IX.

Proceed, my Mufe! Time's wafting thread pursue,
And fee at laft th' unravel'd clue,

When cities fink, and kingdoms are no more,
And weary nature fhall her work give o’er.
Behold th' Almighty Judge on high!

See in his hand the book of fate!
Myriads of fpirits fill the fky

T'attend, with dread folemnity,

The world's laft fcene, and time's concluding date. The feeble race of fhort-liv'd Vanity

.

And fickly Pomp at once fhall die;

Foul Guilt to midnight caves will shrink away,
Look back, and tremble in her flight,
And curse at Heaven's pursuing light,
Surrounded with the vengeance of that day.
How will you then, ye impious, 'fcape your doom,
Self-judg'd, abandon'd, overcome?

Your clouds of painted blifs fhall melt before your fight.

Yet fhall you not the giddy chace refrain,

Nor hope more folid blifs t' obtain,

Nor once repeat the joys you knew before;
But figh, a long eternity of pain,

Toft in an ocean of defire, yet never find a fhore.

X.

But fee where the mild Sovereign fits prepar'd

His better fubjects to reward!

Where am I now! what power divine

Tranfports me! what immortal fplendors fhine!

Torrents

Torrents of glory that opprefs the fight!

What joys, cœleftial king! thy throne furround!
The fun, who, with thy borrow'd beams fo bright,
Sees not his peer in all the ftarry round,
Would here diminish'd fade away,
Like his pale fifter of the night,
When the refigns her delegated light,
Loft in the blaze of day.

Here wonder only can take place ;—

Then, Mufe, th' adventurous flight forbear!
These mystic scenes thou canst no farther trace;
Hope may fome boundless future bliss embrace,
But what, or when, or how, or where,
Are mazes all, which Fancy runs in vain;
Nor can the narrow cells of human brain
The vaft immeafurable thought contain.

то

MR. ADDISON,

O N

HIS

TRAGEDY OF CATO.

T

HOUGH Cato fhines in Virgil's epic fong, Preferibing laws among th' Elyfian throng; Though Lucan's verfe, exalted by his name, O'er gods themselves has rais'd the hero's fame

0 2

;

The

The Roman ftage did ne'er his image fee,
Drawn at full length; a task referv'd for thee.
By thee we view the finish'd figure rise,
And awful march before our ravish'd eyes;
We hear his voice, afferting virtue's cause;
His fate renew'd our deep attention draws,
Excites by turns our various hopes and fears,
And all the patriot in thy scene appears.

On Tyber's bank thy thought was first inspir'd;
'Twas there, to fome indulgent grove retir'd,
Rome's ancient fortunes rolling in thy mind,
Thy happy Muse this manly work design'd :
Or in a dream thou faw'ft Rome's genius ftand,
And, leading Cato in his facred hand,
Point out th' immortal fubject of thy lays,
And ask this labour to record his praife.

'Tis done the hero lives, and charms our age! While nobler morals grace the British stage. Great Shakespeare's ghoft, the folemn strain to hear, (Methinks I fee the laurel'd fhade appear!) Will hover o'er the scene, and wondering view His favourite Brutus rival'd thus by you.

Such Roman greatness in each action fhines,
Such Roman eloquence adorns your lines,
That fure the Sibyls books this year foretold;
And in fome myftic leaf was found inroll'd,

Rome, turn thy mournful eyes from Africk's fhore,
Nor in her fands thy Cato's tomb explore!

• When

When thrice fix hundred times the circling fun

His annual race fhall through the zodiack run,
An ifle remote his monument shall rear,
And every generous Briton pay a tear.'

ADVICE TO MR. POPE,

ON HIS INTENDED TRANSLATION OF

HOMER'S

ILIA D, 1714.

THOU, who, with a happy genius born, Canft tuneful verfe in flowing numbers turn, Crown'd on thy Windfor's plains with early bays, Be early wife, nor truft to barren praise.

Blind was the bard that fung Achilles' rage,

He fung, and begg'd, and curs'd th' ungiving age;
If Britain his tranflated fong would hear,

First take the gold-then charm the listening ear,
So fhall thy father Homer fimile to fee

His penfion paid-though late, and paid to thee..

то тНЕ

MEMORY OF MR. MILTON.

Homer's Defcription of Himself, under the Character of Demodochus the Musician, at the Feast of King Alcinous.

FROM THE EIGHTH BOOK OF THE ODYSSES.

HE Mufe with transport lov'd him; yet, to fill

ΤΗ

His various lot, the blended good with ill;

Depriv'd him of his eyes, but did impart

The heavenly gift of fong, and all the tuneful art.

T

AWO fhining maids this happy work difplays;

Each moves our rapture, both divide our praise : In Marcia, we her godlike father trace;

While Lucia triumphs with each softer grace.
One ftrikes with awe, and one gives chaste delight;
That bright as lightning, this ferene as light.