ÆäÀÌÁö À̹ÌÁö
PDF
ePub

But where fhall Cato's Praife begin or end;
Inclin'd to melt, and yet untaught to bend,
The firmeft Patriot, and the gentleft Friend?
How great his Genius, when the Traitor Croud
Ready to frike the Blow their Fury vow'd;
Quell'd by his Look and liftning to his Lore,
Learn like his Paffions, to rebel no more!
When, lavish of his boiling Blood; to prove
The Cure of flavish Life, and flighted Love,
Brave Marcus now in early Death appears,
While Cato counts his Wounds, and not his Years:
Who, checking private Grief, the Publick mourns,
Commands the Pity he fo greatly fcorns.

But when he ftrikes (to crown his generous Part),
That honeft, ftaunch, impracticable Heart;
No Tears, no Sobs pursue his parting Breath;
The dying Roman Shames the Pomp of Death.
O facred Freedom, which the Powers bestow
To feafon Bleffings, and to foften Woe;
Plant of our Growth, and Aim of all our Caress ·
The Toil of Ages, and the Crown of Wars:
If taught by thee, thy Poet's Wit has flow'd
In Strains as precious as his Heroe's Blood;
Preferve thofe Strains, an everlasting Charm
To keep that Blood, and thy Remembrance warm :=
Be this thy Guardian Image ftill fecure
In vain fhall Force invade, or Fraud allure; -
Our great Palladium shall perform its Part,
Fix'd and enfhrin'd in every British Heart.

}

THE

[ocr errors][ocr errors]

THE Mind to Virtue is by Verfe fubdu'd;

And the True Poet is a Publick. Good.

This Britain feels, while, by your Lines infpir'd,
Her Free-born Sons to glorious Thoughts are fir'd.
In Rome had you efpous'd the vanquish'd Caufe,
Inflam'd her Senate, and upheld her Laws;
Your manly Scenes had Liberty reftor'd,

And giv'n the juft Success to Cato's Sword:
O'er Cæfar's Arms your Genius had prevail'd;
And the Mufe triumph'd, where the Patriot fail'd.

AMB. PHILIPS,

PRO

PROLOGUE,

By Mr. P O P E.

Spoken by Mr. WILK S.
To wake the Soul by tender Strokes of Art,

To raife the Genius, and to mend the Heart,
To make Mankind in confcious 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 thro' every Age ;
Tyrants no more their Savage Nature kept,
And Foes to Virtue wonder'd how they wept.
Our Author fhuns by vulgar Springs to move
The Hero's Glory, or the Virgin's Love;
In pitying Love we but our Weakness fhew,
And wild Ambition well deferves its Woe.
Here Tears fhall flow from a more gen'rous Caufo;
Such Tears as Patriots shed for dying Laws :-
He bids your Breafts with Ancient Ardour rife,
And calls forth Roman Drops from British Eyes.
Virtue confefs'd in human Shape he draws,
What Plato Thought, and God-like Cato Was
No common Object to your Sight difplays,
But what with Pleafure Heav'n itfelf furveys;
A brave Man ftruggling in the Storms of Fate,
And greatly falling with a falling State!

While

While Cato gives his little Senate Laws,
What Bofom beats not in his Country's Caufe ?
Who fees him act, but envies ev'ry Deed?
Who hears him groan, and does not wish to bleed 3
Ev'n when proud Cæfar 'midft triumphal Cars,
The Spoils of Nations, and the Pomp of Wars,
Ignobly vain, and impotently Great,

Shew'd Rome her Cato's Figure drawn in State,
As her dead Father's rever’nd Image past,
The Pomp was darken'd, and the Day o'ercaft,
The Triumph ceas'd-Tears gufh'd from ev'ry Eye,
The World's great Victor pass'd unheeded by ;
Her Laft good Man dejected Rome ador'd,
And honour'd Cæfar's lefs than Cato's Sword.

Britons attend: Be Worth like this approv'd,
And shew you have the Virtue to be mov'd,
With honeft Scorn the firft fam'd Cato view'd
Rome learning Arts from Greece, whom she subdu’d:
Our Scene precariously fubfifts too long

On French Translation and Italian Song.

Dare to bave Senfe your felves; Affert the Stage,
Be justly warm'd with your own native Rage.
Such Plays alone Should please a British Ear,
As Cato's felf had not difdain'd to hear,

Drama

[blocks in formation]

SCENE, A large Hall in the Go- < vernor's Palace of Utica.

CATO

« ÀÌÀü°è¼Ó »