As for her funeral, arrayed herself
In those sad solemn weeds. Since then, her knee
Has known that posture only, and her eye,
Or fixed upon the sacred page before her,
Or lifted, with her rising hopes, to heaven.

Guil. See, with what zeal those holy hands are
reared!

Mark her vermilion lip, with fervour trembling;
Her spotless bosom swells with sacred ardour,
And burns with ecstasy and strong devotion;
Her supplication sweet, her faithful vows
Fragrant and pure, and grateful to high Heaven,
Like incense from the golden censer rise;
Or blessed angels minister unseen,

Catch the soft sounds, and with alternate office,
Spread their ambrosial wings, then mount with joy,
And waft them upwards to the throne of grace.
But she has ended, and comes forward.

[Lady JANE rises, and comes towards the front of the stage.

L. J. Gray. Ha!

Art thou my Guilford? Wherefore dost thou come,
To break the settled quiet of my soul?
I meant to part without another pang,
And lay my weary head down full of peace.

Guil. Forgive the fondness of my longing soul,
That melts with tenderness, and leans toward thee,
Though the imperious, dreadful voice of fate
Summon her hence, and warn her from the world.
But if to see thy Guilford give thee pain,
Would I had died, and never more beheld thee,
Though my lamenting discontented ghost
Had wandered forth unblessed by those dear eyes,
And wailed thy loss in death's eternal shades!
L. J. Gray. My heart has ended every earth-
ly care,

And offered up its prayers for thee and England,
And fixed its hopes upon a rock unfailing;
While all the little business that remained,
Was but to pass the forms of death and con-

stancy,

And leave a life become indifferent to me.
But thou hast wakened other thoughts within me;
Thy sight, my dearest husband and my lord,
Strikes on the tender strings of love and nature:
My vanquished passions rise again, and tell me,
'Tis more, far more than death to part from thee.
Enter PEMBRoke.

Pem. Oh, let me fly! bear me, thou swift impatience,

And lodge me in my faithful Guilford's arms,
[Embracing.
That I may snatch him from the greedy grave,
That I may warm his gentle heart with joy,
And talk to him of life, of life and pardon!

Guil. What means my dearest Pembroke?
Pem. Oh, my speech

Is choaked with words that crowd to tell my tidings!

But I have saved thee-and-Oh, joy unutterable!

The queen, my gracious, my forgiving mistress, Has given not only thee to my request,

But she, she too, in whom alone thou liv❜st,
The partner of thy heart, thy love is safe.
Guil. Millions of blessings wait her!-Has
she-tell me,

Oh, has she spared my wife?

Pem. Both, both are pardoned. But haste, and do thou lead me to thy saint, That I may cast myself beneath her feet, And beg her to accept this poor amends For all I've done against her-Thou fair excellenee, [Kneeling. Canst thou forgive the hostile hand, that armed Against thy cause, and robbed thee of a crown? L. J. Gray. Oh, rise, my lord, and let me take your posture!

Life and the world are hardly worth my care,
But you have reconciled me to them both;
Then let me pay my gratitude, and for
This free, this noble, unexpected mercy,
Thus low I bow to Heaven, the queen, and you.
Pem. To me! forbid it goodness! if I live,
Somewhat I will do shall deserve your thanks.
All discord and remembrance of offence
Shall be clean blotted out; and for your free-
dom,

Myself have underta'en to be your caution.
Hear me, you saints, and aid my pious purpose!
These that deserve so much, this wondrous pair,
Let these be happy: every joy attend them;
A fruitful bed, a chain of love unbroken,
A good old age, to see their children's children;
A holy death, and everlasting memory;
While I resign to them my share of happiness,
Contented still to want what they enjoy,
And singly to be wretched!

Enter Lieutenant of the Tower.
Lieut. The Lord Chancellor
Is come with orders from the queen.

Enter GARDINER, and Attendunt.
Pem. Ha! Winchester!

Gar. The queen, whose days be many, By re confirms her first accorded grace; But, as the pious princess means her mercy Should reach e'en to the soul as well as body, By me she signifies her royal pleasure, That thou, lord Guilford, and the lady Jane, Do instantly renounce, abjure your heresy, And yield obedience to the see of Rome. L. J. Gray. What! turn apostate? Guil. Ha! forego my faith!

Gar. This one condition only seals your pardon:

But if, through pride of heart, and stubborn ob

stinacy,

With wilful hands you push the blessing from you, And shut your eyes against such manifest light, Know ye, your former sentence stands confirmed, And you must die to-day.

Pem. 'Tis false as hell!

The mercy of the queen was free and full. Think'st thou that princes merchandize their

grace,

As Roman priests their pardons? Do they barter,
Screw up, like you, the buyer to a price,
And doubly sell what was designed a gift?

Gar. My lord, this language ill beseems your nobleness;

Nor come I here to bandy words with madmen.
Behold the royal signet of the queen,
Which amply speaks her meaning.-You, the
prisoners,

Have heard, at large, its purport, and must instantly

Resolve upon the choice of life or death.

Pem. Curse on-But wherefore do I loiter here?

I'll to the queen this moment, and there know What 'tis this mischief-making priest intends.

[Exit.

Gar. Your wisdom points you out a proper

course.

A word with

you, Lieutenant.

[Talks with the Lieutenant aside. Guil. Must we part, then? What are those hopes that flattered us but now; Those joys, that, like the spring, with all its flowers, Poured out their pleasures every where around us? In one poor minute gone; at once they withered, And left their place all desolate behind them.

L. J. Gray. Such is this foolish world, and such the certainty

Of all the boasted blessings it bestows:
Then, Guilford, let us have no more to do with it;
Think only how to leave it as we ought;
But trust no more, and be deceived no more.
Guil. Yes, I will copy thy divine example,
And tread the paths are pointed out by thee:
By thee instructed, to the fatal block

I bend my head with joy, and think it happiness
To give my life a ransom for my faith.
From thee, thou angel of my heart, I learn
That greatest, hardest task, to part with thee.
L. J. Gray. Oh, gloriously resolved! Heaven
is my witness,

My heart rejoices in thee more even now,
Thus constant as thou art, in death thus faithful,
Than when the holy priest first joined our hands,
And knit the sacred knot of bridal love.

Gar. The day wears fast; Lord Guilford, have
you thought?

Will you lay hold on life?

Guil. What are the terms?

Gar. Death, or the mass, attend you.
Guil. 'Tis determined:

Lead to the scaffold.

Gar. Bear him to his fate.

Guil. Oh, let me fold thee once more in my

arms,

Thou dearest treasure of my heart, and print
A dying husband's kiss upon thy lip!
Shall we not live again, even in those forms?
Shall I not gaze upon thee with these eyes?
L. J. Gray. Oh, wherefore dost thou soothe
me with thy softness?

Why dost thou wind thyself about my heart,
And make this separation painful to us?

Here break we off at once; and let us now,

Forgetting ceremony, like two friends
That have a little business to be done,
Take a short leave, and haste to meet again.
Guil. Rest on that hope, my soul-my wife-
L. J. Gray. No more.

Guil. My sight hangs on thee-Oh, support me, Heaven,

In this last pang-and let us meet in bliss! [GUILFORD is led off by the guard. L. J. Gray. Can nature bear this stroke? Wom. Alas, she faints! L. J. Gray. Wilt thou fail nowstroke is past,

[Supporting. -The killing

And all the bitterness of death is o'er.
Gar. Here let the dreadful hand of vengeance

stay;

Have pity on your youth, and blooming beauty;
Cast not away the good which Heaven bestows;
Time may have many years in store for you,
All crowned with fair prosperity. Your husband
Has perished in perverseness.

L. J. Gray. Cease, thou raven,
Nor violate, with thy profaner malice,
My bleeding Guilford's ghost-'Tis gone, 'tis
flown:

But lingers on the wing, and waits for me.

[The scene draws, and discovers a scaffold hung with black, executioner and guards. And see my journey's end. 1 Wom. My dearest lady! 2 Wom. Oh, misery!

[Weeping.

L. J. Gray. Forbear, my gentle maids, Nor wound my peace with fruitless lamentations; The good and gracious hand of Providence Shall raise you better friends than I have been. 1 Wom. Oh, never, never!

L. J. Gray. Help to disarray,

And fit me for the block; do this last service,
And do it chearfully. Now you will see
Your poor unhappy mistress sleep in peace,
And cease from all her sorrows. These few

Gar. Wilt thou then die? Thy blood be on thy head.

L. J. Gray. My blood be where it falls; let
the earth hide it;

And may it never rise, or call for vengeance.
Oh, that it were the last shall fall a victim

To zeal's inhuman wrath! Thou, gracious Heaven,

Hear and defend at length thy suffering people;
Raise up a monarch of the royal blood,
Brave, pious, equitable, wise, and good.
In thy due season let the hero come,
To save thy altars from the rage of Rome:
Long let him reign, to bless the rescued land,
And deal out justice with a righteous hand.
And when he fails, oh, may he leave a son,
With equal virtues to adorn his throne;
To latest times the blessing to convey,
And guard that faith for which I die to-day!
[Lady JANE goes up to the scaffold.
The scene closes.

Enter PEMBROKE.

Pem. Horror on horror! Blasted be the hand

trunk

THE palms of virtue heroes oft have worn;
Those wreaths to-night a female brow adorn.
The destin'd saint, unfortunately brave,
Sunk with those altars which she strove to save.
Greatly she dar'd to prop the juster side,
As greatly with her adverse fate complied;
Did all that Heav'n could ask, resign'd, and died;
Died for the land for which she wish'd to live,
And gain'd that liberty she could not give.
Oh, happy people of this fav'rite isle,
On whom so many better angels smile!
For kind Heav'n new blessings still supplies,
Bids other saints, and other guardians rise:
For you
the fairest of her sex is come,
Adopts our Britain, and forgets her home:
For truth and you the heroine declines
Austria's proud eagles, and the Indian mines.

you,

What sense of such a bounty can be shown!
But Heav'n must make the vast reward its own,
And stars shall join to make her future crown.
Your gratitude with ease may be expressed;
Strive but to be, what she would make you
bless'd.

Let not vile faction vex the vulgar ear,
With fond surmise, and false affected fear:
Confirm but to yourselves the given good;
'Tis all she asks, for all she has bestow'd.
Such was our great example shewn to-day,
And with such thanks our author's pains repay.
If from these scenes, to guard your faith you
learn;

If for our laws you shew a just concern;
If you are taught to dread a popish reign
Our beauteous patriot has not died in vain.

BY

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;
In pitying love we but our weakness shew,
And wild ambition well deserves its woe.
Here tears shall flow from a more gen'rous 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 god-like Cato was:
No common object to your sight displays,
But what with pleasure Heav'n itself surveys;
A brave man struggling in the storms of fate,
And greatly falling in 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 ev'ry deed? Who hears him groan, and does not wish to bleed?

Ev'n when proud Cæsar, 'midst triumphal cars,
The spoils of nations, and the pomp of wars,
Ignobly vain, and impotently great,

Shew'd Rome her Cato's figure drawn in state;
As her dead father's rev'rend image past,
The pomp was darken'd, and the day o'ercast,
The triumph ceas'd-tears gush'd from ev'ry eye,
The world's great victor past unheeded by:
Her last good man, dejected Rome ador'd,
And honour'd Cæsar's less than Cato's sword.
Britons, attend: Be worth like this approv'd,
And shew you have the virtue to be mov'd;
With honest scorn the first fam'd Cato view'd
Rome learning arts from Greece, whom she sub-

du'd;

Our scenes precariously subsist too long
On French translations, and Italian song:
Dare to have sense yourselves; assert the stage;
Be justly warm'd with your own native rage;
Such plays alone should please a British ear,
As Cato's self had not disdain'd to hear.

Enter PORTIUS and MARCUS.

Por. THE dawn is overcast, the morning lowers,

And heavily in clouds brings on the day;
The great, the important day, big with the fate
Of Cato and of Rome. Our father's death
Would fill up all the guilt of civil war,
And close the scene of blood. Already Cæsar
Has ravaged more than half the globe, and sees
Mankind grown thin by his destructive sword:
Should he go farther, numbers would be wanting
To form new battles, and support his crimes.
Ye gods, what havoc does ambition make
Among your works!

Marc. Thy steady temper, Portius,
Can look on guilt, rebellion, fraud, and Cæsar,
In the calm lights of mild philosophy;
I'm tortured, even to madness, when I think
On the proud victor: every time he's named,
Pharsalia rises to my view!-I see

The insulting tyrant prancing o'er the field, Strewed with Rome's citizens, and drenched in slaughter,

His horse's hoofs wet with patrician blood!
Oh, Portius! is there not some chosen curse,
Some hidden thunder in the stores of Heaven,
Red with uncommon wrath, to blast the man,
Who owes his greatness to his country's ruin?
Por. Believe me, Marcus, 'tis an impious
greatness,

And mix'd with too much horror to be envied;
How does the lustre of our father's actions,
Through the dark cloud of ills that cover him,
Break out, and burn with more triumphant
brightness!

His sufferings shine, and spread a glory round him;

Greatly unfortunate, he fights the cause
Of honour, virtue, liberty, and Rome.
His sword ne'er fell, but on the guilty head;
Oppression, tyranny, and power usurp'd,
Draw all the vengeance of his arm upon them.
Marc. Who knows not this? But what can
Cato do

Against a world, a base, degenerate world,
That courts the yoke, and bows the neck to
Cæsar?

Pent up in Utica, he vainly forms
A poor epitome of Roman greatness,
And, covered with Numidian guards, directs
A feeble army, and an empty senate,
Remnants of mighty battles fought in vain.
By Heaven, such virtue, joined with such suc-

Now, Marcus, now thy virtue's on the proof: Put forth thy utmost strength, work every nerve, And call up all thy father in thy soul:

To quell the tyrant, Love, and guard thy heart On this weak side, where most our nature fails, Would be a conquest worthy Cato's son.

Marc. Portius, the counsel which I cannot take,

Instead of healing, but upbraids my weakness.
Bid me for honour plunge into a war
Of thickest foes, and rush on certain death,
Then shalt thou see that Marcus is not slow
To follow glory, and confess his father.
Love is not to be reasoned down, or lost
In high ambition, or a thirst of greatness:
'Tis second life, it grows into the soul,
Warms every vein, and beats in every pulse;
I feel it here: my resolution melts-

Por. Behold young Juba, the Numidian prince,
With how much care he forms himself to glory,
And breaks the fierceness of his native temper,
To copy out our father's bright example.
He loves our sister Marcia, greatly loves her;
His eyes, his looks, his actions, all betray it;
But still the smothered fondness burns within
him;

When most it swells, and labours for a vent,
The sense of honour, and desire of fame,
Drive the big passion back into his heart.
What! shall an African, shall Juba's heir
Reproach great Cato's son, and shew the world
A virtue, wanting in a Roman soul!

Marc. Portius, no more! your words leave stings behind them. Whene'er did Juba, or did Portius shew A virtue that has cast me at a distance, And thrown me out in the pursuits of honour? Por. Marcus, I know thy generous temper well;

Fling but the appearance of dishonour on it,
It straight takes fire, and mounts into a blaze.
Marc. A brother's sufferings claim a brother's

pity.