TO A FRIEND IN THE COUNTRY.
WHILST thou art happy in a bless'd retreat,
And, free from care, dost rural songs repeat;
Whilst fragrant air fans thy poetic fire,
And pleasant groves with sprightly notes inspire,
(Groves whose recesses and refreshing shade
Indulge th' invention, and the judgment aid)
I, 'midst the smoke and clamours of the Town,
That choke my Muse, and weigh my fancy down,
Pass my unactive hours------
In such an air how can soft numbers flow,
Or in such soil the sacred laurel grow?
All we can boast of the poetic fire
Are but some sparks that soon as born expire.
Hail, happy Woods! harbours of peace and joy!
Where no black cares the mind's repose destroy;
Where grateful silence unmolested reigns,
Assists the Muse, and quickens all her strains.
Such were the scenes of our first parents' love;
In Eden's groves with equal flames they strove,
While warbling birds soft whisp'ring breaths of wind,
And murm'ring streams, to grace their nuptials join'd.
All Nature smil'd; the plains were fresh and green,
Unstain'd the fountains, and the heav'ns serene.
Ye bless'd remains of that illustrious age!
Delightful springs and woods!---
Might I with you my peaceful days live o'er,
You, and my friend, whose absence I deplore,
Calm as a gentle brook's unruffled tide
Should the delicious flowing minutes glide;
Discharg'd of care, on unfrequented plains,
We'd sing of rural joys in rural strains.
No false corrupt delights our thoughts should move,
But joys of friendship, poetry, and love.
While others fondly feed ambition's fire,
And to the top of human state aspire,
That from their airy eminence they may
With pride and scorn th' inferior world survey, Here we should dwell obscure, yet happier far than they.
ON HIS TRAGEDY OF CATO.
THO' Cato shines in Virgil's epic song,
Prescribing laws among th' Elysian throng;
Tho' Lucan's verse, exalted by his name,
O'er gods themselves has rais'd the hero's fame;
The Roman stage did ne'er his image see
Drawn at full length, a task reserv'd for thee.
By thee we view the finish'd figure rise,
And awful march before our ravish'd eyes;
We hear his voice asserting 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 Tiber's banks thy thought was first inspir'd;
'T was there to some 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 saw'st Rome's genius stand,
And leading Cato in his sacred hand,
Point out th' immortal subject of thy lays,
And ask this labour to record his praise.
'Tis done---the hero lives, and charms our age, While nobler morals grace the British stage. Great Shakspere's ghost, the solemn strain to hear, (Methinks I see the laurell'd shade appear!) Will hover o'er the scene, and, wond'ring, view His fav'rite Brutus rivall'd thus by you. Such Roman greatness in each action shines, Such Roman eloquence adorns your lines, That sure the Sybils' books this year foretold, And in some mystic leaf was found enroll'd, "Rome, turn thy mournful eyes from Afric's shore, "Nor in her sands thy Cato's tomb explore!
"When thrice six hundred times the circling sun
"His annual race shall thro' the zodiac run,
"An isle remote his monument shall rear,
"An ev'ry gen'rous Britain pay a tear."
WITH THE TRAGEDY OF CATO.
Two shining maids this happy work displays;
Each moves our rapture, both divide our praise:
In Marcia we her godlike father trace,
While Lucia triumphs with each softer grace.
One strikes with awe, and one gives chaste delight; 5
That bright as lightning, this serene as light:
Yet by the Muse the shadow'd forms were wrought,
And both are creatures of the poet's thought.
In her that animates these lines we view
The wonder greater, the description true;
Each living virtue, ev'ry grace combin'd,
And Marcia's worth with Lucia's sweetness join'd.
Had she been born ally'd to Cato's name,
Numidia's prince had felt a real flame,
And, pouring his resistless troops from far,
With bolder deeds had turn'd the doubtful war;
Cæsar had fled before his conqu❜ring arms,
And Roman Muses sung her beauty's charms.
The first SCENE is a river. Peneus, a river-god, appears on a bed of rushes, leaning on bis urn: be rises, and comes forward, his head crowned with rushes and flowers, a reed in bis band.
How long must Peneus chide in vain
His daughter's coyness and disdain ?
Thro' Tempe's pleasant vales and bow'rs
As my full urn its current pours,
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