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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 ghost, or grac'd thy mournful bior:
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 sable 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 alhes grace,
Nor polish'd marble emulate thy face?
What tho' no sacred carth allow thee room,
Nor hallow'd dirge be mutter'd o'er thy tomb ?
Yet shall thy grave with rising flow'rs be drest,
And the green turf lie lightly on thy breaft:
There shall the morn her earliest tears bestow, 65
There the first roses of the year shall blow;
While Angels with their filver wings o'ershade
The ground, now facred by thy reliques made.

So peaceful rests, without a stone, a name,
What once had beauty, titles, wealth, and fame.
How lov'd, how honour'd once, avails thee not,
To whom related, or by whom begot;
A heap of dust alone remains of thee,
'Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall be !

74 Poets themselves must fall, like those they sung, Deaf the prais'd ear, and mute the tuneful tongue, Ev'n he, whose foul now melts in mourful 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.
Life's idle business at one gasp be o'er,
The Muse forgot, and thou beloy'd no more!


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O wake the foul by tender strokes of art,

To raise the genius, and to mend the heart; To make mankind, in conscious virtue bold, Live c'er each scene, and be what they behold: For this the Tragic Muse first trod the stage, 5 Commanding tears to stream thro' ev'ry age ; Tyrınts no more their fuvage nature kept, And foes to virtue wonder'd how they wept. Our author huns by vulgar springs to move The hero's glory, or the virgin's love; In pitying Love, we but our weakness show, And wild Ambition well deserves its woe. Here tears shall flow from a more gen'rous cause, Such Tears as Patriots íhed for dying Laws: He bids your breasts with ancient ardour rise, , 15 And calls forth koman drops from British eyes.


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Virtue confess’d in human shape he draws,
What Plato thought, and godlike. Cato was.:
No common object to your sight displays,
But what with pleasure Heav'n itself surveys, 20
A brave man struggling 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 sees him act, but envies ev'ry deed?

Who hears him groan, and does not wish to bleed?
Ev'n when proud Cæfar, 'midft 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'ercaft;
The Triumph ceas'd, tears gush'd from ev'ry eye;
The World's great Vietor pafs'd unheeded by;
Her last good man dejected Rome ador'd, 35
And honour'd Cæsar's less than Cato's fword.

Britons, attend: be worth like this approv'd, And show, you have the virtue to be mov'd. With honest scorn the first fam'd Cato view'd Rome learning arts from Greece, whom she subdu’d;


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

VER. 37. Britons, atiend] Mr. Pope had written it arise, in the spirit of Poetry and Liberty ; but Mr. Addison frightend at fo daring an expreffion, which, he thought, 1quinted at rebellion, would have it alter'd, in the spirit of Prose and Politics, to attend.

Your scene precariously subsists too long
On French translation, and Italian fong.
Dare to have sense yourselves; assert the stage,
Be juftly warm’d with your own native rage:
Such Plays alone should win a British ear,
As Cato's self had not disdain'd to hear.


VER. 46. As Cato Self, etc.] This alludes to the faa mous story of his going into the Theatre, and immediately coming out again.


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