CATO'S SOLILOQU Y. IT must be so― Plato, thou reason'st well! Else whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire, This longing after immortality? Or whence this secret dread, and inward horror, Of falling into nought? why shrinks the soul Back on herself, and startles at destruction? 'Tis the divinity that stirs within us; 'Tis heaven itself that points out an hereafter, And intimates eternity to man. Eternity! thou pleasing, dreadful thought! Through what variety of untried being, Through what new scenes and changes must we pass? The wide, th' unbounded prospect lies before me; But shadows, clouds, and darkness rest upon it. Here will I hold. If there's a power above us And that there is, all nature cries aloud Through all her works- he must delight in virtue; And that which he delights in must be happy. But when? or where? This world was made for Cæsar. I'm weary of conjectures. must end them. This [Laying his hand on his sword.] Thus am I doubly armed: my death and life, My bane and antidote, are both before me: This in a moment brings me to an end; But this informs me I shall never die. The soul, secured in her existence, smiles At the drawn dagger, and defies its point. The stars shall fade away, the sun himself Grow dim with age, and nature sink in years; But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth, Unhurt amidst the wars of elements, The wreck of matter, and the crush of worlds. What means this heaviness that hangs upon me? This lethargy that creeps through all my senses? Nature oppressed, and harassed out with care, Sinks down to rest. This once I'll favor her, That my awakened soul may take her flight, Renewed in all her strength, and fresh with life, An offering fit for heaven. Let guilt or fear Disturb man's rest: Cato knows neither of them; Indifferent in his choice to sleep or die. MARK AKENSIDE. ON A SERMON AGAINST GLORY. COME then, tell me, sage divine, Toward immortal Glory's throne? For with me nor pomp, nor pleasure. Her form remains. The balmy walks of May There breathe perennial sweets: the trembling chord Resounds forever in the abstracted ear, Melodious; and the virgin's radiant eye, Superior to disease, to grief, and time, Shines with unbating lustre. Thus at length Endowed with all that nature can bestow, The child of fancy oft in silence bends O'er these mixed treasures of his pregnant breast With conscious pride. From them he oft resolves To frame he knows not what excelling things, And win he knows not what sublime reward Of praise and wonder. By degrees the mind Feels her young nerves dilate: the plastic powers Labor for action: blind emotions heave His bosom; and with loveliest frenzy caught, From earth to heaven he rolls his daring eye, From heaven to earth. Anon ten thousand shapes, Like spectres trooping to the wizard's cail, Flit swift before him. From the An object ascertained: while thus informed, The various objects of his mimic skill, The consonance of sounds, the featured rock, The shadowy picture, and impassioned verse, Beyond their proper powers attract the soul By that expressive semblance, while in sight Of nature's great original we scan The lively child of art; while line by line, And feature after feature, we refer To that divine exemplar whence it stole Those animating charms. Thus beauty's palm Betwixt them wavering hangs: applauding love Doubts where to choose; and mortal man aspires To tempt creative praise. Of Autumn tinges every fertile branch With blooming gold, and blushes like the morn. Each passing hour sheds tribute from her wings; And still new beauties meet his lonely walk, And loves unfelt attract him. Not a breeze Flies o'er the meadow, not a cloud imbibes The setting sun's effulgence, not a strain From all the tenants of the warbling shade Ascends, but whence his bosom can partake Fresh pleasure unreproved. Nor thence partakes Fresh pleasure only: for th' attentive mind, By this harmonious action on her powers, |