Ambition first sprung from

your blest abodes;

15

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.
Moft fouls, 'tis true, but peep out once an age,
Dull fullen pris'ners in the body's cage :
Dim lights of life, that burn a length of years
Ufelefs, unfeen, as lamps in fepulchres;
Like Eastern Kings a lazy ftate they keep,
And, close confin'd to their own palace, fleep.
From these perhaps (ere nature bade her die)
Fate fnatch'd her early to the pitying sky.
As into air the purer spirits flow,

And fep'rate from their kindred dregs below;
So flew the foul to its congenial place,
Nor left one virtue to redeem her Race.

20

25

But thou, falfe guardian of a charge too good, Thou, mean deferter of thy brother's blood! 30 See on these ruby lips the trembling breath,

These cheeks now fading at the blast of death;
Cold is that breaft which warm'd the world before,
And those love-darting eyes muft roll no more.
Thus, if eternal juftice rules the ball,
Thus fhall your wives, and thus your children fall:
On all the line a fudden vengeance waits,
And frequent herfes fhall befiege your gates;

35

There paffengers shall stand, and pointing fay,
(While the long fun'rals blacken all the way) 40
Lo! these were they, whose souls the Furies steel'd,
And curs'd with hearts unknowing how to yield.
Thus unlamented pass the proud away,

The gaze of fools, and pageant of a day!
So perish all, whose breast ne'er learn'd to glow 45
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, 51
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 fable weeds appear, 55
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 facred earth allow thee room,
Nor hallow'd dirge be mutter'd o'er thy tomb?
Yet fhall thy grave with rifing flow'rs be dreft,
And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast:

60

There shall the morn her earliest tears bestow, 65 There the first roses of the year fhall blow; While Angels with their filver wings o'erfhade The ground, now facred by thy reliques made.

So peaceful refts, without a stone, a name, What once had beauty, titles, wealth, and fame. 70 How lov'd, how honour'd once, avails thee not, To whom related, or by whom begot;

A heap of duft alone remains of thee,

"Tis all thou art, and all the proud fhall be! 74 Poets themselves must fall like those they sung, Deaf the prais'd ear, and mute the tuneful tongue. Ev'n he, whose soul now melts in mournful lays, Shall shortly want the gen'rous tear he pays; Then from his clofing eyes thy form shall part, And the last pang shall tear thee from his heart, 80 Life's idle business at one gafp be o'er,

The Muse forgot, and thou belov'd no more!

PROLOGUE+

TO.

Mr. ADDISON's Tragedy

O F

CATO.

wake the foul by tender ftrokes 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 ftage, 5
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 fhuns by vulgar fprings to move
The hero's glory, or the virgin's love;
In pitying love, we but our weakness show,
And wild Ambition well deferves its woe.

ΤΟ

+ This Prologue, and the Epilogue which follows, are the most perfect models of this fpecies of writing, both in the serious and the ludicrous way.

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 confefs'd in human fhape he draws, What Plato thought, and godlike Cato was : No common object to your fight displays, But what with pleasure Heav'n itself surveys, 20 A brave man ftruggling 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 fees him act, but envies ev'ry deed? Who hears him groan, and does not wish to bleed? Ev'n when proud Cæfar '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, And honour'd Cæfar's lefs than Cato's fword.

NOTES.

25

35

VER. 20. But what with pleasure] This alludes to a famous paffage of Seneca, which Mr. Addifon afterwards used as a motto to his play, when it was printed.