Of freedom gave the noblest name of Just;
In pure majestic poverty rever'd;
Who, even his glory to his country's weal
Submitting, swell'd a haughty Rival's fame.
Rear'd by his care, of softer ray appears
Cimon sweet-soul'd; whose genius, rising strong,
Shook off the load of young debauch; abroad
The scourge of Persian pride, at home the friend
Of ev'ry worth and ev'ry splendid art;
Modest and simple in the pomp of wealth.
Then the last worthies of declining Greece,
Late call'd to glory, in unequal times,
Pensive, appear. The fair Corinthian boast,
Timoleon, happy temper! mild, and firm,
Who wept the Brother while the Tyrant bled.
And, equal to the best, the Theban Pair,
Whose virtues, in heroic Concord join'd,
Their country rais'd to freedom, empire, fame.
He too, with whom Athenian honour sunk,
And left a mass of sordid lees behind,
Phocion the Good; in public life severe,
To virtue still inexorably firm;
But when, beneath his low illustrious roof,
Sweet peace and happy wisdom smooth'd his brow,
Not friendship softer was, nor love more kind.
And he, the last of old Lycurgus' sons,
The generous victim to that vain attempt,
To save a rotten, State, Agis, who saw
Even Sparta's self to servile avarice sunk.
The two Achaian heroes close the train.
Aratus, who awhile relum'd the soul
Of fondly lingering liberty in Greece:
And he her darling as her latest hope,
The gallant Philopamen; who to arms
Turn'd the luxurious pomp he could not cure;
Or toiling in his farm a simple swain;
Or, bold and skilful, thundering in the field.
Of rougher front, a mighty people come!
A race of heroes! in those virtuous times
Which knew no stain, save that with partial flame
Their dearest country they too fondly lov'd:
Her better founder first, the light of Rome,
Numa, who soften'd her rapacious sons :
Servius the King, who laid the solid base
On which o'er earth the vast republic spread.
Then the great consuls venerable rise.
The Public Father who the Private quell'd,
As on the dread tribunal sternly sad.
He, whom his thankless country could not lose,
Camillus, only vengeful to her foes.
Fabricius, scorner of all-conquering gold;
And Cincinnatus, awful from the plough.
Thy willing Victim, Carthage, bursting loose
From all that pleading Nature could oppose,
From a whole city's tears, by rigid faith
Imperious call'd, and honour's dire command.
Scipio, the gentle chief, humanely brave,
Who soon the race of spotless glory ran,
And, warm in youth, to the Poetic shade
With Friendship and Philosophy retir'd.
Tully, whose pow'rful eloquence awhile
Restrain'd the rapid fate of rushing Rome.
Unconquer'd Cato, virtuous in extreme.
And thou, unhappy Brutus, kind of heart,
rom our hope so soon? 560 le thirst of fame,
breast? that treasur'd store ? that eager zeal
wing in the band
sustain her name? diffusing charm
ture for the Muse. and that soul of joy,
light thy virtues smile?
Whose steady arm, by awful virtue urg'd,
Lifted the Roman steel against thy Friend.
Thousands besides the tribute of a verse
Demand; but who can count the stars of heaven;
Who sing their influence on this lower world?
Behold, who yonder comes! in sober state,
Fair, mild, and strong, as is a vernal sun:
"Tis Phœbus' self, or else the Mantuan Swain !
Great Homer too appears, of daring wing,
Parent of song! and equal by his side,
The British Muse; join'd hand-in-hand they walk, 535.
Darkling, full up the middle steep to fame.
Nor absent are those shades, whose skilful touch
Pathetic drew the impassion'd heart, and. charm'd
Transported Athens with the moral scene:
Nor those who, tuneful, wak'd the enchanting lyre.
First of your kind! society divine!
Still visit thus my nights, for you reserv'd,
And mount my soaring soul to thoughts like yours.
Silence thou lonely power! the door be thine;
See on the hallowed hour that nope intrude,
Save a few chosen friends, who sometimes deign
To bless my humble roof, with sense refin❜d,
Learning digested well, exalted faith,
Unstudy'd wit, and humour ever gay.
Or from the Muses' hill will Pope descend,
To raise the sacred hour, to bid it smile,
And with the social spirit warm the heart:
For tho' not sweeter his own Homer sings,
Yet is his life the more endearing song.
Where art thou, Hammond? thou the darling pride, The friend and lover of the tuneful throng!
|