When waves on waves, and gulphs on gulphs,
O'ercame the pilot's art.

Yet then from all my griefs, O Lord,
Thy mercy set me free;
Whilst, in the confidence of prayer,
My soul took hold on thee.

For though in dreadful whirls we hung
High on the broken wave,

I knew thou wert not slow to hear,
Nor impotent to save.

The storm was laid, the winds retir'd,
Obedient to thy will;

The sea that roar'd at thy command,
At thy command was still.

In midst of dangers, fears, and death,
Thy goodness I'll adore;
And praise thee for thy mercies past,
And humbly hope for more.

My life, if thou preserv'st my life,
Thy sacrifice shall be;

And death, if death must be my doom,
Shall join my soul to thee.

AN HYMN.

WHEN rising from the bed of death,
O'erwhelm'd with guilt and fear,
I see my Maker face to face;
O how shall I appear!

If yet, while pardon may be found,
And mercy may be sought,
My heart with inward horrour shrinks,
And trembles at the thought:

When thou, O Lord, shalt stand disclos'd
In majesty severe,
And sit in judgment on my soul;
O how shall I appear!

But thou hast told the troubled soul,
Who does her sins lament,

The timely tribute of her tears
Shall endless woe prevent.

Then see the sorrows of my heart,
Ere yet it be too late;

And add my Saviour's dying groans,
To give those sorrows weight.

For never shall my soul despair

Her pardon to procure,
Who knows thy only Son has dy'd
To make that pardon sure.

PARAPHRASE ON PSALM XXIII.

THE Lord my pasture shall prepare, And feed me with a shepherd's care; His presence shall my wants supply, And guard me with a watchful eye: My noon-day walks he shall attend, Aud all my midnight hours defend.

When in the sultry glebe Í faint,
Or on the thirsty mountain pant;
To fertile vales and dewy meads
My weary wandering steps he leads:
Where peaceful rivers, soft and slow,
Amid the verdant landscape flow.
Though in the paths of death I tread,
With gloomy horrours overspread,
My steadfast heart shall fear no ill,
For thou, O Lord, art with me still;
Thy friendly crook shall give me aid,
And guide me through the dreadful shade,
Though in a bare and rugged way,
Through devious lonely wilds 1 stray,
Thy bounty shall my wants beguile:
The barren wilderness shall smile,
With sudden greens and herbage crown'd,
And streams shall murmur all around.

THE PLAY-HOUSE'.

WHERE gentle Thames through stately channels glides,

And England's proud metropolis divides;
A lofty fabric does the sight invade,
And stretches o'er the waves a pompous shade;
Whence sudden shouts the neighbourhood sur-
prise,

And thundering claps and dreadful hissings rise.
Here thrifty R- hires monarchs by the day,
And keeps his mercenary kings in pay;
With deep-mouth'd actors fills the vacant scenes,
And rakes the stews for goddesses and queens:
Here the lewd punk, with crowns and sceptres
Teaches her eyes a more majestic cast; [grac'd,
And hungry monarchs with a numerous train
Of suppliant slaves, like Sancho, starve and reign,
But enter in, my Muse; the stage survey,
And all its pomp and pageantry display;
Trap-doors and pit-falls, form th' unfaithful ground,
And magic walls encompass it around:
On either side maim'd temples fill our eyes,
And intermixt with brothel-houses rise;
Disjointed palaces in order stand,
And groves obedient to the mover's hand
O'ershade the stage, and flourish at command,
A stamp makes broken towns and trees entire:
So when Amphion struck the vocal lyre,
He saw the spacious circuit all around,
With crowding woods and rising cities crown'd.

But next the tiring-room survey, and see
False titles, and promiscuous quality,
Confus'dly swarm, from heroes and from queens,
To those that swing in clouds and fill machines.
Their various characters they choose with art,
The frowning bully fits the tyrant's part:
Swoln cheeks and swaggering belly make an host,
Pale meagre looks and hollow voice a ghost;
From careful brows and heavy downcast eyes,
Dull cits and thick-scull'd aldermen arise:
The comic tone, inspir'd by Congreve, draws
At every word, loud laughter and applause:
The whining dame continues as before,
Her character unchang'd, and acts a whore.

'See Sedley's Miscellanies, 8vo. p. 202.

Above the rest, the prince with haughty stalks
Magnificent in purple buskins walks:
The royal robes his awful shoulders grace,
Profuse of spangles and of copper-lace:
Officious rascals to his mighty, thigh,
Guiltless of blood, the unpointed weapon tie:
Then the gay glittering diadem put on,
Ponderous with brass, and starr'd with Bristol-
stone.

His royal consort next consults her glass,
And out of twenty boxes culls a face;

The whitening first her ghastly looks besmears,
All pale and wan th' unfinish'd form appears;
Till on her cheeks the blushing purple glows,
And a false virgin-modesty bestows.
Her ruddy lips the deep vermilion dyes;
Length to her brows the pencil's art supplies,
And with black bending arches shades her eyes.
Well pleas'd at length the picture she beholds,
And spots it o'er with artificial molds;
Her countenance complete, the beaux she warms
With looks not hers: and, spite of nature, charms.
Thus artfully their persons they disguise,.
Till the last flourish bids the curtain rise.
The prince then enters on the stage in state;
Behind, a guard of candle-snuffers wait:
There swoln with empire, terrible and fierce,
He shakes the dome, and tears his lungs with verse:
His subjects tremble; the submissive pit,
Wrapt up in silence and attention, sit;
Till, freed at length, he lays aside the weight
Of public business and affairs of state:
Forgets his pomp, dead to ambitious fires,
And to some peaceful brandy-shop retires;
Where in full gills his anxious thoughts he drowns,
And quaffs away the care that waits on crowns.
The princess next her painted charms displays,
Where every look the pencil's art betrays;
The callow squire at distance feeds his eyes,
And silently for paint and washes dies:
But if the youth behind the scenes retreat,
He sees the blended colours melt with heat,
And all the trickling beauty run in sweat.
The borrow'd visage he admires no more,
And nauseates every charm he lov'd before:
So the fam'd spear, for double force renown'd,
Apply'd the remedy that gave the wound.

In tedious lists 'twere endless to engage,
And draw at length the rabble of the stage,
Where one for twenty years has giv'n alarms,
And call'd contending monarchs to their arms;
Another fills a more important post,
And rises every other night a ghost;
Through the cleft stage his mealy face he rears,
Then stalks along, groans thrice, and disappears;
Others, with swords and shields, the soldier's pride,
More than a thousand times have chang'd their
side,

And in a thousand fatal battles dy'd.

Thus several persons several parts perform;
Soft lovers whine, and blustering heroes storm.
The stern exasperated tyrants rage,

Till the kind bowl of poison clears the stage.
Then honours vanish, and distinctions cease;
Then, with reluctance, haughty queens undress.
Heroes no more their fading laurels boast,
And mighty kings in private men are lost.
He, whom such titles swell'd, such power made
proud,
[bow'd,
To whom whole realms and vanquish'd nations

Throws off the gaudy plume, the purple train, And in his own vile tatters stinks again.

ON THE LADY MANCHESTER. WRITTEN ON THE TOASTING-GLASSES OF THE KIT-CAT CLUB.

WHILE haughty Gallia's dames, that spread
O'er their pale cheeks an artful red,
Beheld this beauteous stranger there,
In native charms divinely fair;
Confusion in their looks they show'd;
And with unborrow'd blushes glow'd.

CATO.

A TRAGEDY.

Ecce spectaculum dignum, ad quod respiciat, intentus operi suo, Deus! Ecce par Deo dignum, vir fortis cum malâ fortunâ compositus! Non video, inquam, quid habeat in terris Jupiter pulchrius, si converters animum velit, quàm ut spectet Catonem, jam partibus non semel fractis, nihilominùs inter ruinas publicas erectum. Sen, de Divin. Prov.

TO HER ROYAL HIGHNESS THE PRIN-
CESS OF WALES.

WITH THE TRAGEDY OF CATO, NOVEMBER 1714,
THE Muse that oft, with sacred rapture fir'd,
Has generous thoughts of liberty inspir'd,
And, boldly rising for Britannia's laws,
Engag'd great Cato in her country's cause,
On you submissive waits with hopes assur'd,
By whom the mighty blessings stand secur'd;
And all the glories, that our age adorn,
Are promis'd to a people yet unborn.

No longer shall the widow'd land bemoan
A broken lineage, and a doubtful throne;
But boast her royal progeny's increase,
And count the pledges of her future peace.
O born to strengthen and to grace our isle!
While you, fair princess, in your offspring smile,
Supplying charms to the succeeding age,
Each heavenly daughter's triumphs we presage;
Already see th' illustrious youths complain,
And pity monarchs doom'd to sigh in vain.

Thou too, the darling of our fond desires, Whom Albion, opening wide her arms, requires, With manly valour and attractive air,

Shalt quell the fierce, and captivate the fair,
O England's younger hope! in whom conspire
The mother's sweetness, and the father's fire!
For thee perhaps, ev'n now, of kingly race
Some dawning beauty blooms in every grace;
Some Carolina, to Heaven's dictates true,
Who, while the scepter'd rivals vainly sue,
Thy inborn worth with conscious eyes shall see,
And slight th' imperial diadem for thee.

Pleas'd with the prospect of successive reigns, The tuneful tribe no more in daring strains

ease

And native majesty, are form'd to please,
Behold those arts with a propitious eye,
That suppliant to their great protectress fly!
Then shall they triumph, and the British stage
Improve her manners, and refine her rage,
More noble characters expose to view,
And draw her finish'd heroines from you.

Nor you the kind indulgence will refuse,
Skill'd in the labours of the deathless Muse:
The deathless Muse, with undiminish'd rays,
Through distant times the lovely dame conveys :
To Gloriana Waller's harp was strung;

The queen still shines, because the poet sung.
Ev'n all those graces, in your frame combin'd
The common fate of mortal charms may find
(Content our short-liv'd praises to engage,
The joy and wonder of a single age),
Unless some poet, in a lasting song,
To late posterity their fame prolong,
Instruct our sons the radiant form to prize,
And see your beauty with their fathers' eyes.

VERSES

TO THE AUTHOR OF THE TRAGEDY OF CATO.

WHILE you the fierce divided Britons awe,
And Cato with an equal virtue draw;
While envy is itself in wonder lost,

And factions strive who shall applaud you most;
Forgive the fond ambition of a friend,
Who hopes himself, not you, to recommend:
And joins th' applause which all the learn'd bestow
On one, to whom a perfect work they owe.
To my light scenes I once inscrib'd your name,
And impotently strove to borrow fame;
Soon will that die, which adds thy name to mine;
Let me, then, live, join'd to a work of thine.
Richard Steele.

Sullen approv'd, too obstinate to melt,
And sicken'd with the pleasures which they felt.
Not so the fair their passions secret kept,
Silent they heard, but, as they heard, they wept;
When gloriously the blooming Marcus dy'd,
And Cato told the gods, "I'm satisfy'd."

See! how your lays the British youth inflame!
They long to shoot and ripen into fame;
Applauding theatres disturb their rest,
And unborn Catoes heave in every breast;
Their nightly dreams, their daily thoughts repeat,
And pulses high with fancy'd glories beat.
So, griev'd to view the Marathonian spoils,
The young Themistocles vow'd equal toils;
Did then his schemes of future honours draw
From the long triumphs which with tears he saw.
How shall I your unrival'd worth proclaim,
Lost in the spreading circle of your fame!
We saw you the great William's praise rehearse,
And paint Britannia's joys in Roman verse.
We heard at distance soft enchanting strains,
From blooming mountains, and Italian plains.
Virgil began in English dress to shine,

His voice, his looks, his grandeur, still divine:
From him too soon unfriendly you withdrew,
But brought the tuneful Ovid to our view.
Then the delightful theme of every tongue,
Th' immortal Marlborough, was your darling song.
From clime to clime the mighty' victor flew,
From clime to clime as swiftly you pursue,
Still with the hero's glow'd the poet's flame,
Still with his conquests you enlarg'd your fame.
With boundless raptures here the Muse could
swell,

And on your Rosamond for ever dwell:
There opening sweets and every fragrant flower
Luxuriant smile, a never-fading bower!
Next, human follies kindly to expose,

You change from numbers, but not sink in prose
Whether in visionary scenes you play,
Refine our tastes, or laugh our crimes away.
Now, by the buskin'd Muse you shine confest,
The patriot kindles in the poet's breast.
Such energy of sense might pleasure raise,
Though unembellish'd with the charms of phrase:
Such charms of phrase would with success be
crown'd,

Though nonsense flow'd in the melodious sound,
The learn'd themselves not uninstructed hear.
The chastest virgin needs no blushes fear,
The libertine, in pleasures us'd to roll,
And idly sport with an immortal soul,
Here comes, and, by the virtuous heathen taught,
Turns pale, and trembles at the dreadful thought
Whene'er you traverse vast Numidia's plains,
What sluggish Briton in his isle remains!
When Juba seeks the tiger with delight,
We beat the thicket, and provoke the fight;
By the description warm'd, we fondly sweat,
And in the chilling east wind pant with heat.
What eyes behold not, how the stream refines,
Tili by degrees the floating mirror shines?
While hurricanes in circling eddies play,
Tear up the sands, and sweep whole plains away,
We shrink with horrour, and confess our fear,
And all the sudden sounding ruin hear.
When royal robes, distain'd with blood, deceive,
And make poor Marcia beautifully grieve;
When she her secret thoughts no more conceals,
Forgets the woman, and her flame reveals;

Well may the prince exult with noble pride,
Not for his Libyan crown, but Roman bride.
But I in vain on single features dwell,
Where all the parts of the fair piece excel.
So rich the 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 call.
Thus jewelers confound our wandering 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 mingle in a blaze,
Silent we stand, unable where to praise,
In pleasure sweetly lost ten thousand ways.
Trinity College, Cambridge.

SIR,

L. Eusden.

WHEN your generous labour first I view'd,
And Cato's hands in his own blood imbrued,
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 ev'n my grief to praise and wonder turn'd,
And envy'd the great death which first I moum'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 Heaven the distant shore.
Secure of endless bliss, with fearful 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, aud 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 exprest,
Of virtue dwelling in a human breast:
Drawn at full length by your immortal lines,
In Cato's soul, as in her Heaven she shines.
All Souls College, Oxon.
Digby Cotes.

Ev'n civil rage awhile 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 eularg'd;
And while his godlike figure mov'd along,
Alternate passions fir'd th' adoring throng;-
Tears flow'd from every eye, and shouts from every
tongue;

So in the 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 Libya's waste:
Behold its glowing paint! its easy weight!
Its nice proportions! and stupendons height!
How chaste the conduct! how divine the rage!
A Roman worthy, on 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 listening 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 panting breath;
The dying Roman shames the pomp of death.

O sacred freedom! which the powers bestow To season blessings, and to soften woe; 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.

UPON MR. ADDISON'S CATO,

KNOWN HAND'.

Now we may speak, since Cato speaks no more:
'Tis praise at length, 'twas rapture all before:
When crowded theatres with lo's rung
Sent to the skies, from whence thy genius sprung;

These verses were by George Jeffreys, esq. which Addison never knew. See Select Collection of Miscellany Poems, vol. vi. p. 59; and see Dr. Johnson's encomiun on them in the life of Addison, N.

By modern operas quite lull'd asleep:
No matter what the lines, the voice was clear;
Thus sense was sacrific'd to please the ear.
At last, one wit' stood up in our defence,
And dar'd (O impudence!) to publish-sense.
Soon then as next the just tragedian spoke,
The ladies sigh'd again, the beaux awoke.
Those heads that us'd most indolent to move
To sing-song, ballet, and sonata love,

The Spectator,

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, Aud 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 mercy thine excel;
Since love like that of Juba fills my breast,
Let me at length with equal joys be blest.