Then where 's Ambition's haughty crest?
Where the gay head of wanton Pride?
See! tyrants fall, and with the opening ground

Would take them quick to fhades of reft,
And in their common parent's breaft
From thee their bury'd forms for ever hide;
In vain-for all the elements confpire,
The shatter'd earth, the rushing fea,
Tempestuous air, and raging fire,
To punish vile mankind, and fight for thee;
Nor Death itself can intercept the blow,
Eternal is the guilt, and without end the woe.

VIII.

O Cyrus! Alexander! Julius! all
Ye mighty lords that ever rul'd this ball!
Once gods of earth, the living deftinies
That made a hundred nations bow!
Where's your extent of empire now!
Say where preferv'd your phantom glory lies?
Can brafs the fleeting thing fecure?
Enfrin'd in temples does it ftay?

Or in huge amphitheatres endure

The rage of rolling Time, and fcorn decay?
Ah no? the mouldering monuments of Fame
Your vain deluded hopes betray,

Nor fhew th' ambitious founder's name,

Mix'd with yourfelves in the fame mafs of clay.

IX. Pro

IX.

Proceed, my Mufe! Time's wafting thread purfue,
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 shall die; Foul Guilt to midnight caves will shrink away, Look back, and tremble in her flight, And curfe at Heaven's purfuing 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 bliss shall 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

Transports 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 so bright,
Sees not his peer in all the starry 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 blifs 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 vast immeasurable thought contain.

то

M R..

ADDISON,

ON HIS

TRAGEDY OF CATO.

THOUGH Cato fhines in Virgil's epic fong,
Prefcribing laws among th' Elyfian throng;

Though Lucan's verse, exalted by his name,
O'er gods themselves has rais'd the hero's fame;

The Roman ftage did ne'er his image fee,
Drawn at full length; a task reserv'd for thee.
By thee we view the finish'd figure rife,
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 Mufe this manly work defign'd: Or in a dream thou faw'ft Rome's genius stand, And, leading Cato in his facred 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 Shakespeare's ghoft, the folemn ftrain to hear, (Methinks I fee the laurel'd shade appear!) Will hover o'er the fcene, and wondering view His favourite Brutus rival'd thus by you. Such Roman greatnefs 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 fhall rear,
'And every generous Briton pay a tear.'

ADVICE TO MR. POPE,

ON HIS INTENDED TRANSLATION OF

HOMER'S

ILIAD,

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 sung 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 liftening ear,
So fhall thy father Homer fmile to fee

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