I burn like Marcus in th' impetuous fire;
Like him I languish with the fond defire;
Like him I groan beneath th' uneasy weight,
And ev’n, like him despairing, wish my fate.
Could you with Lucia's eyes behold my pain,
Then would you strive to soften your disdain :
My anxious griefs your tender breast would move,
And raife compaffion, where they could not love.
But lo bright Marcia! fee, relentless fair,
In Cato's daughter thy whole felf appear.
In thee, alas! her lovely virtues fhine,
Her charms, her heavenly beauties, all are thine;
And whilst in moving numbers is display'd
Juba's foft paffion for the glorious maid,
Think you behold your lover proftrate lie,
In tendereft accents think you hear me sigh:
Then, then be kind-and on my fufferings fmile,
As generous Marcia pitied Juba's toil.
Thou, in whom all the Roman virtues dwell,
Let not the Roman mercy thine excel;
Since Love like that of Juba fills my breast,
Let me at length with equal joys be bleft.
The verses of Dr. YOUNG, Mr. TICKELL, and Mr. HUGHES, on this tragedy, are among the poems of their respective authors.
Syphax, General of the Numidians - Mr. Cibber.
Scene, a large Hall in the Governor's Palace of Utica.
* See the Prologue and Epilogue to Cato in the volumes which contain the Poems of GARTH and POPE.
HE dawn is over-cast, the morning lowers, And heavily in clouds brings on the day, The great, th' important day; big with the fate Of Cato and of Rome.-Our father's death Would fill up all the guilt of civil war,
And clofe the feene of blood. Already Cæfar
Has ravag'd more than half the globe, and fees
Mankind grown thin by his destructive sword:
Should he go further, numbers would be wanting,
To form new battles, and support his crimes.
Ye gods, what havock does ambition make
Among your works!
Thy fteady temper, Portius,
Can look on guilt, rebellion, fraud, and Cæfar,
In the calm lights of mild philofophy;
I'm tortur'd, ev'n to madness, when I think
On the proud victor: every time he's nam'd
Pharfalia rises to my view-I see
Th' infulting tyrant prancing o'er the field
Strow'd with Rome's citizens, and drench'd in flaughter,
His horfe's hoofs wet with Patrician blood.
Oh Portius, is there not some chosen curse,
Some hidden thunder in the stores of heaven,
Red with uncommon wrath, to blast the man
Who owes his greatness to his country's ruin?
Believe me, Marcus, 't is an impious greatness, And mixt with too much horror to be envy'd: How does the luftre of our father's actions, Through the dark cloud of ills that cover him, Break out, and burn with more triumphant brightness! His fufferings fhine, and spread a glory round him; Greatly unfortunate, he fights the caufe
Of honour, virtue, liberty, and Rome.
His fword ne'er fell but on the guilty head;
Oppreffion, tyranny, and power ufurp'd,
Draw all the vengeance of his arm upon them.
Who knows not this? But what can Cato do
Against à world, a base degenerate world,
That courts the yoke, and bows the neck to Cæfar
Pent up in Utica, he vainly forms
A poor epitome of Roman greatness,
And, cover'd with Numidian guards, directs
A feeble army, and an empty fenate,
Remnants of mighty battles fought in vain.
By heavens, fuch virtues, join'd with fuch fuccefs,
Distract my very foul: our father's fortune
Would almoft tempt us to renounce his precepts.
Remember what our father oft has told us:
The
ways
of heaven are dark and intricate;
Puzzled in mazes, and perplex'd with errors,
Our understanding traces them in vain,
Loft and bewilder'd in the fruitless search;
Nor fees with how much art the windings run,
Nor where the regular confusion ends.
These are suggestions of a mind at ease:
Oh Portius, didft thou tafte but half the griefs
That wring my foul, thou could'st not talk thus coldly.
Paffion unpity'd and fuccefslefs love
Plant daggers in my heart, and aggravate
My other griefs. Were but my Lucia kind!
Thou fee'ft not that thy brother is thy rival:
But I muft hide it, for I know thy temper. [Afide.
Now, Marcus, now, thy virtue's on the proof:
Put forth thy utmost strength, work every nerve,
And call up all thy father in thy foul:
To quell the tyrant love, and guard thy heart
On this weak fide, where moft our nature fails,
Would be a conqueft worthy Cato's fon.
Portius, the counsel which I cannot take,
Instead of healing, but upbraids my weakness.
Bid me for honour plunge into a war
Of thickest foes, and rush on certain death,
Then shalt thou fee that Marcus is not flow
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