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Calls out for vengeance on his father's death,

And rouses the whole nation up to arms.

Now is Rome fall'n indeed!
Were Cato at their head, once more might Rome
Assert her rights, and claim her liberty.

(A groan is heard.)

Here set me down But, hark! what means that groan? Oh, Portius, come

Are my friends give me way,

embark'd ? And let me fly into my father's presence!

Can any thing be thought of for their service? [Exit.

Whilst I yet live, let me not live in vain

Oh, Lucius, art thou here? Thou art too Cato , amidst his slumbers, thinks on Rome,

good And, in the wild disorder of his soul,

Let this our friendship live between our childrenMourns o'er his country. -- Ha! a second groan

Make Portius happy in thy daughter Lucia. Heav'n guard us all!

Marcia, my daugther

Oh, bend me forward! Juba loves thee,

Alas, 'tis not the voice A senator of Rome, while Rome surviv'd,
Of one who sleeps; ’tis agonizing pain

Would not have match'd his daughter with a 'Tis death is in that sound


But Caesar's arms have thrown down all disRe-enter Portius.

tinction Portius.

I'm sick to death Oh, when shall I get loose

From this vain world, th' abode of guilt and Oh, sight of woe!

sorrow! Oh, Marcia , what we fear'd is come to pass!

And yet, methinks, a beam of light breaks in Cato has fall’n upon his sword

On my departing soul. Alas, I fear

I've been too hasty! Oh, ye powers, that

search O Portius,

The heart of man, and weigh his inmost thoughts, Hide all the horrors of the mournful tale,

If I have done amiss, impute it not And let us guess the rest.

The best may err, but you are good, and Oh! Portius.

[Dies. I've rais'd him up,

Portius. And plac'd him in his chair; where, pale and There fled the greatest soul that ever warm’d


A Roman breast: Oh, Cato! oh, my friend! He gasps for breath, and as his life flows from Thy will shall be religiously observ’d.


But let us bear this awful corpse to Caesar, Demands to see his friends.

His servants, And lay it in his sight, that it may stand, weeping,

A fence betwixt us and the victor's wrath: Obsequious to his order, bear him hither!

Cato, though dead, shall still protect his friends. Marcius.

From hence, let fierce contending nations know, Oh, heav'n! assist me in this dreadful hour

What dire effects from civil discord flow: To pay the last sad duties to my father!

'Tis this that shakes our country with alarms, Cato brought on in a Chair.

And gives up Rome a prey to Roman arms;

Produces fraud, and cruelty, and strife,

And robs the guilty world of Cato's life.
These are thy triumphs, thy exploits, O Caesar!



Isaac Watts ward 1674 in Southampton, wo sein Vater dissentirender Prediger war, geboren, erhielt eine wissenschaftliche Bildung in London und wurde dann selbst Seelsorger einer dissentirenden Gemeine; seine zarte Constitution zwang ihn jedoch diesem Berufe zu entsagen und Hausgenosse seines Freundes Sir Thomas Abney zu werden, bei dem er bis zu seinem am 25. November 1748 erfolgten Tode verweilte.

Seine prosaischen und poetischen Werke wurden 1754 zu London von Doddridge herausgegeben, 6 Bde in 8. Die Poesieen sind meist religiösen Inhaltes, gesund, natürlich, correct und elegant, aber ohne poetisches Feuer. Am glücklichsten ist er in seinen Divine Songs for Children, die noch jetzt in ganz England verbreitet sind und grossen Segen gestiftet haben.

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Mylo, forbear to call him blest
That only boasts a large estate,
Sbould all the treasures of the west
Meet, and conspire to make him great.

Say, mighty Love, and teach my song,
To whom thy sweetest joys belong,
And who the happy pairs,

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True Riches.

I am not concern'd to know
What to-morrow fate will do;
'Tis enough that I can say,
I've possess'd myself to-day:
Then if haply midnight death
Seize my flesh, and stop my breath,
Yet to-morrow I shall be
Heir to the best part of me.

Glittering stones, and golden things,
Wealth and honours that have wings,
Ever fluttering to be gone,
I could never call my own:
Riches that the world bestows,
She can take, and I can lose;
But the treasures that are mine
Lie afar beyond her line.
When I view my spacious soul,
And survey myself a whole,
And enjoy myself alone,
I'm a kingdom of my own.

I've a mighty part within
That the world hath never seen,
Rich as Eden's happy ground,
And with choicer plenty crown'd.
Here on all the shining boughs,
Knowledge fair and useful grows;
On the same young flowery tree
All the seasons you may see;
Notions in the bloom of light,
Just disclosing to the sight;
Here are thoughts of larger growth,
Ripening into solid truth;
Fruits refin'd, of noble taste;
Seraphs feed on such repast.
Here, in a green and shady grove,
Streams of pleasure mix with love:

There beneath the smiling skies
Hills of contemplation rise:
Now upon some shining top
Angels light, and call me up;
I rejoice to raise my feet,
Both rejoice when there we meet.

There are endless beauties more
Earth hath no resemblance for;
Nothing like them round the pole,
Nothing can describe the soul:
'Tis a region half unknown,
That has treasures of its own,
More remote from public view
Than the bowels of Peru;
Broader 'tis, and brighter far,
Than the golden Indies are;
Ships that trace the watery stage
Cannot coast it in an age;
Harts, or horses, strong and fleet
Had they wings to help their feet,
Could not run it half way o'er
In ten thousand days and more.
Yet the silly wandering mind,
Loth to be too much confin'd,
Roves and takes her daily tours,
Coasting round her narrow shores,
Narrow shores of flesh and sense,
Picking shells and pebbles thence:
Or she sits at fancy's door,
Calling shapes and shadows to her
Foreign visits still receiving,
And t' herself a stranger living.
Never, never would she buy
Indian dust, or Tyrian dye,
Never trade abroad for more,
If she saw her native store;
If her inward worth were known,
She might ever live alone.


John Philips, Sohn des Archidiakonus Stephen Philips, ward 1676 zu Brampton in Oxfordshire geboren. Er studirte in Oxford und wollte sich dann den Naturwissenschaften widmen; das Glück jedoch welches sein erstes Gedicht, the splendid shilling, von dem wir unten ein Bruchstück mittheilen, sogleich bei dessen Erscheinen machte, bewog ihn diesen Vorsatz aufzugeben und sich nur mit Poesie zu beschüftigen. Er schrieb noch ein Gedicht auf die Schlacht von

Blendheim und ein didactisches Poem Cider. — Ob ein Gedicht Cerealia, das ihm zugeschrieben wird auch wirklich von ihm herrühre, ist unentschieden geblieben. Er starb schon 1708 an der Schwindsucht zu Hereford, wo er auch begraben wurde, doch erhielt er ein Denkmal in der Westminster-Abtei.

Als didactischer Dichter ist Philips ausgezeichnet; er verbindet mit Eleganz, Correctheit und Adel der Diction, reiches Wissen, warmes Gefühl und eine anmuthig verschönernde Phantasie. Seine Poesieen erschienen zuerst gesammelt, London 1715 und dann öfter, auch finden sie sich im 21. Bande der Johnson'schen, im 66. Bande der Bell'schen und im 6. Bande der Anderson'schen Sammlung


Thro' sudden fear; a chilly sweat bedews
The splendid Shilling.

My shudd'ring limbs, and (wonderful to tell!)
Happy the man who, void of cares and strife, My tongue forgets her faculty of speech;
In silken or in leathern purse retains

So horrible he seems! His faded brow, A Splendid Shilling! he nor hears with pain Intrench'd with many a frown, and conic beard, New oysters cry'd, nor sighs for cheerful ale; And spreading band, admir'd by modern saints, But with his friends, when nightly mists arise, Disastrous acts forebode: in his right hand To Juniper's Magpie, or Town-Hall, repairs, Long scrolls of paper solemnly he waves, Where, mindful of the nymph whose wanton eye With characters and figures dire inscribid, Transfix'd his soul and kindled amorous flames, Grievous to mortal eyes; (ye Gods! avert Cloe or Phillis, he each circling glass

Such plagues from righteous men!) Behind him Wished her health, and joy and equal love;

stalks Mean-while he smokes and laughs at merry tale Another monster, not unlike himself, Or pun ambiguous, or conundrum quaint: Sullen of aspect, by the vulgar call'd But I, whom griping penury surrounds

A Catchpole, whose polluted hands the gods And hunger, sure attendant upon want,

With force incredible and magic charms With scanty offals and small acid tiff

First have endu'd: if he his ample palm (Wretched repast!) my meagre corpse sustain: Should haply on ill-fated shoulder lay Then solitary walk, or doze at home

Of debtor, straight his body, to the touch In garret vile, and with a warming puff Obsequious, (as whilom knights were wont) Regale chill'd fingers; or from tube as black To some enchanted castle is convey'd, As winter chimney, or well-polish'd jet

Where gates impregnable and coercive chains Exhale mundungus, ill perfuming scent! In durance strict detain him, till, in form Not blacker tube, nor of a shorter size,

Of money, Pallas sets the captive free. Smokes Cambro-Briton (vers'd in pedigree Beware, ye Debtors ! when ye walk beware! Sprung from Cadwallador and Arthur, kings Be circumspect; oft' with insidious ken Full famous in romantic tale) when he

This caitiff eyes your steps aloof, and oft' O’er many a craggy hill and barren cliff Lies perdue in a nook or gloomy cave, Upon a cargo of fam'd Cestrian cheese

Prompt to enchant some inadvertent wretch High over-shadowing rides, with a design

With his unhallowed touch. So, (poets sing,) To vend his wares, or at th’ Arvonian mart Grimalkin, to domestic vermin sworn Or Maridunum, or the ancient town

An everlasting foe, with watchful eye Yclep'd Brechinia, or where Vaga's stream Lies nightly brooding o'er a chinky gap, Encircles Ariconiūm, fruitful soil!

Protending her fell claws, to thoughtless mice Whence flow nectareous wines that well may vie Sure ruin; so her disembowell’d web With Massic, Setin, or renown'd Falern. Arachne, in a hall or kitchen, spreads

Thus while my joyless minutes tedious flow, Obvious to vagrant flies: she secret stands With looks demure, and silent pace, a Dun,

Within her woven cell; the humming prey, Horrible monster! hated by gods and men Regardless of their fate, rush on the toils To my aerial citadel ascends;

Inextricable, nor will aught avail With vocal heel thrice thund'ring at my gate Their arts, or arms, or shapes of lovely hue With hideous accent thrice he calls. I know The wasp insidious and the buzzing drone, The voice ill-boding, and the solemn sound. And butterfly, proud of expanded wings What should I do, or whither turn? Amaz'd Distinct with gold, entangled in her snares, Confounded, to the dark recess 'I fly

Useless resistance make: with eager strides Of woodhole: straight my bristling hairs erect She tow'ring flies to her expected spoils,

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