But I in vain on single features dwell,
While all the parts of the fair piece excel,
So the rich store, so dubious is the feast,
We know not which to pass, or which to taste.
The shining incidents so justly fall,
We may the whole new scenes of transport calls
Thus 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 numerous surfaces darts trembling light.
The different colours mingling in a blaze,
Silent we stand, unable where to praise,
In pleasure sweetly lost ten thousand ways.
Trinity College, Cambridge.
Too long hath love engross'd Britannia's stage,
And sunk to softness all our tragic rage;
By that alone did empires fall or rise,
And fate depended on a fair one's eyes:
The sweet infection, mix'd with dangerous art,
Debas'd our manhood, while it sooth'd the heart.
You scorn to raise a grief thyself must blame,
Nor from our weakness steal a vulgar famc:
A patriot's fall may justly melt the mind,
And tears flow nobly, shed for all mankind.
How do our souls with gen'rous pleasure glow!
Our hearts exulting, while our eyes o'erflow,
When thy firm hero stands beneath the weight
Of all his sufferings, venerably great;
Rome's poor remains still shelt'ring by his side,
With conscious virtue, and becoming pride.
The aged oak thus rears his head in air, His sap exhausted, and his branches bare; 'Midst storms and earthquakes he maintains his state, Fix'd deep in earth, and fasten'd by his weight: His naked boughs still lend the shepherds aid, And his old trunk projects an awful shade. Amidst the joys triumphant peace bestows, Our patriots sadden at his glorious woes, Awhile they let the world's great bus❜ness wait, Anxious for Rome, and sigh for Cato's fate. Here taught how ancient heroes rose to fame, Our Britons crowd, and catch the Roman flame, Where states and senates well might lend an ear, And kings and priests without a blush appear.
France boasts no more, but, fearful to engage,
Now first pays homage to her rival's stage,
Hastes to learn thee, and learning shall submit
Alike to British arms, and British wit:
No more she'll wonder (forc'd to do us right)
Who think like Romans, could like Romans fight.
Thy Oxford smiles this glorious work to see,
And fondly triumphs in a son like thee.
The senates, consuls, and the gods of Rome,
Like old acquaintance at their native home,
In thee we find each deed, each word express'd,
And ev'ry thought that swell'd a Roman breast.
We trace each hint that could thy soul inspire
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.
THO. TICKELL.
WHEN your generous labour first I view'd,
And Cato's hands in his own blood imbru'd;
That scene of death so terrible appears,
My soul could only thank you with her tears.
Yet with such wondrous art your skilful hand
Does all the passions of the soul command,
That ey❜n my grief to praise and wonder turn'd,
And envy'd the great death which first I mourn'd.
What pen but yours could draw the doubtful strife
Of honour struggling with the love of life?
Describe the patriot, obstinately good,
As hovering o'er eternity he stood:
The wide, th' unbounded ocean lay before
His piercing sight, and heav'n the distant shore.
Secure of endless bliss, with fearless eyes,
He grasps the dagger, and its point defies,
And rushes out of life, to snatch 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 Jubas in the British youth.
Their generous souls, when he resigns his breath,
Are pleas'd with ruin, and in love with death.
And when her conquering sword Britannia draws
Resolve to perish or defend her cause.
Now first on Albion's theatre we see,
A perfect image of what man should be;
The glorious character is now express'd,
Of virtue dwelling in a human breast.
Drawn at full length by your immortal lines,
In Cato's soul, as in her heav'n, she shines.
Left with the Printer by an unknown Hand.
Now we may speak, since Cato speaks no more; 'Tis praise at length, 'twas rapture all before; When crowded theatres with Ios rung
Sent to the skies, from whence thy genius sprung:
Even civil rage a while in thine was lost;
And factions strove but to applaud thee most:
Nor could enjoyment pall our longing taste;
But every night was dearer than the last.
As when old Rome, in a malignant hour,
Depriv'd of some 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 passions fir'd th' adoring throng;
Tears flow'd from ev'ry eye, and shouts from ev'ry 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, so scanty, wrought into a play :
So vast a pile on such foundations plac'd;
Like Ammon's temple rear'd on Lybia's waste:
Behold its glowing paint! its easy weight!
Its nice proportions! and stupendous height!
How chaste the conduct, how divine the rage!
A Roman worthy of a Grecian stage!
But where shall Cato's praise begin or end;
Inclin'd to melt, and yet untaught to bend,
The firmest patriot and the gentlest friend!
How great his genius, when the traitor crowd,
Ready to strike the blow, their fury vow'd;
Quell'd by his look, and, list'ning to his lore,
Learn, like his passions, to rebel no more!
When, lavish of his boiling blood, to prove,
The cure of slavish life and slighted love,
Brave Marcus new in early death appears,
While Cato counts his wounds, and not his years;
Who checking private grief, the public mourns,
Commands the pity he so greatly scorns.
But when he strikes (to crown his generous part)
That honest, staunch, impracticable heart;
No tears, no sobs pursue his parting breath;
The dying Roman shames the pomp of death.
O! sacred freedom, which the powers bestow To season blessings, and to soften wo;
Plant of our growth, and aim of all our cares,
The toil of ages, and the crown of wars :
If, taught by thee, the poet's wit has flow'd
In strains as precious as his hero's blood;
Preserve those strains, an everlasting charm
To keep that blood and thy remembrance warm :
Be this thy guardian image still secure ;
In vain shall force invade, or fraud allure;
Our great Palladium shall perform its part,
Fix'd and enshrin'd in every British heart.
THE mind to virtue is by verse subdu'd;
And the true poet is a public good.
This Britain feels, while, by your lines inspir'd,
Her free-born sons to glorious thoughts are fir'd:
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