Began their buried senses to explore,
And found they now had passions as before:
The power of nature in their bosoms felt,
In spite of prejudice compell'd to melt.

When Cato's firm, all hope of succour past,
Holding his stubborn virtue to the last,
I view, with joy and conscious transport fir'd,.
The soul of Rome in one great man retir'd:
In him, as if she by confinement gain'd,
Her powers and energy are higher strain'd
Than when in crowds of senators she reign'd!
Cato well scorn'd the life that Cæsar gave,
When fear and weakness only bid him save:
But when a virtue like his own revives
The hero's constancy-with joy he lives.

Observe the justness of the poet's thoughts,
Whose smallest excellence is want of faults:
Without affected pomp and noise he warms;
Without the gaudy dress of beauty charms.
Love, the old subject of the buskin'd muse,
Returns, but such as Roman virgins use.
A virtuous love, chastis'd by purest thought,
Not from the fancy, but from nature wrought.
Britons, with lessen'd wonder, now behold
Your former wits, and all your bards of old;
Jonson out-vy'd in his own way confess;
And own that Shakspeare's self now pleases less.
While Phoebus binds the laurel on his brow,
Rise up, ye Muses; and, ye poets, bow:
Superior worth with admiration greet,
And place him nearest to his Phoebus' seat.

Those foes to verse you chase with manly arts,
And kindle Roman fires in British hearts.
Oh! fix, as well as raise, that noble flame:
Confirm your glory, and prevent our shame.
The routed opera may return again,
Seduce our hearts, and o'er our spirits reign:
Ev'n Cato is a doubtful match for all,
And right, opprest with odds, again may fall;
Let our just fears your second aid implore,
Repeat the stroke, this hydra springs no more.

VERSES SENT TO A LADY, WITH THE TRAGEDY OF CATO.

FROM STEELE'S COLLECTION.

IN vain, O heavenly maid, do I peruse
Th' instructive labours of the tragic Muse,
If Cato's virtue cannot cure my soul,
And all the jarring passions there control.
In vain--but ah! what arguments can prove
Sufficient to resist the force of love?

I burn like Marcus in th' impetuous fire;
Like him I languish with the fond desire;
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 raise compassion, where they could not love,
But lo bright Marcia! see, relentless fair,
In Cato's daughter thy whole self appear.
In thee, alas! her lovely virtues shine,
Her charms, her heavenly beauties, all are thine;
And whilst in moving numbers is display'd
Juba's soft passion for the glorious maid,
Think you behold your lover prostrate lie,
In tenderest accents think you hear me sigh:
Then, then be kind-and on my sufferings smile,
As generous Marcia pitied Juba's toil.
Thou, in whom all the Roman virtues dwell,
Let not the Roman merey thine excel;
Since love like that of Juba fills my breast,
Let me at length with equal joys be blest.

The verses of Dr. Young, Mr. Tickell, and Mr. Hughes, on this tragedy, are among the poems of their respective authors.

CATO.

Is Britain rescued from th' Italian chain,
And the dear song neglected for thy strain?
Are ev'n the fair reclaim'd? and dare they sit

Intent on virtue, and be pleas'd with wit?

DRAMATIS PERSONE.

MEN.

Sempronius, a senator

Mr. Keen.

Mr. Mills.

Juba, prince of Numidia

Mr. Wilks.

Syphas, general of the Numidians

Mr. Cibber.

Portins

}

Mr. Powel.

Marcus

sons of Cato

Decius, ambassador from Cæsar

Mr. Ryan. Mr. Bowman.

MUTINEERS, GUARDS, ETC.

WOMEN.

Marcia, daughter to Cato

Mrs. Porter.

Lucia, daughter to Lucius

Mrs. Oldfield.

PORTIUS.

Utica.

THE 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 close the scene of blood, Already Cæsar
Has ravag'd more than half the globe, and sees.
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 havoc does ambition make
Among your works!

Thy steady temper, Portius,

Can look on guilt, rebellion, fraud, and Cæsar,
In the calm lights of mild philosophy;
I'm tortur'd, ev'n to madness, when I think
On the proud victor: every time he's nam'd
Pharsalia rises to my view-I see

Th' insulting tyrant prancing o'er the field

MARCUS.

PORTIUS.

MARCUS.

slaughter,

His horse's hoofs wet with patrician blood.
Oh Portins, 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?
PORTIUS.

Believe me, Marcus, 'tis an impious greatness,
And mix'd with too much horrour to be envy'd:
How does the lustre of our father's actions,
Through the dark cloud of ills that cover him,
Break out, and burn with more triumphant bright-
[him;
ness!
His sufferings shine, and spread a glory round
Greatly unfortunate, he fights the cause
Of honour, virtue, liberty, and Rome.
His sword ne'er fell but on the guilty head;
Oppression, tyranny, and power usurp'd,
Draw all the vengeance of his arm upon them.

MARCUS.

Who knows not this? But what can Cato do Against a world, a base degenerate world, That courts the yoke, and bows the neck to Cæsar? 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 senate, Remnants of mighty battles fought in vain. By Heavens, such virtues, join'd with such success, Distract my very soul: our father's fortune Would almost tempt us to renounce his precepts.

VOL. IX.

PORTIUS.

Behold young Juba, the Numidian prince! With how much care he forms himself to glory, And breaks the fierceness of his native temper, To copy out our father's bright example. He loves our sister Marcia, greatly loves her; His eyes, his looks, his actions, all betray it: But still the smother'd fondness burns within him. When most it swells and labours for a vent, The sense of honour and desire of fame Drive the big passion back into his heart. What! shall an African, shall Juba's heir, Reproach great Cato's son, and show the world A virtue wanting in a Roman soul?

MARCUS. **

Portius, no more! your words leave stings behind them.

When e'er did Juba, or did Portius, show
A virtue that has cast me at a distance,
And thrown ine out in the pursuits of honour?

PORTIUS.

Marcus, I know thy generous temper well; Fng but th' appearance of dishonour on it, It straight takes fire, and mounts into a blaze. MARCUS.

A brother's sufferings claim a brother's pity.

PORTIUS.

Heaven knows I pity thee: behold my eyes

PP

PORTIUS.

Well dost thou seem to check my ling'ring bere
On this important hour-I'll straight away;
And while the fathers of the senate meet

In close debate, to weigh th' events of war,
I'll animate the soldiers' drooping courage,
With love of freedom, and contempt of life.
I'll thunder in their cars their country's cause,
And try to rouse up all that's Roman in them.
'Tis not in mortals to command success,
But we'll do more, Sempronius; we'll deserve it.
[Exic,

SEMPRONIUS.

Curse on the stripling! How he apes his sire! Ambitiously scutentious!-But I wonder Old Syphax comes not; his Numidian genius Is well dispos'd to mischief, were be prompt And eager on it; but he must be spurr'd, And every moment quicken'd to the course. Cato has us'd me ill; he has refus'd, His daughter Marcia to my ardent yows. Besides, his baffled arms and ruin'd cause Are bars to my ambition. Cæsar's favour, That showers down greatness on his friends, will raise me £ { * {!* »sf! } ¥#, To Rome's first honours. If I give up Cato, I claim in my reward his captive daughter. But Syphax comes!

1 1

-Sempronius, all is ready. I've sounded my Numidians, man by man, an And find them ripe for a revolt: they all Complain aloud of Cato's discipline, And wait but the command to change their master.

SEMPRONIUS. More brod eifI
Eva whilst we speak, our conqueror, comes on,...
Believe me, Syphax, there's no time to waste;
And gathers ground upon us every moment.
Alas! thou know'st not Cæsar's active soul,
With what a dreadful course he rushes on
From war to war: in vain has nature form'd
Mountains and oceans to oppose his passage;
He bounds o'er all, victorious in his march; ag
The Alps and Pyreneans sink before him;
Through winds, and waves, and storms, he works
his way,

Impatient for the battle: one day more
Will set the victor thundering at our gates.
But tell me, hast thou yet drawn-o'er young Jubal
That still would recommend thee more to Cæsar,
And challenge better terms-

Juba's surrender, since his father's death,
Would give up Afric into Cæsar's hands,
And make him lord of half the burning zone.

SYPHAX.

But is it true, Sempronius, that your senate Is call'd together? Gods! thou must be cautious: Cato has piercing eyes, and will discern Our frauds, unless they're cover'd thick with art.

SEMPRONIUS.

Let me alone, good Syphax, I'll conceal
My thoughts in passion ('tis the surest way);
I'll bellow out for Rome and for my country,
And mouth at Cæsar till I shake the senate.
Your cold hypocrisy 's a stale device,

A worn-out trick: wouldst thou be thought in earnest,

Clothe thy feign'd zeal in rage, in fire, in fury.

SYPHAX.

In troth, thou'rt able to instruct grey hairs, And teach the wily African deceit!

SEMPRONIUS.

Once more, be sure to try thy skill on Juba; Meanwhile I'll hasten to my Roman soldier's, luflame the mutiny, and underhand

Blow up their discontents, till they break ont
Unlook'd for, and discharge themselves on Cato.
Remember, Syphax, we must work in haste:
O think what anxious moments pass between
The birth of plots, and their last fatal periods.
Oh! 'tis a dreadful interval of time,
Fill'd up with horrour all, and big with death!
Destruction hangs on every word we speak,
On every thought, till the concluding stroke
Determines all, and closes our design.

SYPHAX.

Patience, kind Heavens!-Excuse an old man's warmth.

What are these wondrous civilizing arts,
This Roman polish, and this smooth behaviour,
That render man thus tractable and tame?
Are they, not only to disguise our passions,
To set our looks at variance with our thoughts,
To check the starts and sallies of the soul,
And break off all its commerce with the tongue;
In short, to change us into other creatures
Than what our nature and the gods design'd us?

JUBA.

To strike thee dumb, turn up thine eyes to
Cato!

There may'st thou see to what a godlike height
The Roman virtues lift up mortal man.
While good, and just, and anxious for his friends,
He's still severely bent against himself;
Renouncing sleep, and rest, and food, and case,
He strives with thirst and hunger, toil and heat;
And when his fortune sets before him all
The pomps and pleasures that his soul can wish,
His rigid virtue will accept of none.

SYPHAX.

Believe me, prince, there's not an African That traverses our vast Numidian deserts In quest of prey, and lives upon his bow, But better practises these boasted virtues. Coarse are his meals, the fortune of the chase: Amidst the running stream he slakes his thirst, Toils all the day, and at the approach of night On the first friendly bank he throws him down, Or rests his head upon a rock till morn: Then rises fresh, pursues his wonted game, And if the following day he chance to find A new repast, or an untasted spring, Blesses his stars, and thinks it luxury.

JUBA.

Thy prejudices, Syphax, won't discern What virtues grow from ignorance and choice, Nor how the hero differs from the brute.