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Should ye once hiss, poor man, he dies away,
So much he trembles for his first essay;

And therefore humbly hopes to gain your vote
-For the best play that ever yet was wrote.

Athens and Rome, the Stagirite, old Ben,
Corneille's sublimity, exact Racine,
Rowe's flowing lines, and Otway's tender part,
How Southern wounds, and Shakspeare tears the
heart,

Rules, nature, strength, truth, greatness, taste, and art, &c. &c. &c.

I cannot, will not bear it.-O my fair,
And art thou come to witness my disgrace?
And is it possible that charms like thine
Could spring from such a sire?-Why dost thou
weep?

Say, can a father's harsh commands control-
-Unkind and cruel! then thou never lovedst.
Curs'd be the treacherous sex, curs'd be the hour,
Curs'd be the world, and every thing-but her!
By Heaven, she faints! Ah, lift those lovely eyes,
Turu on this faithful breast their cheering beams.
-O joy! O ecstasy! and wilt thou seek
With me some happier land, some safer shore?
At night I'll meet thee in the palmy grove,
When the pale Moon-beams, conscious of the theft-
-Till then a long adieu !

The merchant, thus, &c.

[Exeunt severally, languishing at each other.

FATAL CONSTANCY.

ACT I.

A Room of State.

THE HERO AND HIS FRIEND MEETING.

[If this manner of opening the play, though almost universally practised, should be thought too simple and unaffecting, the curtain may rise slowly to soft music, and discover the hero in a reclining pensive

ACT III.

The Palmy Grove.

THE HERO, Solus.

posture, who, upon the entrance of his friend, and NIGHT, black-brow'd Night, queen of the ebon wand,

the ceasing of the symphony, may start from his couch, and come forward.]

WELCOME, my friend; thy absence long has torn
My bleeding breast-nor hast thou heard as yet
My hapless story. "T was that fatal morn,
The frighted Sun seem'd conscious of my grief,
And hid himself in clouds, the tuneful birds
Forgot their music, &c.-O Lysimachus,
Think'st thou she e'er can listen to my vows?
Think'st thou the king can e'er refuse her to me?
O, if he should!—I cannot bear the thought-
The shipwreck'd mariner, the tortur'd wretch
That on the rack, the traveller that sees
In pathless deserts the pale light's last gleam
Sink in the deep abyss, distracted, lost―
-But soft ye now, for Lindamira comes.
Ah, cruel maid, &c. &c. &c.

And dost thou yield? Ye waters, gently glide;
Wind, catch the sound, O thou transcending fair!
Stars, fall from Heaven; and suns, forget to rise;
And chaos come, when Lindamira dies!
[Exeunt embracing.

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Now o'er the world has spread her solemn reign.
The glow-worm twinkles, and from every flower
The pearly dews return the pale reflex
Of Cynthia's beams, each drop a little moon!
Hark! Lindamira comes-No, 't was the breath
Of Zephyr panting on the leafy spray.
Perhaps he lurks in yonder woodbine bower
To steal soft kisses from her lips, and catch
Ambrosial odours from her passing sighs.
O thief!-

[love,

She comes; quick let us haste away. The guards pursue us? Heavens!-Come then, my Fly, fly this moment.

[Here a long conference upon love, virtue, the Moon, &c. till the guards come up.

-Dogs, will ye tear her from me? Ye must not, shall not-O, my heart-strings crack, My head turns round, my starting eye-balls hang Upon her parting steps-I can no more.

So the first man, from Paradise exil'd, With fond reluctance leaves the blooming wild: Around the birds in pleasing concert sing, Beneath his feet th' unbidden flow'rets spring; On verdant hills the flocks unnumber'd play, Through verdant vales meand'ring rivers stray; Blossoms and fruits at once the trees adorn, Eternal roses bloom on every thorn, And join Pomona's lap to Amalthea's horn. [Exeunt, torn off on different sides.

ACT IV.

A Prison.

THE HERO, IN CHAINS.

YE deep dark dungeons, and hard prison walls,
Hard as my fate, and darksome as the grave
To which I hasten, wherefore do ye bathe
Your rugged bosoms with unwholesome dews
That seem to weep in mockery of my woe?
-But see! some angel brightness breaks the gloom.
'Tis Lindamira comes! So breaks the morn

On the reviving world. Thou faithful fair!
[Approaching to embrace her.
-Curse on my fetters, how they bind my limbs,
Nor will permit me take one chaste embrace.

Yet come, O come!

Tell our sad story to the weeping world.
-One kiss-'t is very dark-good night-Heaven
-Oh!
[Dies.

THE MORAL.

Nor erring mortals hope true joys to prove,
When such dire ills attend on virtuous love.

What say'st thou? Force thee to it! Let cruel fathers learn from woes like these Thy father force thee to Orosius' arms! To wed their daughters where those daughters He cannot, will not, shall not.-O my brain! please. Darkness and devils! Burst my bonds, ye powers, That I may tear him piecemeal from the Earth, And scatter him to all the winds of Heaven. -What means that bell?-O'tis the sound of death. Alas, I had forgot I was to die! Let me reflect on death, &c.

But what is death,

Racks, tortures, burning pincers, floods of fire,
What are ye all to disappointed love?
Drag, drag me hence, ye ministers of Fate,
From the dire thought-Orosius must enjoy her!
Death's welcome now-Orosius must enjoy her!
Hang on her lip, pant on her breast!-O gods!
I see the lustful satyr grasp her charms,
I see him melting in her amorous arms:
Fiends seize me, furies lash me, vultures tear,
Hell, horrour, madness, darkness, and despair!
[Runs off to execution.

EPILOGUE.

SPOKEN BY LINDAMIRA.

STRANGE rules, good folks! these poets are so nice,
They turn our mere amusements into vice.
Lard! must we women of our lives be lavish,
Because those huge strong creatures, men, will ra-
vish!

I'll swear I thought it hard, and think so still,
To die for-being pleas'd against one's will.

But you, ye fair and brave, for virtue's sake,
These spotless scenes to your protection take,

ACT V.

The Area before the Palace.

THE HERO, AND soldiers.

I THANK you, friends; I thank you, fellow-soldiers:

Ye gave me liberty, ye gave me life.
Yet what are those? Alas! ye cannot give
My Lindamira to my longing arms.

O, I have search'd in vain the palace round,
Explor'd each room, and trac'd my steps again,
Like good Æneas through the streets of Troy,
When lost Creusa, &c.-

Ha! by Heaven she comes!
'T is she, 't is she, and we shall still be blest!
We shall, we shall!-But why that heaving breast?
Why floats that hair dishevell'd to the wind?
Why burst the tears, in torrents from her eyes?
Speak, Lindamira, speak!—

Distraction! No,

He could not dare it. What, this dreadful night,
When the dire thunder rattled o'er his head,
Marry thee! bed thee! force thee to be his!
Defile that Heaven of charms !-What means thy
rage?

Thou shalt not die! O wrest the dagger from her.
Thou still art mine, still, still to me art pure
As the soft fleecy snow on Alpine hills,
Ere the warm breath of Spring pollutes its whiteness,
-O gods, she dies! And dost thou bear me, Earth?
Thus, thus, I follow my adventurous love,
And we shall rest together.

Ha! the king!

But let him come; I am beyond his reach,
He cannot curse me more. See, tyrant, see,
And triumph in the mischiefs thou hast caus'd.
-By Heaven he weeps! O, if humanity
Can touch thy flinty heart, hear my last prayer;
Be kind, and lay me in the same cold grave
Thus with my love; one winding sheet shall hold
Our wretched relics, and one marble tomb

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About the year 963, Ottoberto, of the family of Este, passed from Italy into Germany with the emperor Otho the Great. Azo, his descendant in the next century, by a marriage with the daughter of Welfus, count Altdorf, inherited the dominions of that family in Suabia. Welfus, a son of that marriage, received the dukedom of Bavaria from the emperor Henry the Fourth, in 1061. The descendants of Welfus became afterwards possessed of all those dutchies which lie between the Elbe and the Weser (Brunswick, Wolfenbuttle, Lunenburg, Zell, Hanover, &c.) and in the year 1714, George the First, duke and elector of Hanover, succeeded to the throne of Great Britain.

WHEN Othbert left th' Italian plain,
And soft Atesté's green domain,
Attendant on imperial sway
Where Fame and Otho led the way,
The genius of the Julian hills

(Whose piny summits nod with snow,
Whose Naiads pour their thousand rills
To swell th' exulting Po)
An eager look prophetic cast,
And hail'd the hero as he pass'd.

' George the Second.

"Hail, all hail," the woods reply'd,

And Echo on her airy tide

Roll'd the long murmurs down the mountain's side.

The voice resum'd again: "Proceed,

Nor cast one ling'ring look behind;

By those who toil for virtue's meed

Be every softer thought resign'd;
Nor social home, nor genial air,

Nor glowing suns, are worth thy care:
New realms await thee in a harsher sky,

Thee and thy chosen race from Azo's nuptial tie.

""T is glory wakes; her active flame
Nor time shall quench, nor danger tame;
Nor Boia's amplest range confine,
Though Guelpho reigns, the Guelphic line.
Yon northern star, which dimly gleams

Athwart the twilight veil of eve,
Must point their path to distant streams:
And many a wreath shall victory weave,
And many a palm shall Fame display
To grace the warriors on their way,

Till regions bow to their commands
Where Albis widens through the lands,
And vast Visurgis spreads his golden sands.

"Nor rest they there. Yon guiding fire Still shines aloft, and gilds the main ! Not Lion Henry's 3 fond desire

To grasp th' Italian realms again, Nor warring winds, nor wintry seas, Shall stop the progress Fate decrees;

For lo! Britannia calls to happier coasts, And vales more verdant far than soft Atesté boasts.

"Behold, with euphrasy I clear
Thy visual nerve, and fix it there,

Where, crown'd with rocks grotesque and steep,
The white isle rises o'er the deep!
There glory rests. For there arrive
Thy chosen sons; and there attain

To the first title Fate can give,

The father-kings of free-born men' Proceed; rejoice; descend the vale, And bid the future monarchs hail !"

"Hail, all hail," the hero cried; And Echo on her airy tide

Pursued him, murmuring down the mountain's side.

'T was thus, O king, to heroes old

The mountains breath'd the strain divine, Ere yet her volumes Fame unroll'd To trace the wonders of thy line;

2 Bavaria.

3 Henry the Lion, duke of Bavaria, Saxony, &c. was one of the greatest heroes of the twelfth century. He united in his own person the hereditary dominions of five families. His claims upon Italy hindered him from joining with the emperor Frederic the First, in his third attack upon the pope, though he had assisted him in the two former; for which he was stripped of his dominions by that emperor, and died in 1195, possessed only of those dutchies which lie between the Elbe and the Weser.

From this Henry, and a daughter of Henry the Second of England, his present majesty is lineally descended.

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YE guardian powers, to whose command,
At Nature's birth, th' Almighty mind
The delegated task assign'd

To watch o'er Albion's favour'd land,
What time your hosts with choral lay,
Emerging from its kindred deep,

Applausive hail'd each verdant steep,

And white rock, glittering to the new-born day! Angelic bands, where'er ye rove

Whilst lock'd in sleep creation lies:
Whether to genial dews above

You melt the congregated skies,
Or teach the torrent streams below
To wake the verdure of the vale,
Or guide the varying winds that blow
To speed the coming or the parting sail :
Where'er ye bend your roving flight,
Whilst now the radiant lord of light
Winds to the north his sliding sphere,
Avert each ill, each bliss improve,
And teach the minutes as they move
To bless the opening year.

Already Albion's lifted spear,

And rolling thunders of the main, Which justice' sacred laws maintain, Have taught the haughty Gaul to fear. On other earths, in other skies,

Beyond old Ocean's western bound, Though bleeds afresh th' eternal wound, Again Britannia's cross triumphant flies. To British George, the king of isles,

The tribes that rove th' Arcadian snows, Redeem'd from Gallia's polish'd wiles,

Shall breathe their voluntary vows: Where Nature guards her last retreat,

And pleas'd Astrea lingers still; While faith yet triumphs o'er deceit,

And virtue reigns, from ignorance of ill. Yet, angel powers, though Gallia bend, Though Fame, with all her wreaths, attend

4 Nestoriæ brevitas senectæ. Musæ Anglicanæ.

On bleeding war's tremendous The sons of leisure still complain, And musing science sighs in vain, For Peace is still away.

Go then, ye faithful guides

sway,

Of her returning steps, angelic band,
Explore the sacred seats where Peace resides,
And waves her olive wand.

Bid her the wastes of war repair.

-O southward seek the flying fair,
For not on poor Germania's harass'd plain,

Nor where the Vistula's proud current swells,
Nor on the borders of the frighted Seine,

Nor in the depths of Russia's snows she dwells. Yet O, where'er, deserting freedom's isle,

She gilds the slave's delusive toil; Whether on Ebro's banks she strays, Or sighing traces Taio's winding ways,

Or soft Ausonia's shores her feet detain,

O bring the wanderer back, with glory in her train.

ODE III.

FOR HIS MAJESTY'S BIRTH-DAY, NOVEMBER 10, 1759.
BEGIN the song-Ye subject choirs,
The bard whom liberty inspires
Wakes into willing voice th' accordant lays.-
Say, shall we trace the hero's flame
From the first fost'ring gale of fame,
Which bade the expanding bosom pant for praise?
Or hail the star whose orient beam

Shed influence on his natal hour,
What time the nymphs of Leyna's stream,
Emerging from their wat'ry bower,
Sung their soft carols through each osier shade,
And for the pregnant fair invok'd Lucina's aid?

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But what are wreaths in battle won?
And what the tribute of amaze
Which man too oft mistaken pays
To the vain idol shrine of false renown?
The noblest wreaths the monarch wears
Are those his virtuous rule demands,
Unstain'd by widows' or by orphans' tears,
And woven by his subjects' hands.
Comets may rise, and wonder mark their way
Ahove the bounds of Nature's sober laws,
But 't is th' all-cheering lamp of day,
The permanent, th' unerring cause,

By whom th' enliven'd world its course maintains, By whom all Nature smiles, and beauteous order reigns.

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AGAIN the Sun's revolving sphere
Wakes into life th' impatient year,

The white-wing'd minutes haste:
And, spite of Fortune's fickle wheel,
Th' eternal Fates have fix'd their seal
Upon the glories of the past.
Suspended high in memory's fane,
Beyond ev'n envy's soaring rage,
The deeds survive, to breathe again
In faithful history's future page;
Where distant times shall wond'ring read
Of Albion's strength, of battles won,
Of faith restor❜d, of nations freed;
Whilst round the globe her conquests run,
From the first blush of orient day,

To where descend his noontide beams,
On sable Afric's golden streams,
And where at eve the gradual gleams decay.

So much already hast thou prov'd
Of fair success, O best belov'd,

O first of favour'd isles!
What can thy fate assign thee more,
What whiter boon has Heaven in store,
To bless thy monarch's ceaseless toils?
Each rising season, as it flows,

Each month exerts a rival claim;
Each day with expectation glows,
Each fleeting hour demands its fame.
Around thy genius waiting stands

Each future child of anxious time:
See how they press in shadowy bands,
As from thy fleecy rocks sublime
He rolls around prophetic eyes,

And earth, and sea, and Heaven surveys:
"O grant a portion of thy praise!
O bid us all," they cry, "with lustre rise!"

Genius of Albion, hear their prayer,
O bid them all with lustre rise!
Beneath thy tutelary care,
The brave, the virtuous, and the wise,
Shall mark each moment's winged speed
With something that disdains to die,
The hero's, patriot's, poet's meed,

And passport to eternity!
While yonder Sun revolves his radiant car,
Around thy rocks while ocean raves,
The land of freedom with the land of slaves,
As Nature's friends, must wage illustrious war.
Then be each deed with glory crown'd,
Till smiling Peace resume her throne;
Till not on Albion's shores alone
The voice of freedom shall resound,
But every realm shall equal blessings find,
And man enjoy the birth-right of his kind.

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O'er bleeding millions, realms opprest,
The tuneful mourner sinks distrest,

Or breathes but notes of woe:
And cannot Gallia learn to melt,
Nor feel what Britain long has felt
For her insulting foe?

Amidst her native rocks secure,

Her floating bulwarks hovering round, What can the sea-girt realm endure,

What dread, through all her wat❜ry bound? Great queen of Ocean, she defies

All but the Power who rules the skies,

And bids the storms engage; Inferior foes are dash'd and lost,

As breaks the white wave on her coast

Consum'd in idle rage.

For alien sorrows heaves her generous breast,
She proffers peace to ease a rival's pain:
Her crowded ports, her fields in plenty drest,
Bless the glad merchant, and th' industrious swain.
Do blooming youths in battle fall?
True to their fame the funeral urn we raise;
And thousands, at the glorious call,
Aspire to equal praise.

Thee, Glory, thee through climes unknown
Th' adventurous chief with zeal pursues;
And fame brings back from every zone
Fresh subjects for the British Muse.
Tremendous as th' ill-omen'd bird
To frighted France thy voice was heard
From Minden's echoing towers;
O'er Biscay's roar thy voice prevail'd;
And at thy word the rocks we scal'd,
And Canada is ours.

O potent queen of every breast

Which aims at praise by virtuous deeds, Where'er thy influence shines confest

The hero acts, th' event succeeds.
But ah! must Glory only bear,
Bellona-like, the vengeful spear?
To fill her mighty mind

Must bulwarks fall, and cities flame,
And is her amplest field of fame
The miseries of mankind?

On ruins pil'd, on ruins must she rise,

And lend her rays to gild her fatal throne?
Must the mild Power who melts in vernal skies,
By thunders only make his godhead known?
No, be the omen far away;

From yonder pregnant cloud a kinder gleam,
Though faintly struggling into day,
Portends a happier theme!—

-And who is he, of regal mien,

Reclin❜d on Albion's golden fleece, Whose polish'd brow and eye serene Proclaim him elder-born of peace? Another George!-Ye winds convey

Th' auspicious name from pole to pole!
Thames, catch the sound, and tell the subject sea
Beneath whose sway its waters roll,
The hoary monarch of the deep,

Who sooth'd its murmurs with a father's care,
Doth now eternal sabbath keep,
And leaves his trident to his blooming heir.
O, if the Muse aright divine,

Fair Peace shall bless his opening reign,
And through its splendid progress shine,
With every art to grace her train.

The wreaths, so late by glory won, Shall weave their foliage round his throne, Till kings, abash'd, shall tremble to be foes, And Albion's dreaded strength secure the world's

repose.

ODE VI.

FOR HIS MAJESTY'S BIRTH-DAY, JUNE 4, 1761.

"T WAS at the nectar'd feast of Jove,
When fair Alcmena's son

His destin'd course on Earth had run,
And claim'd the thrones above,
Around their king, in deep debate,
Conven'd, the heavenly synod sate,
And meditated boons refin'd

To grace the friend of human kind:
When lo, to mark th' advancing god,
Propitious Hermes stretch'd his rod,

The roofs with music rung!
For, from amidst the circling choir,
Apollo struck th' alarming lyre,

And thus the Muses sung: "What boon divine would Heav'n bestow? Ye gods, unbend the studious bow,

The fruitless search give o'er, Whilst we the just reward assign, Let Hercules with Hebe join,

And youth unite with power!"

O sacred Truth, in emblem drest!
Again the Muses sing,
Again in Britain's blooming king

Alcides stands confest.

By temp❜rance nurs'd, and early taught
To shun the smooth fallacious draught
Which sparkles high in Circe's bowl;
To tame each hydra of the soul,
Each lurking pest, which mocks its birth,
And ties its spirit down to Earth,
Immers'd in mortal coil;
His choice was that severer road
Which leads to virtue's calm abode,
And well repays the toil.
In vain ye tempt, ye specious harms,
Ye flow'ry wiles, ye flatt'ring charms,

That breathe from yonder bower;
And Heav'n the just reward assigns,
For Hercules with Hebe joins,

And youth unites with power.

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