Pleafed thy pale ghoft, or graced thy mournful bier: 50
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,
By strangers honour'd, and by ftrangers mourn'd!
What though no friends in fable 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 afhes grace,
Nor polish'd marble emulate thy face?
What though no facred earth allow thee room,
Nor hallow'd dirge be mutter'd o'er thy tomb?
Yet fhall thy grave with rifing flowers be drefs'd,
And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast:
There fhall the morn her earliest tears beftow,
There the first rofes of the year shall blow;
While Angels with their filver wings o'erfhade
The ground now facred by thy reliques made.
So, peaceful refts, without a ftone, a name,
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 fhall be!
Poets themselves muft fall, like thofe they fung, 75 Deaf, the prais'd ear, and mute the tuneful tongue. Ev'n he, whofe foul now melts in mournful lays, Shall fhortly want the generous tear he pays; Then from his clofing eyes thy form fhall part, And the last pang fhall tear thee from his heart, Life's idle bufinefs at one gafp be o'er, The Mufe forgot, and thou belov'd no more!
O wake the foul by tender ftrokes 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 favage nature kept,
And foes to virtue wonder'd how they wept.
Our author fhuns by vulgar fprings to move
The hero's glory, or the virgin's love;
In pitying Love, we but our weakness show,
And wild Ambition well deferves 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 confefs'd in human shape he draws,
What Plato thought, and godlike Cato was:
No common object to your fight displays,
But what with pleasure Heaven itself surveys,
A brave man ftruggling in the ftorms of fate,
And greatly falling with a 'falling state.
While Cato gives his little Senate laws,
What bofom beats not in his Country's caufe?
Who fees him act, but envies every deed?
Who hears him groan, and does not wish to bleed?
Ev'n when proud Cæfar 'midft triumphal cars,
The fpoils of nations, and the
Ignobly vain, and impotently great,
Show'd Rome her Cato's figure drawn in ftate;
As her dead father's reverend image paft,
The pomp was darken'd, and the day o'ercaft;
The triumph ceas'd, tears gufh'd from every eye;
The world's great Victor pafs'd unheeded by;
Her laft good man dejected Rome ador'd,
And honour'd Cæfar's lefs than Cato's fword.
Britons, attend: be worth like this approv'd,
And show, you have the virtue to be mov'd.
With honeft fcorn the firft fam'd Cato view'd
Rome learning arts from Greece, whom she subdued;
Your fcene precariously fubfifts too long
On French translation, and Italian fong.
Dare to have fenfe yourselves; affert the stage,
Be juftly warm'd with your own native rage:
Such plays alone should win a British ear,
As Cato's felf had not difdain'd to hear.
DESIGNED FOR MRS. OLDFIELD.
PRODIGIOUS this! the Frail-one of our Play
From her own fex fhould mercy find to-day! You might have held the pretty head afide, Peep'd in your fans, been ferious, thus, and cry'd, The Play may pafs-but that ftrange creature, Shore, I can't--indeed now-I fo hate a whore !Juft as a blockhead rubs his thoughtless skull, And thanks his ftars he was not born a fool; So from a fifter finner you shall hear, "How ftrangely you expofe yourself, my But let me die, all raillery apart, Our fex are still forgiving at their heart; And, did not wicked cuftom fo contrive, We'd be the best, good-natur'd things alive.
There are, 'tis true, who tell another tale,
That virtuous ladies envy while they rail;
Such rage without betrays the fire within;
In fome close corner of the foul, they fin;
Still hoarding up, most scandalously nice,
Amidst their virtues a referve of vice.
The godly dame, who fleshly failings damns,
Scolds with her maid, or with her chaplain crams.
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