Thou seest a prince, whose father thou hast slain,
Whose native country thou hast laid in blood,
Whose sacred person, Oh! thou hast profaned,
Whose reign extinguished-what was left to me,
So highly born? No kingdom but revenge;
No treasure but thy torture and thy groans.
If men should ask who brought thee to thy end,
Tell them the Moor, and they will not despise thee.
If cold white mortals censure this great deed,
Warn them they judge not of superior beings,
Souls made of fire, and children of the sun,
With whom revenge is virtue.

Dr Johnson's tragedy of Irene was performed in 1749, but met with little success, and has never since been revived. It is cold and stately, containing some admirable sentiments and maxims of morality, but destitute of elegance, simplicity, and pathos. At the conclusion of the piece, the heroine was to be strangled upon the stage, after speaking two lines with the bowstring round her neck. The audience cried out Murder! murder!' and compelled the actress to go off the stage alive, in defiance of the author. An English audience could not, as one of Johnson's friends remarked, bear to witness a strangling scene on the stage, though a dramatic poet may stab or slay by hundreds. The following passage in 'Irene' was loudly applauded :To-morrow!

That fatal mistress of the young, the lazy,
The coward and the fool, condemned to lose
A useless life in waiting for to-morrow-
To gaze with longing eyes upon to-morrow,
Till interposing death destroys the prospect!
Strange! that this general fraud from day to day
Should fill the world with wretches undetected.
The soldier labouring through a winter's march,
Still sees to-morrow dressed in robes of triumph;
Still to the lover's long-expecting arms
To-morrow brings the visionary bride.
But thou, too old to bear another cheat,
Learn that the present hour alone is man's.

Five tragedies were produced by Thomson betwixt the years 1729 and the period of his death: these were Sophonisba, Agamemnon, Edward and Eleonora, Tancred and Sigismunda, and Coriolanus. None of them can be considered as worthy of the author of the Seasons: they exhibit the defects of his style without its virtues. He wanted the plastic powers of the dramatist, and though he could declaim forcibly on the moral virtues, and against corruption and oppression, he could not draw characters or invent scenes to lead captive the feelings and imagination.

Two tragedies of a similar kind, but more animated in expression, were produced-Gustavus Vasa by Brooke, and Barbarossa by Dr Brown. The acting of Garrick mainly contributed to the success of the latter, which had a great run. The sentiment

characters and incidents, drew loud applause. "The Gamester' is still a popular play.

[The Gamester's Last Stake.]

Beverley. Why, there's an end then. I have judged deliberately, and the result is death. How the selfmurderer's account may stand, I know not; but this I know, the load of hateful life oppresses me too much. The horrors of my soul are more than I can bear. [Offers to kneel]. Father of Mercy! I cannot pray; despair has laid his iron hand upon me, and sealed me for perdition. Conscience! conscience! thy clamours are too loud: here's that shall silence thee. [Takes a phial of poison out of his pocket.] Thou art most friendly to the miserable. Come, then, thou cordial for sick minds, come to my heart. [Drinks it.] Oh, that the grave would bury memory as well as body! for, if the soul sees and feels the sufferings of those dear ones it leaves behind, the Everlasting has no vengeance to torment it deeper. I'll think no more on it; reflection comes too late; once there was a time for it, but now 'tis past. Who's there?

Enter JARVIS.

Jar. One that hoped to see you with better looks. Why do you turn so from me! I have brought comfort with me; and see who comes to give it welcome. Bev. My wife and sister! Why, 'tis but one pang more then, and farewell, world.

Enter MRS BEVERLEY and CHARLOTTE.

Mrs B. Where is he? [Runs and embraces him.] 0, I have him! I have him! And now they shall never part us more. I have news, love, to make you happy for ever. Alas! he hears us not. Speak to me, love; I have no heart to see you thus.

Bev. This is a sad place.

Mrs B. We came to take you from it; to tell you the world goes well again; that Providence has seen our sorrows, and sent the means to help them; your uncle died yesterday.

Bev. My uncle? No, do not say so. O! I am sick at heart!

Mrs B. Indeed, I meant to bring you comfort. Bev. Tell me he lives, then; if you would bring me comfort, tell me he lives.

Mrs B. And if I did, I have no power to raise the dead. He died yesterday.

Bev. And I am heir to him?

Jar. To his whole estate, sir. But bear it patiently, pray bear it patiently.

Bev. Well, well. [Pausing.] Why, fame says I am rich then?

Mrs B. And truly so. Why do you look so wildly? Bev. Do I The news was unexpected. But has he left me all?

Jar. All, all, sir; he could not leave it from you.
Bev. I am sorry for it.

Mrs B. Why are you disturbed so?
Bev. Has death no terrors in it!

Mrs B. Not an old man's death; yet, if it trouble

Bev. And I, with all my heart; for I have a tale to tell, shall turn you into stone; or if the power of speech remain, you shall kneel down and curse me. Mrs B. Alas! Why are we to curse you? I'll bless

you ever.

Bev. No; I have deserved no blessings. All this large fortune, this second bounty of heaven, that might have healed our sorrows, and satisfied our utmost hopes, in a cursed hour I sold last night.

Mrs B. Impossible!

Bev. That devil Stukely, with all hell to aid him, tempted me to the deed. To pay false debts of honour,

Bev. No; live, I charge you. We have a little one; though I have left him, you will not leave him. To Lewson's kindness I bequeath him. Is not this Charlotte? We have lived in love, though I have wronged you. Can you forgive me, Charlotte? Char. Forgive you! O, my poor brother! Bev. Lend me your hand, love. So; raise me-no; it will not be; my life is finished. O for a few short moments to tell you how my heart bleeds for you; that even now, thus dying as I am, dubious and fearful of a hereafter, my bosom pang is for your miseries. Support her, Heaven! And now I go. O, mercy! mercy! [Dies. Lew. How is it, madam? My poor Charlotte, too! Char. Her grief is speechless.

Lew. Jarvis, remove her from this sight. [Jarvis and Charlotte lead Mrs Beverley aside.] Some ministering angel bring her peace. And thou, poor breathless corpse, may thy departed soul have found the rest it prayed for. Save but one error, and this last fatal deed, thy life was lovely. Let frailer minds take warning; and from example learn that want of prudence is want of virtue. [Exeunt.

Of a more intellectual and scholar-like cast were

the two dramas of Mason, Elfrida and Caractacus. They were brought on the stage by Colman (which Southey considers to have been a bold experiment in those days of sickly tragedy), and were well received. They are now known as dramatic poems, not as acting plays. The most natural and affecting of all the tragic productions of the day, was the Douglas of Home, founded on the old ballad of Gil Morrice, which Percy has preserved in his Reliques. 'Douglas' was rejected by Garrick, and was first performed in Edinburgh in 1756. Next year Lord Bute procured its representation at Covent Garden, where it drew tears and applause as copiously as in Edinburgh. The plot of this drama is pathetic and interesting. The dialogue is sometimes flat and prosaic, but other parts are written with the liquid softness and moral beauty of Heywood or Dekker. Maternal affection is well depicted under novel and striking circumstances the accidental discovery of a lost child- My beautiful! my brave!'-and Mr Mackenzie, the Man of Feeling,' has given as his opinion that the chief scene between Lady Randolph and Old Norval, in which the preservation and existence of Douglas is discovered, has no equal in modern and scarcely a superior in the ancient drama. Douglas himself, the young hero, enthusiastic, romantic, desirous of honour, careless of life and every other advantage when glory lay in the balance,' is beautifully drawn, and formed the schoolboy model of most of the Scottish youth sixty years since.' As a specimen of the style and diction of Home, we subjoin part of the discovery scene. Lord Randolph is attacked by four men, and rescued by young Douglas. An old man is found in the woods, and is taken up as one of the assassins, some rich jewels being also in his possession.

[Discovery of her Son by Lady Randolph.]
PRISONER-LADY RANDOLPH-ANNA, her maid.

Lady R. Account for these; thine own they cannot

be:

For these, I say: be steadfast to the truth;
Detected falsehood is most certain death.

[Anna removes the servants and returns.
Pris. Alas! I'm sore beset; let never man,
For sake of lucre, sin against his soul!
Eternal justice is in this most just!

I, guiltless now, must former guilt reveal.

The truth direct; for these to me foretell
And certify a part of thy narration;
With which, if the remainder tallies not,
An instant and a dreadful death abides thee.
Pris. Then, thus adjured, I'll speak to you as just
As if you were the minister of heaven,
Sent down to search the secret sins of men.

Some eighteen years ago, I rented land
Of brave Sir Malcolm, then Balarmo's lord;
But falling to decay, his servants seized
All that I had, and then turned me and mine
(Four helpless infants and their weeping mother)
Out to the mercy of the winter winds.
A little hovel by the river side
Received us: there hard labour, and the skill
In fishing, which was formerly my sport,
Supported life. Whilst thus we poorly lived,
One stormy night, as I remember well,
The wind and rain beat hard upon our roof;
Red came the river down, and foud and oft
The angry spirit of the water shrieked.
At the dead hour of night was heard the cry
Of one in jeopardy. I rose, and ran
To where the circling eddy of a pool,
My reach whatever floating thing the stream
Beneath the ford, used oft to bring within
Had caught. The voice was ceased; the person lost:
But, looking sad and earnest on the waters,
By the moon's light I saw, whirled round and round,
A basket; soon I drew it to the bank,
And nestled curious there an infant lay.
Lady R. Was he alive?
Pris. He was.

Lady R. Inhuman that thou art!

How could'st thou kill what waves and tempests spared?

Pris. I was not so inhuman.
Lady R. Didst thou not?

Anna. My noble mistress, you are moved too much :
This man has not the aspect of stern murder;
Let him go on, and you, I hope, will hear
Good tidings of your kinsman's long lost child.
Pris. The needy man who has known better days,
One whom distress has spited at the world,
Is he whom tempting fiends would pitch upon
To do such deeds, as make the prosperous men
Lift up their hands, and wonder who could do them;
And such a man was I; a man declined,
Who saw no end of black adversity;
Yet, for the wealth of kingdoms, I would not
Have touched that infant with a hand of harm.
Lady R. Ha! dost thou say so? Then perhaps he
lives!

Pris. Not many days ago he was alive. Lady R. O, God of heaven! Did he then die so lately? Pris. I did not say he died; I hope he lives. Not many days ago these eyes beheld Him, flourishing in youth, and health, and beauty. Lady R. Where is he now? Pris. Alas! I know not where.

Lady R. O, fate! I fear thee still. Thou riddler speak

Direct and clear, else I will search thy soul.

Anna. Permit me, ever honoured! keen impatience, Though hard to be restrained, defeats itself. Pursue thy story with a faithful tongue, To the last hour that thou didst keep the child. Pris. Fear not my faith, though I must speak my

shame.

Within the cradle where the infant lay
Was stowed a mighty store of gold and jewels;
Tempted by which, we did resolve to hide,
From all the world, this wonderful event,
And like a peasant breed the noble child.
We left the country, travelled to the north,

speak

To drain its blood and treasure, to neglect
Each art of peace, each care of government;
And all for what? By spreading desolation,
Rapine, and slaughter o'er the other half,
To gain a conquest we can never hold.

I venerate this land. Those sacred hills,
Those vales, those cities, trod by saints and prophets,
By God himself, the scenes of heavenly wonders,
Inspire me with a certain awful joy.

But the same God, my friend, pervades, sustains,
Surrounds, and fills this universal frame;

And every land, where spreads his vital presence,
His all-enlivening breath, to me is holy.
Excuse me, Theald, if I go too far:
I meant alone to say, I think these wars
A kind of persecution. And when that-
That most absurd and cruel of all vices,
Is once begun, where shall it find an end?
Each in his turn, or has or claims a right
To wield its dagger, to return its furies,
And first or last they fall upon ourselves.

THOMSON'S Edward and Eleonora.

[Love.]

Why should we kill the best of passions, Love?
It aids the hero, bids Ambition rise
To nobler heights, inspires immortal deeds,
Even softens brutes, and adds a grace to Virtue.
THOMSON'S Sophonista.

[Miscalculations of Old Men.]

Those old men, those plodding grave state pedants,
Forget the course of youth; their crooked prudence,
To baseness verging still, forgets to take
Into their fine-spun schemes the generous heart,
That, through the cobweb system bursting, lays
Their labours waste.

THOMSON'S Tancred and Sigismunda.

[Awfulness of a Scene of Pagan Rites.]

This is the secret centre of the isle:
Here, Romans, pause, and let the eye of wonder
Gaze on the solemn scene; behold yon oak,
How stern he frowns, and with his broad brown arms
Chills the pale plain beneath him: mark yon altar,
The dark stream brawling round its rugged base;
These cliffs, these yawning caverns, this wide circus,
Skirted with unhewn stone; they awe my soul,
As if the very genius of the place
Himself appeared, and with terrific tread
Stalked through his drear domain. And yet, my friends,
If shapes like his be but the fancy's coinage,
Surely there is a hidden power that reigns
'Mid the lone majesty of untamed nature,
Controlling sober reason; tell me else,
Why do these haunts of barbarous superstition
O'ercome me thus? I scorn them; yet they awe me.

MASON'S Caractacus.

[Against Homicide.]

Think what a sea of deep perdition whelms
The wretch's trembling soul, who launches forth
Unlicensed to eternity. Think, think,
And let the thought restrain thy impious hand.
The race of man is one vast marshalled army,
Summoned to pass the spacious realms of Time,
Their leader the Almighty. In that march
Ah! who may quit his post? when high in air
The chosen archangel rides, whose right hand wields
The imperial standard of Heaven's providence,
Which, dreadful sweeping through the vaulted sky,
Overshadows all creation.

MASON'S Elfrida.

[Solitude on a Battle Field.]

I have been led by solitary care

To yon dark branches, spreading o'er the brook,
Which murmurs through the camp; this mighty camp,
Where once two hundred thousand sons of war,
With restless dins awaked the midnight hour.
Now horrid stillness in the vacant tents
Sits undisturbed; and these incessant rills,
Whose pebbled channel breaks their shallow stream,
Fill with their melancholy sounds my ears,
As if I wandered, like a lonely hind,
O'er some dead fallow, far from all resort:
Unless that ever and anon a groan
Bursts from a soldier, pillowed on his shield
In torment, or expiring with his wounds,
And turns my fixed attention into horror.

But, prince, remember then

The vows, the noble uses of affliction;
Preserve the quick humanity it gives,
The pitying, social sense of human weakness;
Yet keep thy stubborn fortitude entire.
The manly heart that to another's wo

Is tender, but superior to its own.

Learn to submit, yet learn to conquer fortune;
Attach thee firmly to the virtuous deeds
And offices of life; to life itself,

With all its vain and transient joys, sit loose.
Chief, let devotion to the sovereign mind,
A steady, cheerful, absolute dependence
In his best, wisest government, possess thee.
In thoughtless gay prosperity, when all
Attends our wish, when nought is seen around us
But kneeling slavery, and obedient fortune;
Then are blind mortals apt, within themselves
To fly their stay, forgetful of the giver ;
But when thus humbled, Alfred, as thou art,
When to their feeble natural powers reduced,
'Tis then they feel this universal truth
That Heaven is all in all, and man is nothing.
MALLET'S Alfred.

COMIC DRAMATISTS.

The comic muse was, during this period, more successful than her tragic sister. In the reign of George II., the witty and artificial comedies of Vanbrugh and Farquhar began to lose their ground, both on account of their licentiousness, and the formal system on which they were constructed with regard to characters and expression. In their room, Garrick, Foote, and other writers, placed a set of dramatic compositions, which, though often of a humble and unpretending character, exercised great influence in introducing a taste for more natural portraitures and language; and these again led the way to the higher productions, which we are still accustomed to refer to veneratively, as the legitimate English comedies.