And he, her darling as her latest hope, The gallant Philopœmen; who to arms Turn’d the luxurious pomp he could not cure; Or toiling on his farm, a simple swain; Or, bold and skilful, thundering in the field. ‘Of rougher front, a mighty people comes! A race of heroes! in those virtuous times Which knew no stain, save that with partial flame Their dearest country they too fondly loved: Her better Founder first, the light of Rome, Numa, who soften’d her rapacious sons; Servius the king, who laid the solid base On which o’er earth the vast republic spread. Then the great consuls venerable rise. The public Father[F] who the private quell’d, As on the dread tribunal sternly sat. He whom his thankless country could not lose, Camillus, only vengeful to her foes. Fabricius, scorner of all-conquering gold; And Cincinnatus, awful from the plough. Thy willing victim,[G] Carthage, bursting loose From all that pleading Nature could oppose, From a whole city’s tears, by rigid faith Imperious call’d, and honor’s dire command. Scipio, the gentle chief, humanely brave, Who soon the race of spotless glory ran, And, warm in youth, to the poetic shade With Friendship and Philosophy retired. Tully, whose powerful eloquence a while Restrain’d the rapid fate of rushing Rome. Unconquer’d Cato, virtuous in extreme; And thou, unhappy Brutus, kind of heart, Whose steady arm, by awful virtue urged, Lifted the Roman steel against thy friend. Thousands besides the tribute of a verse Demand; but who can count the stars of heaven? Who sing their influence on this lower world? ‘Behold, who yonder comes! in sober state, Fair, mild, and strong, as is a vernal sun; ’Tis Phœbus’ self, or else the Mantuan swain! Great Homer too appears, of daring wing, Parent of song! and, equal by his side, The British Muse; join’d hand in hand they walk, Darkling, full up the middle steep to fame, Nor absent are those shades, whose skilful touch Pathetic drew th’ impassion’d heart, and charm’d Transported Athens with the moral scene; Nor those who, tuneful, waked th’ enchanted lyre. ‘First of your kind! society divine! Still visit thus my nights, for you reserved, And mount my soaring soul to thoughts like yours. Silence, thou lonely power! the door be thine; See on the hallow’d hour that none intrude, Save a few chosen friends, who sometimes deign To bless my humble roof, with sense refined, Learning digested well, exalted faith, Unstudied wit, and humor ever gay. Or from the Muses’ hill will Pope descend, To raise the sacred hour, to bid it smile, And with the social spirit warm the heart?