Imatges de pÓgina
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Why bad ye elfe, ye Pow'rs! her soul aspire
Above the vulgar flight of low desire ?
Ambition first sprung from your blest abodes;
The glorious fault of Angels and of Gods :
Thence to their images on earth it flows,
And in the breasts of Kings and Heroes glows !
Most souls, 'tis true, but peep out once an age,
Dull sullen pris’ners in the body's cage :
Dim lights of life that burn a length of years,
Useless, unseen, as lamps in sepulchres ;
Like Eastern Kings a lazy state they keep,
And close confin'd in their own palace sleep.

From these perhaps (e'er nature bade her die)
Fate snatch'd her early to the pitying sky.
As into air the purer fpirits flow,
And fep'rate from their kindred dregs below;
So flew the soul to its congenial place,
Nor left one virtue to redeem her Race.

But thou, false guardian of a charge too good,
Thou, mean deserter of thy brother's blood !
See on these ruby lips the trembling breath,
These cheeks, now fading at the blast of death;
Cold is that breast which warm'd the world before,
And those love-darting eyes muft roll no' more,

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to her quality, but confined from the light of every one but the dependants of this rigid guardian.

Her despondent lover transmitted several letters, on the faith of repeated assurances that they would be privately delivered to her; but his hopes were betrayed, and his letters, instead of being presented to the object of his affections, were sent to England, and only served to render her confinement more strait and fevere,

In this miferable and hopeless condition the languished a considerable time, in fickness and sorrow, till at length she put an end to her life with a sword which she bribed a woman-servant to procure her, and was found yet warm upon the ground.

Being by the laws of the place denied Christian sepulture, she was interred without the least folemnity, being cast into the common earth without any mournful attendants to perform the last duties of affection, and only followed by fome young people in the neighbourhood, who bestrewed her grave with flowers.

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Thus, if Eternal justice rules the ball,
Thus shall your wives, and thus your children fall :
On all the line a sudden vengeance waits,
And frequent herses shall besiege your gates.
There passengers shall stand, and pointing say,
(While the long fun'rals blacken all the way)
Lo these were they, whose souls the Furies steeld,
And curs’d with hearts unknowing how to yield.
Thus unlamented país the proud away,
The gaze of fools, and pageant of a day !
So perish all, whose breast ne'er learn’d to glow
For others good, or melt at others woe.

What can atone (oh ever-injur'd shade!)
Thy fate unpity'd, and thy rites unpaid ?
No friend's complaint, no kind domestic tear
Pleas’d thy pale ghoft, or grac'd thy mournful bier.
By foreign hands thy dying eyes were clos’d,
By foreign hands thy decent limbs compos’d,
By foreign hands thy humble grave adorn’d,
By strangers honour'd, and by strangers mourn'd!
What tho' no friends in sable weeds appear,
Grieve for an hour, perhaps, then mourn a year,
And bear about the mockery of woe
To midnight dances, and the public show!
What tho' no weeping Loves thy ashes grace, ,
Nor polish'd marble emulate thy face?
What tho' no sacred earth allow thee room,
Nor hallow'd dirge be inutter'd o'er tly tomb?
Yet shall thy grave with rising flow'rs be dreft,
And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast:
There shall the Morn her earliest tears bestow,
There the first roses of the year shall blow;
While Angels with their silver wings o'ershade
The ground, now sacred by thy reliques made.

So peaceful refts, without a stone, a name,
What once had beauty, titles, wealth, and fame.
How lov'd, how honour'd once, avails thee not,
To whom related, or by whom begot ;

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A heap

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A heap of duft alone remains of thee,
'Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall be !

Poets themselves must fall, like those they sung,
Deaf the prais’d ear, and mute the tuneful tongue.
Ev’n he, whose foul now melts in mournful lays,
Shall shortly want the gen'rous tear he pays;

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Then from his closing eyes thy forin shall part,
And the last pang shall tear thee from his heart,
Life's idle business at one gasp be o'er,
The Muse forgot, and thou belov'd no more.

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Ꮲ PROLOGUE

TO

Mr. Addison's Tragedy of CATO.

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O wake the soul by tender strokes of art,

To raise the genius, and to mend the heart;
To make mankind, in conscious virtue bold,
Live o'er each scene, and be what they behold :
For this the Tragic Muse first trod the stage,

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Commanding tears to stream thro' ev'ry age ;
Tyrants no more their favage nature kept,
And foes to virtue wonder'd how they wept.
Our author shuns by vulgar springs to move,
The hero's glory, or the virgin's love;
In pitying Love, we but our weakness show,
And wild ambition well deserves its woe.
Here tears shall flow from a more gen'rous cause,
Such Tears as Patriots shed for dying Laws :
He bids your breasts with ancient ardour rise,

15 And calls forth Roman drops from British eyes.

Virtue 3

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Virtue confess'd in human shape he draws,
What Plato thought, and godlike Cato was :
No common object to your sight displays,
But what with pleasure Heav'n itself surveys, 20
A brave man struggling in the storms of fate,
And greatly falling with a falling state.
While Cato gives his little Senate laws,
What bosom beats not in his country's cause ?
Who sees him act, but envies ev'ry deed ?

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Who hears him groan, and does not wish to bleed ?
Ev’n when proud Cæsar 'midst triumphal cars,
The spoils of nations, and the pomp of wars, ,
Ignobly vain and impotently great,
Show'd Rome her Cato's figure drawn in ftate; 30
As her dead Father's rev'rend image past,
The pomp was darken'd, and the day o'ercast;
The Triumph ceas'd, tears gush'd from ev'ry eye;
The World's great Victor pass’d unheeded by ;
Her last good man dejected Rome ador'd,

35 And honour'd Cæfar's less than Cato's sword.

Britons attend : be worth like this approv'd, And show, you have the virtue to be mov’d. With honeft scorn the first fam'd Cato view'd Rome learning arts from Greece, whom she subdu'd; 40 Our scene precariously subfifts too long On French translation, and Italian song. Dare to have sense yourselves; assert the stage, Be juftly warm’d with your own native rage : Such Plays alone should please a British

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45 As Cato's self had not disdain'd to hear.

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Rodigious this! the frail one of our play

From her own Sex should mercy find to-day! You might have held the pretty head aside, Peep'd in your fans, been serious, thus, and cry'd, The Play may pass--but that strange creature, Shore, 5 I can't-indeed now-_I fo hate a whoreJust as a blockhead rubs his thoughtless skull, And thanks his stars he was not born a fool; So from a fifter finner you shall hear,

, “ How strangely you expose yourself, my dear?" 10 But let me die, all raillery apart, Our sex are still forgiving at their heart; And did not wicked custom so contrive, We'd be the best, good-natur'd things alive.

There are, 'tis true, who tell another tale, 15 That virtuous ladies envy while they rail : Such rage without betrays the fire within; In some close corner of the soul, they fin, Still hoarding up, moft scandalously nice, Amidst their virtues a reserve of vice. The godly dame, who fleshly failings damns, Scolds with her maid, or with her chaplain crams.

Wou'd

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