Part 20 (2/2)
In vain may death in various shapes invade, The swift-wing'd arrow, the descending blade; His naked breast their impotence defies; The dart rebounds, the brittle fauchion flies.
Shut in himself, the war without he hears, Safe in the tempest of their rattling spears; The c.u.mber'd strand their wasted volleys strow; His sport, the rage and labour of the foe.
His pastimes like a cauldron boil the flood, And blacken ocean with the rising mud; The billows feel him, as he works his way; His h.o.a.ry footsteps s.h.i.+ne along the sea; The foam high-wrought, with white divides the green, And distant sailors point where death has been.
His like earth bears not on her s.p.a.cious face: Alone in nature stands his dauntless race, For utter ignorance of fear renown'd, In wrath he rolls his baleful eye around: Makes every swoln, disdainful heart, subside, And holds dominion o'er the sons of pride.
Then the Chaldaean eas'd his lab'ring breast, With full conviction of his crime opprest.
”Thou canst accomplish all things, Lord of might: And every thought is naked to thy sight.
But, oh! thy ways are wonderful, and lie Beyond the deepest reach of mortal eye.
Oft have I heard of thine Almighty power; But never saw thee till this dreadful hour.
O'erwhelm'd with shame, the Lord of life I see, Abhor myself, and give my soul to thee.
Nor shall my weakness tempt thine anger more: Man is not made to question, but adore.”
ON MICHAEL ANGELO'S FAMOUS PIECE OF THE CRUCIFIXION;
Who Is Said To Have Stabbed a Person That He Might Draw It More Naturally.(44)
Whilst his Redeemer on his canva.s.s dies, Stabb'd at his feet his brother weltering lies: The daring artist, cruelly serene, Views the pale cheek and the distorted mien; He drains off life by drops, and, deaf to cries, Examines every spirit as it flies: He studies torment, dives in mortal woe, To rouse up every pang repeats his blow; Each rising agony, each dreadful grace, Yet warm transplanting to his Saviour's face.
Oh glorious theft! oh n.o.bly wicked draught!
With its full charge of death each feature fraught, Such wondrous force the magic colours boast, From his own skill he starts in horror lost.
TO MR. ADDISON,
On the Tragedy of Cato.
What do we see? Is Cato then become A greater name in Britain than in Rome?
Does mankind now admire his virtues more, Though Lucan, Horace, Virgil, wrote before?
How will posterity this truth explain?
”Cato begins to live in Anna's reign.”
The world's great chiefs, in council or in arms, Rise in your lines with more exalted charms; Ill.u.s.trious deeds in distant nations wrought, And virtues by departed heroes taught, Raise in your soul a pure immortal flame, Adorn your life, and consecrate your fame; To your renown all ages you subdue, And Caesar fought, and Cato bled for you.
All Souls Coll. Oxon.
HISTORICAL EPILOGUE TO THE BROTHERS.
A Tragedy.
An Epilogue, through custom, is your right, But ne'er perhaps was needful till this night: To-night the virtuous falls, the guilty flies, Guilt's dreadful close our narrow scene denies.
In history's authentic record read What ample vengeance gluts Demetrius' shade; Vengeance so great, that, when his tale is told, With pity some e'en Perseus may behold.
Perseus surviv'd, indeed, and fill'd the throne, But ceaseless cares in conquest made him groan: Nor reign'd he long; from Rome swift thunder flew, And headlong from his throne the tyrant threw: Thrown headlong down, by Rome in triumph led, For this night's deed his perjur'd bosom bled: His brother's ghost each moment made him start, And all his father's anguish rent his heart.
When, rob'd in black, his children round him hung, And their rais'd arms in early sorrow wrung; The younger smil'd, unconscious of their woe; At which thy tears, O Rome! began to flow; So sad the scene! What then must Perseus feel, To see Jove's race attend the victor's wheel: To see the slaves of his worst foes increase, From such a source!-An emperor's embrace!
He sicken'd soon to death; and, what is worse, He well deserv'd, and felt, the coward's curse; Unpitied, scorn'd, insulted his last hour, Far, far from home, and in a va.s.sal's power: His pale cheek rested on his shameful chain, No friend to mourn, no flatterer to feign; No suit r.e.t.a.r.ds, no comfort soothes his doom, And not one tear bedews a monarch's tomb.
Nor ends it thus-dire vengeance to complete, His ancient empire falling shares his fate: His throne forgot! his weeping country chain'd!
And nations ask-where Alexander reign'd.
As public woes a prince's crime pursue, So public blessings are his virtue's due.
Shout, Britons, shout-auspicious fortune bless!
And cry, Long live-Our t.i.tle to success!
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