Cato

Lost liberty indignant to survive, At Utica good Cato ceas'd to live; With his own sword he sought the peaceful shore, Where prosperous tyrants could command no more. Driven to extremes, too oft the unhappy brave Found their sad refuge in a self-made grave; Securing boldly thus the pass'd renown, They scorn'd to drain life's loathsome chalice down; Not shiv'ring on the verge of fate they stood, But plung'd spontaneous in th' eternal flood; Nor loiter'd on this mortal stage, to see Their last sad scene conclude with infamy: When hope's false meteor could delude no more, They dropp'd the curtain, and the piece was o'er; And more to consecrate the daring deed, Applause and admiration were the meed. No Heaven-taught precept then restrain'd the blow, And, born to suffer, bade them bear their woe; Not hurl back rashly on the giver's hand, What the wise giver only might demand. Cato's great conqueror repining heard, That death to his proud mercy he prefer'd; And shun'd to see the splendour of his name Obscur'd at length by that dark cloud of shame; But, taught by Plato, the bright sphere explor'd, Beyond a Caesar's pity or his sword. A soul sublime, with ancient maxims fraught, His practice stricter even than Stoicks taught; While all their high-strain'd principles profess'd, The clear example of his life express'd. Virtues, inherent in his honour'd race, To him descended with a milder grace; Though some rude particles were smooth'd away, The gem's true lustre suffer'd no allay; Yet, in his garb uncouth, and frequent frown, The rigid Censor's lineage still was known. But different shades of mind in each appear, The first was cruel, and the last severe. To root out guilt, the elder too intent, Felt savage pleasure in its punishment; Ardent like him, the younger lash'd the age, But pity temper'd his humaner rage: The fierce-eyed Censor, Rome with terror saw; His sage descendent with unwilling awe. Their dates of life revers'd, fair truth might find More difference in the times, than in the mind. When honour's cause his glowing rhet'rick warm'd, The worthless felt abash'd, though not reform'd; And half-subdu'd by his reproving tongue, Acknowledg'd what was right, though acting wrong; Yet no amendment from conviction took, But hated less the crime than the rebuke. Corruption all sound principle had min'd, Nor left one frown of early Rome behind, Save that, which unconforming Cato wont To wear habitual on his low'ring front. Virtue's cold frost-work vanish'd clear away, Too weak for luxury's dissolving ray; Her simple elements perverted quite, Not Cancer to the Goat more opposite: Rome once was artless, sturdy, plain, and brave; Now, smiling, soft, perfidious, and a slave. In seasons rank with every mortal vice, (Pride, lust, ambition, fraud, and avarice,) Himself unstain'd, he wonder'd to behold A venal people bartering truth for gold; And talk'd of rigorous laws, and pristine days; Fond themes of his unfashionable praise. The useless text repeated lost its force; His morals chang'd not, but the times grew worse; By manners like their own, mankind beguil'd, Yawn'd while he preach'd, or laugh'd if Caesar smil'd. When rattling tempests sweep the angry skies, The strong-bas'd rock their furious blast defies; While humbler battlements, like slaves, conform, Nod their indented crests, and own the storm: So Cato's soul by tyrant power unbow'd, Opposing stood, and scorn'd the servile crowd; By interest never, or ambition mov'd, Strict justice, for herself, he serv'd and lov'd; And Heav'n, which saw the secrets of his breast, Saw the true temple where a God might rest. Astraea, long the hireling judge's sport, Fix'd in his mind her solitary court. Not more to others than himself severe, By love unbiass'd, and uncheck'd by fear, Ill deeds, however varnish'd, he despis'd; The heart's applause, and not the world's, he pris'd. Yet no extremes deform'd his temperate mind, The friend was lenient, and the father kind; And not content with speculative good, Firm in the pass where danger frown'd, he stood. All trembling but himself, his host he led, Where living poisons the burnt soil o'erspread; While his scorchd brows sustain'd the Lybian heat, A thousand deaths writh'd hissing at his feet; Seps, dipsa, asp, and all the snaky brood, Whose mortal stings polute the vital flood: Region of terrors! where Medusas reign Affrights and desolates the pestful plain; A zenith sun the venom'd rage sublimes, With dreadful bane, unknown to shadowy climes. Bad men, who fear'd not heaven, his anger fear'd, Yet none would imitate what all rever'd: Rome felt with him the self-inflicted wound, And Liberty's last tear bedew'd the ground.