There op'ning Sweets, and ev'ry fragrant Flow'r
Luxuriant fmile, a never-fading Bow'r.
Next, human Follies kindly to expose,

You change from Numbers, but not fink in Profe
Whether in vifionary Scenes you Play,

Refine our Taftes, or laugh our Crimes away.
Now, by the buskin'd Muse you shine confest,
The Patriot kindles in the Poet's Breaft.
Such Energy of Senfe might Pleasure raise,
Tho' unembellish'd with the Charms of Phrafe:
Such Charms of Phrafe would with Succefs be crown'da
Tho' Nonfenfe flow'd in the melodious Sound.
The chafteft Virgin needs no Blushes fear,
The Learn'd themselves, not uninftructed, bear.
The Libertine, in Pleasures us'd to roul,
And idly Sport with an immortal Soul,

Here comes, and by the virtuous Heathen taught,-
Turns pale, and trembles at the dreadful Thought:
Whene'er you traverfe vaft Numidia's Plains,
What fluggish Briton in his Ifle remains ?
When Juba feeks the Tiger with Delight,
We beat the Thicket, and provoke the Fight.
By the Defcription warm'd, we fondly fweat,
And in the chilling Eaft-Wind pant with Heat.
What Eyes behold not, how the Stream refines,
'Till by Degrees the floating Mirrour fhines?
While Hurricanes in circling Eddies play,
Tear up the Sands, and sweep whole Plains away,
We fhrink with Horror, and confefs our Fear,
And all the fudden founding Ruin hear.
When purple Robes, diftain'd with Blood, deceive,
And make poor MARCIA beautifully grieve,
When she her fecret. Thoughts no more conceals,
Forgets the Woman, and her Flame reveals,
Well may the Prince exult with noble Pride,
Not for his Libyan Crown, but Roman Bride.

Bu

But I in vain on fingle Features dwell,
While all the Parts of the fair Piece excell.
So rich the Store, fo dubious is the Feaß,
We know not, which to pass, or which to taste.
The Shining Incidents fo justly fall,

We may the whole, new Scenes of Transport call.
Tous Jewellers confound our wand'ring Eyes,
And with variety of Gems surprise.

Here Sapphires, here the Sardian Stone is seen,.
The Topaz yellow, and the Jasper green.
The costly Brilliant there, confus'dly bright,
From num'rous Surfaces darts trembling Light.
The diff'rent Colours mingling in a Blaze,
Silent we ftand, unable where to praise,
In Pleafure fweetly loft ten thousand Ways.

Trinity College,
Cambridge.

}

L. EUSDEN.

Too long hash Love engrofs'd Britannia's Stage,
And funk to Softnefs all our Tragic Rage:

Ey that alone did Empires fall or rife,
And Fate depended on a Fair One's Eyes:
The Sweet Infection, mixt with dangʼrous Art;
Debas'd our Manhood, while it footh'd the Heart:
You fcorn to raise a Grief thy felf must blame,
Nor from our Weakness fteal a vulgar Fame:
A Patriot's Fall may justly melt the Mind,
And Tears flow Nobly, fhed for all Mankind.

How do our Souls with gen'rous Pleasure glow!*
Our Hearts exulting, while our Eyes o'erflow,
When thy firm Hero ftands beneath the Weight
Of all his Suff'rings venerably Great 3;

Rome*

Rome's poor Remains ftill fhelt'ring by his Side,
With confcious Virtue, and becoming Pride.

The aged Oak thus rears his Head in Air,
His Sap exhausted, and his Branches bare,
'Midft Storms and Earthquakes he maintains his State,
Fixt deep in Earth, and faften'd by his Weight:-
His naked Boughs ftill lend the Shepherds Aids
And his old Trunk projects an awful Shade.
Amidst the Foys triumphant Peace bestows,
Our Patriots fadden at His glorious Woes -
A while they let the World's great Business wait,
Anxious for Rome, and Sigh for CATO's Fate.
Here taught how ancient Heroes rofe to Fame,
Our Britons crowd, and catch the Roman Flame;
Where States and Senates well might lend an Ears
And Kings and Priests without a Blush appear.

France boafts no more, but, fearful to engage,
Now first pays Homage to her Rival's Stage,
Haftes to learn thee, and learning shall submit
Alike to British Arms, and British Wit:

No more fhe'll wonder, (forc'd to do us Right).
Who think like Romans, could like Romans Fight.
Thy Oxford fmiles this glorious Work to fee,
And fondly Triumphs in a Son like Thee.
The Senates, Confuls, and the Gods of Rome,
Like old Acquaintance at their Native Home,
In Thee we find: Each Deed, each Word expreft,
And ev'ry Thought that fwell'd a Roman Breafte
We trace each Hint that could thy Soul infpire
With Virgil's Judgment, and with Lucan's Fire;
We know thy Worth, and give us leave to boast,
We most admire, because we know thee most.

Queen's CollegeTM

Oxon...

THO, TICKELL.

SIRA

SIR,

W HEN your gen'rous Labour first I view'd,

And Cato's Hands in his own Blood imbru'd;

That Scene of Death fo terrible appears,
My Soul could only thank

you

with her Tears.

Yet with fuch wondrous Art your skilful Hand
Does all the Paffions of the Soul command,
That ev'n my Grief to Praife and Wonder turn'd,
And envy'd the great Death which first I mourn'd.
What Pen but yours cou'd draw the doubtful Strife,
Of Honour struggling with the Love of Life?
Defcribe the Patriot obftinately good,

As hev'ring o'er Eternity he stood:
The wide, th'unbounded Ocean lay before
His piercing Sight, and Heav'n the diftant Shore.
Secure of endless Blifs, with fearless Eyes,
He grafps the Dagger, and its Point defies,
And rushes out of Life to fnatch the glorious Prize.
How would old Rome rejoice, to hear you tell
How just her Patriot liv'd, how great he fell!
Recount his wondrous Probity and Truth,
And form new Juba's in the British Youth.
Their gen'rous Souls, when he refigns his Breath,
Are pleas'd with Ruin, and in Love with Death;.
And when her conqu'ring Sword Britannia draws,
Refolve to Perish, or defend her Caufe.
Now firft on Albion's Theatre we fee,
A perfect Image of what Man should be;
The glorious Character is now expresst,
of Virtue dwelling in a human Breaft,
Drawn at full Length by your Immortal Lines,
In Cato's Soul, as in her Heav'n, fhe Shines.

All Souls College,

Oxon.

}

DIGBY COTES.

Left with the Printer by an Unknown Hand.

Now we may peak, fince Cato speaks no more; 'Tis Praife at length, 'twas Rapture all before 3

When crowded Theatres with lös rung

Sent to the Skies, from whence thy Genius fprung
Ev'n Civil Rage a while in thine was loft;
And Factions firove but to applaud thee moft;
Nor could Enjoyment pall our longing Take;
But every Night was dearer than the last.

As when old Rome, in a malignant Hour
Depriv'd of fome returning Conqueror,
Her Debt of Triumph to the Dead discharg'd,
For Fame, for Treasure, and her Bounds enlarg'd:"
And while his Godlike Figure mov'd along,
Alternate Paffions fir'd th'adorning Throng;

• Tears flow'd from ev'ry Eye, and Shouts from every Tongue.
So in thy Pompous Lines has Cato far'd,
Grac'd with an ample though a late Reward:
A greater Victor we in him revere;

A nobler Triumph crowns his Image here.
With Wonder, as with Pleasure, we survey
A Theme fo fcanty wrought into a Play;
So vaft a Pile on fuch Foundations plac'd;
Like Amon's Temple rear'd on Libya's Wafte:
Behold its glowing Paint! its eafy Weight!
Its nice Proportions! and ftupendious Height!
How chafte the Conduct! how divine the Rage!:
A Roman Worthy on a Grecian Stage!

}

But