Stern power of fate, whose ebon sceptre rules

If late at dusk, while carelessly I roam, The Stygian deserts and Cimmerian pools,

I meet a strolling kid, or bleating lamb, Forbear, nor rashly smite my youthful heart,

Under my arm I'll bring the wanderer home, A victim yet unworthy of thy dart;

And not a little chide its thoughtless dam.
Ah, stay till age shall blast my withering face,
Shake in my head, and falter in my pace;

What joy to hear the tempest howl in vain,
Then aim the shaft, then meditate the blow,

And clasp a fearful mistress to my breast ? And to the dead my willing shade shall go.

Or, lulled to slumber by the beating rain,
How weak is man to reason's judging eye!

Secure and happy, sink at last to rest ?
Born in this moment, in the next we die;
Part mortal clay, and part ethereal fire,

Or, if the sun in flaming Leo ride,
Too proud to creep, too humble to aspire.

By shady rivers indolently stray, In vain our plans of happiness we raise,

And with my Delia, walking side by side, Pain is our lot, and patience is our praise ;

Hear how they murmur as they glide away?
Wealth, lineage, honours, conquest, or a throne,

What joy to wind along the cool retreat,
Are what the wise would fear to call their own.
Health is at best a vain precarious thing,

To stop and gaze on Delia as I go?
And fair-faced youth is ever on the wing;

To mingle sweet discourse with kisses sweet, "Tis like the stream beside whose watery bed,

And teach my lovely scholar all I know? Some blooming plant exalts his flowery head;

Thus pleased at heart, and not with fancy's dream, Nursed by the wave the spreading branches rise,

In silent happiness I rest unknown; Shade all the ground and flourish to the skies;

Content with what I am, not what I seem,
The waves the while beneath in secret flow,

I live for Delia and myself alone.
And undermine the hollow bank below;
Wide and more wide the waters urge their way, Ah, foolish man, who thus of her possessed,
Bare all the roots, and on their fibres prey.

Could float and wander with ambition's wind, Too late the plant bewails his foolish pride,

And if his outward trappings spoke him blessed, And sinks, untimely, in the whelming tide.

Not heed the sickness of his conscious mind !
But why repine! Does life deserve my sigh ;
Few will lament my loss whene'er I die.

With her I scorn the idle breath of praise,
For those the wretches I despise or hate,

Nor trust to happiness that's not our own;
I neither envy nor regard their fate.

The smile of fortune might suspicion raise,
For me, whene'er all-conquering death shall spread But here I know that I am loved alone.
His wings around my unrepining head,
I care not; though this face be seen no more,

Hers be the care of all my little train,
The world will pass as cheerful as before ;

While I with tender indolence am blest, Bright as before the day-star will appear,

The favourite subject of her gentle reign,
The fields as verdant, and the skies as clear;

By love alone distinguished from the rest.
Nor storms nor comets will my doom declare,
Nor signs on earth nor portents in the air;

For her I'll yoke my oxen to the plough,
Unknown and silent will depart my breath,

In gloomy forests tend my lonely flock; Nor nature e'er take notice of my death.

For her a goat-herd climb the mountain's brow, Yet some there are (ere spent my vital days)

And sleep extended on the naked rock: Within whose breasts my tomb I wish to raise.

Ah, what avails to press the stately bed, Loved in my life, lamented in my end,

And far from her 'midst tasteless grandeur weep, Their praise would crown me as their precepts mend: By marble fountains lay the pensive head, To them may these fond lines my name endear,

And, while they murmur, strive in vain to sleep? Not from the Poet but the Friend sincere.

Delia alone can please, and never tire,

Exceed the paint of thought in true delight;

With her, enjoyment wakens new desire, [By James Hammond, born 1710, died 1742. This seems to And equal rapture glows through every night. be almost the only tolerable specimen of the once admired and highly-famed love elegies of Hammond. This poet, nephew to Beauty and worth in her alike contend, Sir Robert Walpole, and a man of fortune, bestowed his affec-To charm the fancy, and to fix the mind; tions on a Miss Dashwood, whose agreeable qualities and in. In her, my wife, my mistress, and my friend, exorable rejection of his suit inspired the poetry by which his I taste the joys of sense and reason joined. name has been handed down to us. His verses are imitatior.3 of Tibullus-smooth, tame, and frigid. Miss Dashwood died On her I'll gaze, when others loves are o'er, unmarried-bedchamber-woman to Queen Charlotte--in 1779. And dying press her with my clay-cold handIn the following elegy Hammond imagines himself married Thou weep'st already, as I were no more, to his mistress (Delia), and that, content with each other, they Nor can that gentle breast the thought withstand. are retired to the country.] Let others boast their heaps of shining gold,

Oh, when I die, my latest moments spare, And view their fields, with waving plenty crowned,

Nor let thy grief with sharper torments kill, Whom neighbouring foes in constant terror hold,

Wound not thy cheeks, nor hurt that flowing hair, And trumpets break their slumbers, never sound:

Though I am dead, my soul shall love thee still: While calmly poor, I trifle life away,

Oh, quit the room, oh, quit the deathful bed, Enjoy sweet leisure by my cheerful fire,

Or thou wilt die, so tender is thy heart; No wanton hope my quiet shall betray,

Oh, leave me, Delia, ere thou see me dead, But, cheaply blessed, I'll scorn each vain desire. These weeping friends will do thy mournful part: With timely care I'll sow my little field,

Let them, extended on the decent bier, And plant iny orchard with its masters hand, Convey the corse in melancholy state, Nor blush to spread the hay, the hook to wield, Through all the village spread the tender tear, Or range my sheaves along the sunny land.

While pitying maids our wondrous loves relate.

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Careless Content.*

For should I burn, or break my brains,

Pray, who will pay me for my pains ? [The following and subsequent poems are by John Byrom, a native of Manchester. He was well educat. d, but declined

I love my neighbour as myself, to take advantage of an ofered fellowship in the university of

Myself like him too, by his leave; Cambridge, from a dislike to the clerical profession, and endea

Nor to his pleasure, power, or pelf, voured to make a livelihood by teaching short-hand writing

Came I to crouch, as I conceive: in London. Ultimately, he succeeded to some property, and

Dame Nature doubtless has designed came to the close of his days in affluence (1763), aged 72. The A man the monarch of his mind. Phcebe of his poetry was a daughter of the celebrated Bentley.]

Now taste and try this temper, sirs,
I am content, I do not care,

Mood it and brood it in your breast;
Wag as it will the world for me;

Or if ye ween, for worldly stirs,
When fuss and fret was all my fare,

That man does right to mar his rest,
It got no ground as I could see:

Let me be deft, and debonair,
So when away my caring went,

I am content, I do not care.
I counted cost, and was content.
With more of thanks and less of thought,

A Pastoral.
I strive to make my matters meet;
To seek what ancient sages sought,

My time, 0 ye Muses, was happily spent,

When Phoebe went with me wherever I went;
Physic and food in sour and sweet:
To take what passes in good part,

Ten thousand sweet pleasures I felt in my breast:

Sure never fond shepherd like Colin was blest! And keep the hiccups from the heart.

But now she is gone, and has left me behind,
With good and gentle humoured hearts,

What a marvellous change on a sudden I find !
I choose to chat where'er I come,

When things were as fine as could possibly be,
Whate'er the subject be that starts;

I thought 'twas the Spring; but alas ! it was she. But if I get among the glum,

With such a companion to tend a few sheep, I hold my tongue to tell the truth,

To rise up and play, or to lie down and sleep: And keep my breath to cool my broth.

I was so good-humoured, so cheerful and gay,
For chance or change of peace or pain,

My heart was as light as a feather all day;
For fortune's favour or her frown,

But now I so cross and so peevish am grown,
For lack or glut, for loss or gain,

So strangely uneasy, as never was known.
I never dodge, nor up nor down:

My fair one is gone, and my joys are all drowned, But swing what way the ship shall swin, And my heart-I am sure it weighs more than a pound Or tack about with equal trim.

The fountain that wont to run sweetly along,
I suit not where I shall not speed,

And dance to soft murmurs the pebbles among;
Nor trace the turn of every tide;

Thou know'st, little Cupid, if Phæbe was there,
If simple sense will not succeed,

'Twas pleasure to look at, 'twas music to hear: I make no bustling, but abide:

But now she is absent, I walk by its side, For shining wealth, or scaring wo,

And still, as it murmurs, do nothing but chide; I force no friend, I fear no foe.

Must you be so cheerful, while I go in pain! Of ups and downs, of ins and outs,

Peace there with your bubbling, and hear me comOf they're i’ the wrong, and we're i’ the right,

plain. I shun the rancours and the routs;

My lambkins around me would oftentimes play, And wishing well to every wight,

And Phæbe and I were as joyful as they ; Whatever turn the matter takes,

How pleasant their sporting, how happy their time, I deem it all but ducks and drakes.

When Spring, Love, and Beauty, were all in their With whom I feast I do not fawn,

prime; Nor if the folks should flout me, faint ;

But now, in their frolics when by me they pass,
If wonted welcome be withdrawn,

I fling at their fleeces a handful of grass ;
I cook no kind of a complaint :

Be still, then, I cry, for it makes me quite mad,
With none disposed to disagree,

To see you so merry while I am so sad. But like them best who best like me.

My dog I was ever well pleasëd to see
Not that I rate myself the rule

Come wagging his tail to my fair one and me;
How all my betters should behave;

And Phoebe was pleased too, and to my dog said,
But fame shall find me no man's fool,

* Come hither, poor fellow ;' and patted his

head. Nor to a set of men a slave:

But now, when he's fawning, I with a sour look I love a friendship free and frank,

Cry ' Sirrah ;' and give him a blow with my crook: And hate to bang upon a hank.

And I'll give him another; for why should not Tray

Be as dull as his master, when Phæbe's away!
Fond of a true and trusty tie,
I never loose where'er I link;

When walking with Phæbe, what sights have I seen,

How fair was the flower, how fresh was the green !
Though if a business budges by,
I talk thereon just as I think ;

What a lovely appearance the trees and the shade, My word, my work, my heart, my hand,

The corn fields and hedges, and every thing made! Still on a side together stand.

But now she has left me, though all are still there,

They none of them now so delightful appear : If names or notions make a noise,

'Twas nought but the magic, I find, of her eyes, Whatever hap the question hath,

Made so many beautiful prospects arise.
The point impartially I poise,
And read or write, but without wrath ;

Sweet music went with us both all the wood through,

The lark, linnet, throstle, and nightingale too; * One poem, entitled Careless Content, is so perfectly in the Winds over us whispered, flocks by us did bleat, manner of Elizabeth's age, that we can hardly believe it to be And chirp went the grasshopper under our feet. an imitation, but are almost disposed to think that Byrom had But now she is absent, though still they sing on, transcribed it from some old author.-SOUTHEY.

The woods are but lonely, the melody's gone :

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Her voice in the concert, as now I have found,

What though, from fortune's lavish bounty, Gave every thing else its agreeable sound.

No mighty treasures we possess; Rose, what is become of thy delicate hue ?

We'll find, within our pittance, plenty, And where is the violet's beautiful blue ?

And be content without excess. Does ought of its sweetness the blossom beguile?

Still shall each kind returning season That meadow, those daisies, why do they not smile?

Sufficient for our wishes give; Ah! rivals, I see what it was that you drest,

For we will live a life of reason,
And made yourselves fine for-a place in her breast :

And that's the only life to live.
You put on your colours to pleasure her eye,
To be plucked by her hand, on her bosom to die.

Through youth and age, in love excelling,

We'll hand in hand together tread ;
How slowly Time creeps till my Phoebe return!
While amidst the soft zephyr's cool breezes I burn:

Sweet-smiling peace shall crown our dwelling, Methinks, if I knew whereabouts he would tread,

And babes, sweet-smiling babes, our bed. I could breathe on his wings, and 'twould melt down How should I love the pretty creatures, the lead.

While round my knees they fondly clung! Fly swifter, ye minutes, bring hither my dear,

To see them look their mother's features, And rest so much longer for't when she is here.

To hear them lisp their mother's tongue! Ah Colin! old Time is full of delay, Nor will budge one foot faster for all thou canst say.

And when with envy Time transported,

Shall think to rob us of our joys; Will no pitying power, that hears me complain, You'll in your girls again be courted, Or cure my disquiet, or soften my pain!

And I'll To be cured, thou must, Colin, thy passion remove;

go wooing in my boys. But what swain is so silly to live without love! No, deity, bid the dear nymph to return,

TRAGIC DRAMATISTS. For ne'er was poor shepherd so sadly forlorn. Ah! what shall I do? I shall die with despair ; The tragic drama of this period bore the impress Take heed, all ye swains, how ye part with your fair. of the French school, in which cold correctness or

turgid declamation was more regarded than the [Ode to a Tobacco Pipe.]

natural delineation of character and the fire of genius.

One improvement was the complete separation of [One of six imitations of English poets, written on the sub- tragedy and comedy. Otway and Southerne had ject of tobacco, by Isaac Hawkins Browne, a gentleman of marred the effect of some of their most pathetic and fortune, born 1705, died 1760. The present poem is the imita impressive dramas, by the intermixture of farcical tion of Ambrose Philips. ]

and licentious scenes and characters, but they were Little tube of mighty power,

the last who committed this incongruity. Public Charmer of an idle hour,

taste had become more critical, aided perhaps by Object of my warm desire,

the papers of Addison in the 'Spectator,' and other Lip of wax and eye of fire ;

essayists, as well as by the general diffusion of liteAnd thy snowy taper waist,

rature and knowledge. Great names were now enWith my finger gently braced ;

listed in the service of the stage. Fashion and And thy pretty swelling crest,

interest combined to draw foi ch dramatic talent. With my little stopper prest;

A writer for the stage, it has been justly remarked, And the sweetest bliss of blisses,

like the public orator, has the gratification of 'wit. Breathing from thy balmy kisses.

nessing his own triumphs; of seeing in the plaudits, Happy thrice, and thrice again,

tears, or smiles of delighted spectators, the strongest Happiest he of happy men;

testimony to his own powers.' The publication of Who when again the night returns,

his play may also insure him the fame and profit of When again the taper burns,

authorship. If successful on the stage, the remuWhen again the cricket's gay

neration was then considerable. Authors were ge(Little cricket full of play),

nerally allowed the profits of three nights' performCan afford his tube to feed With the fragrant Indian weed :

ances; and Goldsmith, we find, thus derived between

four and five hundred pounds by She Stoops to Pleasure for a nose divine, Incense of the god of wine.

Conquer. The genius of Garrick may also be con

sidered as lending fresh attraction and popularity Happy thrice, and thrice again, Happiest he of happy men.

to the stage. Authors were ambitious of fame as well as profit by the exertions of an actor so well

fitted to portray the various passic as and emotions [Song-Away! let nought to Lore Displeasing.*]

of human nature, and who partially succeeded in Away! let nought to love displeasing,

recalling the English taste to the genius of ShakMy Winifreda, move your care;

speare. Let nought delay the heavenly blessing,

One of the most successful and conspi, uous of the Nor squeamish pride, nor gloomy fear.

tragic dramatists was the author of the Night What though no grants of royal donors,

Thoughts,' who, before he entered the church, pro

duced three tragedies, all having one peculiarity, With pompous titles grace our blood; We'll shine in more substantial honours,

that they ended in suicide. The Revenge, still a And, to be noble, we'll be good.

popular acting play, contains, amidst some rant and

hyperbole, passages of strong passion and eloquent Our name while virtue thus we tender,

declamation. Like Othello, 'The Revenge' is founded Will sweetly sound where'er 'tis spoke; on jealousy, and the principal character, Zanga, is And all the great ones, they shall wonder

a Moor. The latter, son of the Moorish king AbHow they respect such little folk.

dallah, is taken prisoner after a conquest by the *This beautiful piece has been erroneously ascribed to John Spaniards, in which his father fell, and is con Gilbert Cooper, author of a volume of poems, and some prose demned to servitude by Don Alonzo. In revenge, works, who died in 1769.

he sows the seeds of jealousy in the mind of his conqueror, Alonzo, and glories in the ruin of his spair and suicide, and the dramatic art evinced in the victim :

characters and incidents, drew loud applause. "The

Gamester' is still a popular play.
Thou seest a prince, whose father thou hast slain,
Whose native country thou hast laid in blood,
Whose sacred person, Oh ! thou hast profaned,

[The Gamester's Last Stake.]
Whose reign extinguished-what was left to me,
So highly born? No kingdom but revenge ;

Bererley. Why, there's an end then. I have judged No treasure but thy torture and thy groans.

deliberately, and the result is death. How the self

murderer's account may stand, I know not; but this If men should ask who brought thee to thy end, Tell them the Moor, and they will not despise thee.

I know, the load of hateful life oppresses me too much. If cold white mortals censure this great deed,

The horrors of my soul are more than I can bear. Warn them they judge not of superior beings,

[Offers to kneel]. Father of Mercy! I cannot pray; Souls made of fire, and children of the sun,

despair has laid his iron hand upon me, and sealed With whom revenge is virtue.

me for perdition. Conscience ! conscience! thy cla

mours are too loud : here's that shall silence thee. Dr Johnson's tragedy of Irene was performed in [Takes a phial of poison out of his pocket.] Thou art 1749, but met with little success, and has never since most friendly to the miserable. Come, then, thou been revived. It is cold and stately, containing cordial for sick minds, come to my heart. [Drinks some admirable sentiments and maxims of morality, it.] Oh, that the grave would bury memory as well as but destitute of elegance, simplicity, and pathos. body! for, if the soul sees and feels the sufferings of At the conclusion of the piece, the heroine was to those dear ones it leaves behind, the Everlasting has be strangled upon the stage, after speaking two lines no vengeance to torment it deeper. I'll think no with the bowstring round her neck. The audience more on it; reflection comes too late; once there was cried out Murder! murder!' and compelled the a time for it, but now 'tis past. Who's there? actress to go off the stage alive, in defiance of the

Enter JARVIS. author. An English audience could not, as one of Johnson's friends remarked, bear to witness a Jar. One that hoped to see you with better looks. strangiing scene on the stage, though a dramatic Why do you turn so from me! I have brought compoet may stab or slay by hundreds. The following fort with me; and see who comes to give it welcome. passage in ‘Irene' was loudly applauded :

Bev. My wife and sister! Why, 'tis but one pang

more then, and farewell, world. To-morrow! That fatal mistress of the young, the lazy,

Enter Mes BEVERLEY and CHARLOTTE. The coward and the fool, condemned to lose

Mrs B. Where is he? [Runs and embraces him.) 0, A useless life in waiting for to-morrow

I have him! I have him! And now they shall never To gaze with longing eyes upon to-morrow,

part us more. I have news, love, to make you happy Till interposing death destroys the prospect !

for ever. Alas! he hears us not. Speak to me, love; Strange! that this general fraud from day to day I have no heart to see you thus. Should fill the world with wretches undetected. Bev. This is a sad place. The soldier labouring through a winter's march, Mrs B. We came to take you from it; to tell you Still sees to-morrow dressed in robes of triumph; the world goes well again; that Providence has seen Still to the lover's long-expecting arms

our sorrows, and sent the means to help them ; your To-morrow brings the visionary bride.

uncle died yesterday, But thou, too old to bear another cheat,

Bev. My uncle? No, do not say so. O! I am sick Learn that the present hour alone is man's.

at heart! Five tragedies were produced by Thomson be

Mrs B. Indeed, I meant to bring you comfort. twixt the years 1729 and the period of his death :

Bev. Tell me he lives, then; if you would bring me these were Sophonisba, Agamemnon, Edward and comfort, tell me he lives. Eleonora, Tancred and Sigismunda, and Coriolanus.

Mrs B. And if I did, I have no power to raise the None of them can be considered as worthy of the

dead. He died yesterday.

Bev. And I am heir to him ? author of the Seasons: they exhibit the defects of his style without its virtues. He wanted the plastic

Jar. To his whole estate, sir. But bear it patiently, powers of the dramatist, and though he could declaim pray bear it patiently,

Bebe Well

, well. Yi Pausing.) Why, fame says I forcibly on the moral virtues, and against corruption

am rich them and oppression, he could not draw characters or invent scenes to lead captive the feelings and ima

Mrs B. And truly so. Why do you look so wildly!

Bev. Do I? The news was unexpected. But has gination.

he left me all ? Two tragedies of a similar kind, but more ani

Jar. All, all, sir; he could not leave it from you. mated in expression, were produced— Gustavus Vasa

Bev. I am sorry for it. by Brooke, and Barbarossa by Dr Brown. The acting of Garrick mainly contributed to the success of

Mrs B. Why are you disturbed so ?

Bev. Has death no terrors in it! the latter, which had a great run. The sentiment

Mrs B. Not an old man's death; yet, if it trouble at the conclusion of ‘Barbarossa' is finely ex

you, I wish him living. pressed :

Bev. And I, with all my heart; for I have a tale Heaven but tries our virtue by affliction,

to tell, shall turn you into stone; or if the power of And oft the cloud which wraps the present hour Epeech remain, you shall kneel down and curse me. Serves but to brighten all our future days.

Mrs B. Alas! Why are we to curse you? I'll bless

you ever. Aaron Hill translated some of Voltaire's trage- Bev. No; I have deserved no blessings. All this dies with frigid accuracy, and they were performed | large fortune, this second bounty of heaven, that might with success. In 1753, The Gamester, an affecting have healed our sorrows, and satisfied our utmost domestic tragedy, was produced. Though wanting hopes, in a cursed hour I sold last night. the merit of ornamented poetical language and blank Mrs B. Impossible! verse, the vivid picture drawn by the author (Ed- Bev. That devil Stukely, with all hell to aid him, ward Moore) of the evils of gambling, ending in de- | tempted me to the deed. To pay false debts of honour, him patience.

worship you.

and to redeem past errors, I sold the reversion, sold it

Enter CHARLOTTE and LEWSON. for a scanty sum, and lost it among villains. Char. Why, farewell all then.

[Mrs B., on perceiving Levson, goes into a Ber. Liberty and life. Come, kneel and curse me.

hysteric laugh, and sinks on Jarvis. Mrr B. Then hear me, heaven. [K'neels.) Look down Stuk. Lewson! O villains! villains! with mercy on his sorrows! Give softness to his looks,

[To Bates and Dawson. and quiet to his heart! On me, on me, if misery must Mrs B. Risen from the dead! Why, this is unexbe the lot of either, multiply misfortunes! I'll bear pected happiness ! them patiently, so he be happy! These hands shall Char. Or is it his ghost ? [To Stukely.] That sight toil for his support; these eyes be lifted up for hourly would please you, sir. blessings on him; and every duty of a fond and faith- Jar. What riddle is this! ful wife be doubly done to cheer and comfort him. Bev. Be quick and tell it, my minutes are but few. So hear me! so reward me!

[Rises. Mrs B. Alas! why so? You shall live long and Bee. I would kneel too, but that offended heaven happily. would turn my prayers into curses ; for I have done a Lew. While shame and punishment shall rack that deed to make life horrible to you.

viper. [Points to Stukely.) The tale is short; I was Mr B. What deed ?

too busy in his secrets, and therefore doomed to die. Jar. Ask him no questions, madam ; this last mis- Bates, to prevent the murder, undertook it; I kept fortune has hurt his brain. A little time will give aloof to give it credit.

Char. And give me pange unutterable.

Lew. I felt them all, and would have told you ; but Enter STUKELY.

vengeance wanted ripening. The villain's scheme was Bev. Why is this villain here?

but half executed; the arrest by Dawson followed the Stuk. To give you liberty and safety. There, supposed murder, and now, depending on his once madam, is his discharge. [Gives a paper to Charlotte.] wicked associates, he comes to fix the guilt on BeThe arrest last night was meant in friendship, but verley. came too late,

Bates. Dawson and I are witnesses of this. Char. What mean you, sir?

Lew. And of a thousand frauds; his fortune ruined Stuk. The arrest was too late, I say; I would have by sharpers and false dice; and Stukely sole contriver kept his hands from blood; but was too late. and possessor of all. Mr B. His hands from blood! Whose blood ? Daw. Had he but stopped on this side murder, we Stuk. From Lewson's blood.

had been villains still. Char. No, villain !

Yet what of Lewson ; speak Lew. [To Beverley.] How does my friend? quickly.

Bev. Why, well. Who's he that asks me? Stuk. You are ignorant then ; I thought I heard Mrs B. 'Tis Lewson, love. Why do you look so at the murderer at confession.

him? Char. What murderer? And who is murdered ? Bev. [Wildly.] They told me he was murdered ! Not Lewson? Say he lives, and I will kneel and Mrs B. Ay; but he lives to save us.

Bev. Lend me your hand; the room turns round. Stuk. And so I would; but that the tongues of all Lew. This villain here disturbs him. Remove him cry murder. I came in pity, not in malice; to save from his sight; and on your lives see that you guard the brother, not kill the sister. Your Lewson's dead. him. [Stukely is taken off by Dawson and Bates.] How Char. O horrible!

is it, sir? Ber. Silence, I charge you. Proceed, sir.

Bev. 'Tis here, and here. [Pointing to his head and Stuk. No; justice may stop the tale; and here's an heart.] And now it tears me! evidence.

Mrs B. You feel convulsed, too. What is it dis

turbs you? Enter BATES.

Bev. A furnace rages in this heart. [Laying his Bates. The news, I see, has reached you. But take hand upon his heart.] Down, restless flames ! down to comfort, madam. [To Charlotte.) There's one with your native hell; there you shall rack me! Oh, for a out inquiring for you ; go to him, and lose no time. pause from pain! Where is my wife? Can you forChar. O misery! misery !

(Exit. give me, love? Mr B. Follow her, Jarvis; if it be true that Lew- Mrs B. Alas! for what? son's dead, her grief may kill her.

Bev. For meanly dying. Bates. Jarvis must stay here, madam; I have some Mrs B. No; do not say it. questions for him.

Bev. As truly as my soul must answer it. Had Stuk. Rather let him fly; his evidence may crush Jarvis staid this morning, all had been well; but,

pressed by shame, pent in a prison, and tormented Ber. Why, ay; this looks like management. with my pangs for you, driven to despair and mad

Bates. He found you quarrelling with Lewson in ness, I took the advantage of his absence, corrupted the street last night.

[To Beverley. the poor wretch he left to guard me, and swallowed Mrs B. No; I am sure he did not.

poison. Jar. Or if I did

Lev. Oh, fatal deed ! Mrs B. 'Tis false, old man; they had no quarrel, Bev. Ay, most accursed. And now I go to my acthere was no cause for quarrel.

count. Bend me, and let me kneel. [They lift him Ber. Let him proceed, I say. O! I am sick! sick! from his chair, and support him on his knees.) I'll Reach a chair.

[Jarvis brings it, he sits down. pray for you too. Thou Power that mad'st me, hear Mrs B. You droop and tremble, love. Yet you me. If, for a life of frailty, and this too hasty deed are innocent. If Lewson's dead, you killed him not. of death, thy justice doom me, here I acquit the sen

tence; but if, enthroned in mercy where thou sitt’st, Enter Dawson.

thy pity hast beheld me, send me a gleam of hope, Stuk. Who sent for Dawson?

that in these last and bitter moments my soul may Bates. 'Twas I. We have a witness too, you little taste of comfort! And for these mourners here, O think of. Without there!

let their lives be peaceful, and their deaths happy. Stuk. What witness ?

Mrs B. Restore him, heaven ! 0, save him, save Bates. A right one. Look at him.

I him, or let me die too!

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his master.

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