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00 long hath love engrofs'd Britannia's ftage,
And funk to foftnefs all our tragic rage:
By that alone, did empires fall or rife,
And fate depended on a fair one's eyes ;
The fweet infection mixt with dang'rous art,
Debas'd our manhood while it footh'd the heart.
You scorn to raise a grief thyself must blame,
Nor from our weakness steal a vulgar fame:
A patriot's fall may juftly melt the mind,
And tears flow nobly, fhed for all mankind.

How do our fouls with gen'rous pleasure glow,
Our hearts exulting, while our eyes o'erflow,
When thy firm hero ftands beneath the weight,
Of all his fufferings, venerably great;
Rome's poor remains ftill fhelt'ring by his fide,
With confcious virtue, and becoming pride.

The aged oak thus rears his head in air,
His fap exhaufted, and his branches bare,
'Midft ftorms and earthquakes he maintains his state,
Fixt deep in earth, and faften'd by his weight:
His naked boughs ftill lend the shepherds aid,
And his old trunk projects an awful shade.

Amidft the joys triumphant peace bestows,
Our patriots fadden at his glorious woes,
A while they let the world's great business wait,
Anxious for Rome, and figh for Cato's fate.
Here taught how antient heroes rose to faine,
Britons crowd, and catch the Roman flame,


Where states and fenates well might lend an ear,
And kings and priests without a blush appear.

France boasts no more, but, fearful to engage,
Now firft pays homage to her rival's ftage,
Haftes to learn thee, and learning shall submit
Alike to Brisifb arms, and Britifb wit:
No more she'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 fon like thee.
The fenate, 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 breast.
We trace each hint that could thy foul 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 moft,

Queen's College,


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WHEN 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 foul could only thank you with her tears.
Yet with fuch wond'rous art your skilful hand
Does all the paffions of the foul command,
That ev'n my grief to praise and wonder turn'd,
And envy'd the great death which first I mourn'd.
What pen but yours cou'd draw the doubtful ftrife,
Of honour ftruggling with the love of life?
Describe the patriot, obftinately good,
As hov'ring o'er eternity he flood:
The wide, th' unbounded ocean lay before
His piercing fight, and heav'n the diftant fhore.
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 juft her patriot liv'd, how great he fell!
Recount his wond'rous probity and truth,
And form new Juba's in the Britifb youth.
Their gen'rous fouls, when he refigns his breath,
Are pleas'd with ruin, and in love with death;
And when her conqu'ring fword Britannia draws,
Refolve to perish or defend her cause.


Now first on Albion's theatre we fee,

A perfect image of what man should bẹ ;


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The glorious character is now expreft,
Of virtue dwelling in a human breast,
Drawn at full length by your immortal lines,
In Cato's foul, as in her heav'n, fhe fhines.
All Souls College,



Left with the Printer by an unknown Hand.
OW we may speak, fince Cato fpeaks no more;
'Tis praise at length, 'twas rapture all before;
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 strove but to applaud thee most;
Nor could enjoyment pall our longing taste;
But every night was dearer than the laft.

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' adoring throng; (tongue. Tears flow'd from ev'ry eye, and shouts from ev'ry 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 furvey
A theme fo fcanty wrought into a play;
So vaft a pile no fuch foundations plac'd;
Like Ammon's temple rear'd in Lybia's wafte :
Behold its glowing paint! its eafy weight!
Its nice proportions! and stupendous height !
How chafte the conduct! how divine the rage!
A Roman worthy of a Grecian ftage!

But where fhall Cato's praise begin or end;
Inclin'd to melt, and yet untaught to bend,
The firmeft patriot, and the gentlest friend ?
How great his genius, when the traitor croud
Ready to ftrike the blow their fury vow'd;
Quell'd by his look and lift'ning 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 public mourns,
Commands the pity he fo greatly fcorns.

But when he strikes (to crown his generous part)
That honeft, ftaunch, impracticable heart;
No tears, no fobs purfue his parting breath;
The dying Roman fhames the pomp of death.
facred freedom, which the powers
On blessings, and to soften woe;


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