« ElőzőTovább »
And just Arrangement, circling round one point,
That starts to sight, binds and commands the whole.
foam'd, immense the driving storm Sadden'd the skies, and, from the doubling gloom, On the scath'd oak the ragged lightning fell ; In closing shades, and where the current strays, With Peace, and Love, and Innocence around, Pip'd the lone shepherd to his feeding flock: Round happy parents smild their younger selves; And friends convers’d, by death divided long.
To public Virtue thus the smiling Arts, Unblemish'd handmaids, serv’d; the Graces they To dress this fairest Venus. Thus rever'd, And plac'd beyond the reach of sordid care, The high awarders of immortal fame, Alone for glory thy great masters strove; Courted by kings, and by contending states Assum'd the boasted honour of their birth.
In Architecture too thy rank supreme ! That art where most magnificent appears The little builder Man ; by thee refin'd, And, smiling high, to full perfection brought. Such thy sure rules, that Goths of every age, Who scorn'd their aid, have only loaded earth With labour'd heavy monuments of shame. Not those gay domes that o'er thy splendid shore
Shot, all proportion, up. First unadorn'd,
The King of a FREE PEOPLE.
(THOMSON.) -THRICE happy! did they know Their happiness, Britannia's bounded Kings. What tho' not their's the boast, in dungeon glooms To plunge bold Freedom ; or, to cheerless wilds, To drive iiim from the cordial face of friend; Or fierce to strike him at the midnight hour, By man ate blind, not Justice, that delights To dare the keenest eye of open day. What tho' no glory to controul the laws, And make injurious Will their only rule, They deem it. What tho', tools of wanton power, Pestif'rous Armies swarm not at their call. What tho' they give not a relentless crew Of Civil Furies proud Oppression's fangs, To tear at pleasure the dejected land, With starving labour pampering idle waste. To clothe the naked, feed the hungry, wipe The guiltless tear from lone affliction's eye; To raise hid Merit, set th' alluring light Of Virtue high to view ; to nourish Arts, Direct the thunder of an injur'd state, Make a whole glorious people sing for joy, Bless human kind, and thro' the downward depth Of future times to spread that better Sun Which lights up British Souls : for deeds like these, The dazzling fair career unbounded lies ; While (still superior bliss!) the dark abrupt Is kindly barr'd, the precipice of ill. Oh luxury divine! O poor to this, Ye giddy glories of Despotic thrones!
By this, by this in leed, is imag'd Heav'n,
(THOMSON.) HAIL! Independence, hail! Heav'n's next best gift To that of life and an immortal soul ! The life of life! that to the banquet high And sober meal gives taste; to the bow'd roof Fair-dream'd repose, and to the cottage charms. Of public Freedom, hail, thou secret source ! Whose streams, from every quarter confluent, form My better Nile, that nurses human life. By rills from thee deduc'd, irriguous, fed, The private field looks gay, with Nature's wealth Abundant flows, and blooms with each delight That nature craves. Its happy master there, The only Free-man, walks his pleasing round: Sweet-featur'd Peace attending; fearless Truth; Firm Resolution ; Goodness, blessing all That can rejoice; Contentment, surest friend ; And, still fresh stores from Nature's book deriy'd, Philosophy, companion ever-new. These cheer bis rural, and sustain or fire, When into action callid, his busy hours. Meantime true-judging moderate desires, Economy and Taste, combin’d, direct His clear affairs, and from debauching fiends Secure his little kingdom. Nor can those Whom Fortune heaps, without these virtues, reach That truce with pain, that animated ease, That self-enjoyment springing from within ; That Independence, active, or retird, Which make the soundest bliss of map below: But, lost beneath the rubbish of their means, And draind by wants to Nature all unknown,
A wandering, tasteless, gayly wretched train, Tho' rich are beggars, and tho' noble, slaves.
Britons! be firm ! nor let Corruption sly Twine round your heart indissoluble chains ! The steel of Brutus burst the grosser bonds By Cæsar cast o'er Rome; but still remain'd The soft enchanting fetters of the mind,
And other Cæsars rose. Determin'd, hold
PROLOGUE to Cato.
(POPE.) To wake the soul by tender strokes of art, To raise the genius, and to mend the heart, To make mankind in conscious virtue bold, Live o'er each scene, and be what they behold; For this the tragic muse first trod the stage, Commanding tears to stream thro' every age: Tyrants no more their savage nature kept, And foes to virtue wonder'd how they wept. Our author shuns 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 Calige, Such tears as patriots shed for dying lawa: He bids your breast with ancient ardour rise, And calls forth Roman drops from British eyes. Virtue confess'd in human shape he draws, What Plato thought, and God-like Cato was; No common object to your sight displays, But what with pleasure Heav'n itself surveys; A brave nan struggling in the storms of fate, And greatly falling in 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 Cæsar, 'midst triumphal cars, The spoils of nations, and the pomp of wars, Ignobly vain, and impotently great, Shew'd Rome her Cato's figure drawn in state; As her dead father's rev'rend image past, The pomp was darken d, and the day o'ercast, The triumph ceas'd-tears gush'd from ev'ry eye, The world's great victor pass d unheeded by; Her last good man dejected Rome ador'd, And honour'd Cæsar's, less than Cato's sword.
Britons attend: Be worth like this approv'd, And shew
you have the virtue to be moy'd.
PEREUNT ET IMPUTANTUR.
TO-MORROW, didst thou say?
But soft, my friend--arrest the present moments;
Then stay the present instant, dear Horatio; Imprint the marks of wisdom on its wings. 'Tis of more worth than kingdoms! far more precious Than all the crimson treasures of life's fountain. O! let it not elude thy grasp, but like The good old patriarch upon record, Hold the fleet angel fast, until he bless thee.