As when that hero, who, in each campaign, Had braved the Goth, and many a Vandal slain, Lay fortune-struck, a spectacle of woe! Wept by each friend, forgiven by every foe: Was there a generous, a reflecting mind, But pitied Belisarius, old and blind? Was there a chief but melted at the sight? A common soldier, but who clubb'd his mite? Such, such emotions should in Britons rise, When press'd by want and weakness Dennis lies; 10 Dennis, who long had warr'd with modern Huns, Their quibbles routed, and defied their puns; A desperate bulwark, sturdy, firm, and fierce, Against the Gothic sons of frozen verse: How changed from him who made the boxes groan, And shook the stage with thunders all his own! Stood up to dash each vain pretender's hope, Maul the French tyrant, or pull down the Pope! If there's a Briton then, true bred and born, Who holds dragoons and wooden shoes in scorn; 20 If there's a critic of distinguished rage; If there's a senior who contemns this age: Let him to night his just assistance lend, And be the critic's, Briton's, old man's friend. PROLOGUE TO MR ADDISON'S 'CATO.' To wake the soul by tender strokes of art, To raise the genius, and to mend the heart; To make mankind, in conscious virtue bold, Live o'er each scene, and be what they behold: For this the tragic Muse first trod the stage, Commanding tears to stream through every age; Tyrants no more their savage nature kept, And foes to virtue wonder'd how they wept. Our author shuns by vulgar springs to move The hero's glory, or the virgin's love; 10 In pitying love, we but our weakness show, And wild ambition well deserves its woe. Here tears shall flow from a more generous cause, Such tears as patriots shed for dying laws: He bids your breasts with ancient ardour rise, And calls forth Roman drops from British eyes. Virtue confess'd in human shape he draws, What Plato thought, and godlike Cato was: No common object to your sight displays, But what with pleasure Heaven itself surveys, 20 A brave man struggling in the storms of fate, And greatly falling with a falling state. While Cato gives his little senate laws, What bosom beats not in his country's cause? Who sees him act, but envies every deed? Who hears him groan, and does not wish to bleed? E'en when proud Caesar, 'midst triumphal cars, The spoils of nations, and the pomp of wars, Ignobly vain, and impotently great, Show'd Rome her Cato's figure drawn in state; 30 As her dead father's reverend image pass'd, The pomp was darkened, and the day o'ercast; The triumph ceased, tears gush'd from every eye; The world's great victor pass'd unheeded by; Her last good man dejected Rome adored, And honour'd Caesar's less than Cato's sword.