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 flames
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.

our

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!

MARCUS.

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-1 see

Th' insulting tyrant prancing o'er the field

PORTIUS.

Remember what our father oft has told us: The ways of Heaven are dark and intricate; Puzzled in mazes, and perplex'd with errours, Our understanding traces them in vain, Lost and bewilder'd in the fruitless search; Nor where the regular confusion ends. Nor sees with how much art the windings run,

MARCUS.

These are suggestions of a mind at ease: Oh Portius, didst thou taste but half the griefs That wring my soul, thou couldst not talk, thus Passion unpity'd and successless love [coldly. Plant daggers in my heart, and aggravate My other griefs. Were but my Lucia kind!

PORTIUS.

Thou see'st not that thy brother is thy rival: But I must hide it, for I know thy temper. [Aside. 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 soul:

To quell the tyrant love, and guard thy heart On this weak side, where most our nature fails, Would be a conquest worthy Cato's son.

MARCUS.

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 see that Marcus is not slow To follow glory, and confess his father. Love is not to be reason'd down, or lost In high ambition, and a thirst of greatness; 'Tis second life, it grows into the soul,

slaughter,

His horse'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?

I feel it here: my resolution melts

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 me out in the pursuits of honour?

PORTIUS.

Marcus, I know thy generous temper well; Pl ng 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 here 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 ears 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. [Exit,

SEMPRONIUS.

Curse on the stripling! How he apes bis sire! Ambitiously sententious!-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 it: he has refus'd His daughter Marcia to my ardent vows. 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

To Rome's first honours. If I give up Cato, I claim in my reward his captive daughter. But Syphax comes!

SCENE III.

SYPHAX, SEMPRONIUS.

SYPHAX.

-Sempronius, all is ready.
I've sounded my Numidians, man by man,
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.

Ev'n 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;
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 Juba?
That still would recommend thee more to Cæsar,
And challenge better terms-

SYPHAX.

-Alas! he's lost, He's lost, Sempronius; all his thoughts are full Of Cato's virtues-But I'll try once more (For every instant I expect him here) If yet I can subdue those stubborn principles Of faith, of honour, and I know not what, That have corrupted his Numidian temper, And struck th' infection intò all his soul.

SEMPRONIUS.

Be sure to press upon him every motive,

uba's surrender, since his father's death, Vould 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 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); Il bellow out for Rome and for my country, nd mouth at Cæsar till I shake the senate. Your cold hypocrisy 's a stale device, 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, nd teach the wily African deceit!

SEMPRONIUS.

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

Blow up their discontents, till they break ont
Jnlook'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.

[Exit.

I'll try if yet I can reduce to reason This head-strong youth, and make him spurn at Cato.

The time is short, Cæsar comes rushing on usBut hold! young Juba sees me, and approaches.

SCENE IV. JUBA, SYPHAX,

JUBA.

Syphax, I joy to meet thee thus alone. I have observ'd of late thy looks are fallen, D'ercast with gloomy cares, and discontent: Then tell me, Syphax, I conjure thee, tell me, What are the thoughts that knit thy brow in frowns,

And turn thine eye thus coldly on thy prince?

SYPHAX.

'Tis not my talent to conceal my thoughts, Nor carry smiles and sun-shine in my face, When discontent sits heavy at my heart. I have not yet so much the Roman in me.

JUBA.

Why dost thou cast out such ungenerous terms Against the lords and sovereigns of the world? Dost thou not see mankind fall down before them, And own the force of their superior virtue? Is there a nation in the wilds of Afric, Amidst our barren rocks and burning sands, That does not tremble at the Roman name?

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, l'oils 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.