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The Scene continued. Enter AGNES alone, with the casket in her hand.

Agn. Who should this stranger be? And then
this casket-

He says it is of value, and yet trusts it,
As if a trifle, to a stranger's hand-
His confidence amazes me-Perhaps

It is not what he says-I'm strongly tempted
To open it, and see-No, let it rest.
Why should my curiosity excite me

To search and pry into th' affairs of others,
Who have t' employ my thoughts, so many cares
And sorrows of my own?-With how much ease
The spring gives way! Surprising! most pro-
digious!

My eyes are dazzled, and my ravish'd heart Leaps at the glorious sight. How bright 's the lustre,

How immense the worth of these fair jewels!
Ay, such a treasure would expel for ever
Base poverty, and all its abject train;
The mean devices we're reduced to use
To keep out famine, and preserve our lives
From day to day; the cold neglect of friends;
The galling scorn, or more provoking pity
Of an insulting world-Possess'd of these,
Plenty, content, and power, might take their turn,
And lofty pride bare its aspiring head
At our approach, and once more bend before us.
-A pleasing dream! 'Tis past; and now I wake
More wretched by the happiness I've lost;
For sure it was a happiness to think,
Though but a moment, such a treasure mine.
Nay, it was more than thought-I saw and
touch'd

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My Agnes, of our unexpected guest!

He seems to me a youth of great humanity :
Just ere he closed his eyes, that swam in tears,
He wrung my hand, and press'd it to his lips;
And with a look, that pierced me to the soul,
Begg'd me to comfort thee: and-Dost thou hear
me?_

What art thou gazing on? Fie, 'tis not well-
This casket was deliver'd to you closed:
Why have you open'd it? Should this be known,
How mean must we appear!

Agn. And who shall know it?

O. Wilm. There is a kind of pride, a decent

dignity

Due to ourselves; which, spite of our misfortunes,
May be maintain'd and cherish'd to the last.
To live without reproach, and without leave
To quit the world, shows sovereign contempt,
And noble scorn of its relentless malice. [sense!
Agn. Shows sovereign madness, and a scorn of
Pursue no further this detested theme:

I will not die,-I will not leave the world
For all that you can urge, until compell'd. [sun
O. Wilm. To chase a shadow, when the setting
Is darting his last rays, were just as wise
As your anxiety for fleeting life,
Now the last means for its support are failing:
Were famine not as mortal as the sword,
This warmth might be excused-But take thy
Die how you will, you shall not die alone. [choice:
Agn. Nor live, I hope.

O. Wilm. There is no fear of that.
Agn. Then we'll live both.

O. Wilm. Strange folly! where's the means?
Agn. The means are there; those jewels-—
O. Wilm. Ha!-Take heed:

Perhaps thou dost but try me; yet take heed-
There's nought so monstrous but the mind of man
In some conditions may be brought t' approve;
Theft, sacrilege, treason, and parricide,
When flatt'ring opportunity enticed,
And desperation drove, have been committed
By those who once would start to hear them named.
Agn. And add to these detested suicide,
Which, by a crime much less, we may avoid.
O. Wilm.Th' inhospitable murder of our guest!—
How couldst thou form a thought so very tempting,
So advantageous, so secure, and easy;
And yet so cruel, and so full of horror?

Agn. 'Tis less impiety, less against nature,
To take another's life, than end our own.

O. Wilm. It is no matter, whether this or that Be, in itself, the less or greater crime: Howe'er we may deceive ourselves or others, We act from inclination, not by rule, Or none could act amiss-And that all err, None but the conscious hypocrite denies.

-O! what is man, his excellence and strength,
When in an hour of trial and desertion,
Reason, his noblest power, may be suborn'd
To plead the cause of vile assassination!
Agn. You're too severe: reason may justly plead
For her own preservation.

O. Wilm. Rest contented:
Whate'er resistance I may seem to make,

I am betrayed within: my will's seduced, And my whole soul infected. The desire Of life returns, and brings with it a train Of appetites, that rage to be supplied. Whoever stands to parley with temptation, Does it to be o'ercome.

Agn. Then nought remains,

But the swift execution of a deed

That is not to be thought on, or delay'd.

To waste my fortune, rob me of my son;
To drive me to despair, and then reproach me
For being what thou'st made me.

O. Wilm. Dry thy tears:

I ought not to reproach thee. I confess

That thou hast suffer'd much: so have we both.

But chide no more: I'm wrought up to thy pur-
The poor, ill-fated, unsuspecting victim,
Ere he reclined him on the fatal couch,

[pose.

We must despatch him sleeping: should he wake, From which he's ne'er to rise, took off the sash, "Twere madness to attempt it.

O. Wilm. True; his strength

Single is more, much more than ours united;
So may his life, perhaps, as far exceed

Ours in duration, should he 'scape this snare.
Gen'rous, unhappy man! O what could move thee
To put thy life and fortune in the hands
Of wretches mad with anguish ?
Agn. By what means?

By stabbing, suffocation, or by strangling,
Shall we effect his death?

O. Wilm. Why, what a fiend!-
How cruel, how remorseless and impatient
Have pride and poverty made thee!

Agn. Barbarous man!

Whose wasteful riots ruin'd our estate,

And drove our son, ere the first down had spread
His rosy cheeks, spite of my sad presages,
Earnest intreaties, agonies and tears,

To seek his bread 'mongst strangers, and to perish
In some remote, inhospitable land-
The loveliest youth, in person and in mind,
That ever crown'd a groaning mother's pains!
Where was thy pity, where thy patience then?
Thou cruel husband! thou unnatʼral father!
Thou most remorseless, most ungrateful man,

And costly dagger that thou saw'st him wear; And thus, unthinking, furnish'd us with arms Against himself. Which shall I use?

Agn. The sash.

If you make use of that, I can assist.
O. Wilm. No.

'Tis a dreadful office, and I'll spare

Thy trembling hands the guilt-steal to the

door,

And bring me word; if he be still asleep.

[Exit AGNES.

Or I'm deceived, or he pronounced himself
The happiest of mankind. Deluded wretch!
Thy thoughts are perishing, thy youthful joys,
Touch'd by the icy hand of grisly death,
Are with'ring in their bloom--But, thought
extinguish'd,

He'll never know the loss, nor feel the bitter
Pangs of disappointment-Then I was wrong
In counting him a wretch: To die well pleased,
Is all the happiest of mankind can hope for.
To be a wretch, is to survive the loss
Of every joy, and even hope itself,
As I have done-Why do I mourn him then?
For, by the anguish of my tortured soul,
He's to be envied, if compared with me.

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How silent did his old companions tread,
By midnight lamps, the mansions of the dead,
Through breathing statues, then unheeded things,
Through rows of warriors, and through walks
of kings!

What awe did the slow solemn knell inspire;
The pealing organ, and the pausing choir;
The duties by the lawn-robed prelate paid:
And the last words, that dust to dust convey'd!
While speechless o'er thy closing grave we bend,
Accept these tears, thou dear departed friend.
Oh, gone for ever! take this long adieu;
And sleep in peace, next thy loved Montague.
To strew fresh laurels, let the task be mine,
A frequent pilgrim at thy sacred shrine;
Mine with true sighs thy absence to bemoan,
And grave with faithful epitaphs thy stone.
If e'er from me thy loved memorial part,
May shame afflict this alienated heart;
Of thee forgetful, if I form a song,
My lyre be broken, and untuned my tongue;
My grief be doubled from thy image free,
And mirth a torment, unchastised by thee!

Oft let me range the gloomy aisles alone, Sad luxury to vulgar minds unknown, Along the walls where speaking marbles show What worthies form the hallow'd mould below; Proud names, who once the reins of empire held; In arms who triumph'd; or in arts excell'd; Chiefs, graced with scars, and prodigal of blood; Stern patriots, who for sacred freedom stood; Just men, by whom impartial laws were given; And saints, who taught and led the way to

heaven;

Ne'er to these chambers, where the mighty rest,
Since their foundation came a nobler guest;
Nor e'er was to the bowers of bliss convey'd
A fairer spirit or more welcome shade.

In what new region, to the just assign'd, What new employments please th' unbodied mind?

A winged Virtue, through th' ethereal sky,
From world to world unwearied does he fly?
Or curious trace the long laborious maze
Of heaven's decrees, where wondering angels
gaze?

Does he delight to hear bold seraphs tell
How Michael battled, and the dragon fell;
Or, mix'd with milder cherubim, to glow
In hymns of love, not ill essay'd below?
Or dost thou warn poor mortals left behind,
A task well suited to thy gentle mind?
Oh! if sometimes thy spotless form descend,
To me thy aid, thou guardian genius, lend!
When rage misguides me, or when fear alarms,
When pain distresses, or when pleasure charms,
In silent whisperings purer thoughts impart,
And turn from ill a frail and feeble heart;
Lead through the paths thy virtue trod before,
Till bliss shall join, nor death can part us more.

That awful form, which, so the heavens decree, Must still be loved and still deplored by me;

In nightly visions seldom fails to rise,
Or, roused by fancy, meets my waking eyes.
If business calls, or crowded courts invite,
Th' unblemish'd statesman seems to strike my
sight;

If in the stage I seek to soothe my care,
I meet his soul which breathes in Cato there;
If pensive to the rural shades I rove,
His shape o'ertakes me in the lonely grove;
"Twas there of just and good he reason'd strong,
Clear'd some great truth, or raised' some serious
song:

There patient show'd us the wise course to steer,
A candid censor, and a friend severe;
There taught us how to live; and (oh! too high
The price for knowledge,) taught us how to die.

Thou hill, whose brow the antique structures

grace,

Rear'd by bold chiefs of Warwick's noble race, Why, once so loved, whene'er thy bower appears, O'er my dim eye-balls glance the sudden tears? How sweet were once thy prospects fresh and fair,

Thy sloping walks, and unpolluted air!

How sweet the glooms beneath thy aged trees,
Thy noontide shadow, and thy evening breeze!
His image thy forsaken bowers restore;
Thy walks and airy prospects charm no more;
No more the summer in thy glooms allay'd,
Thy evening breezes, and thy noon-day shade.

From other ills, however fortune frown'd, Some refuge in the Muse's art I found; Reluctant now I touch the trembling string, Bereft of him who taught me how to sing; And these sad accents, murmur'd o'er his urn, Betray that absence they attempt to mourn. O! must I then (now fresh my bosom bleeds, And Craggs in death to Addison succeeds,) The verse, begun to one lost friend, prolong, And weep a second in th' unfinish'd song!

These works divine, which on his death-bed laid,

To thee, O Craggs! th' expiring sage convey'd,
Great, but ill-omen'd, monument of fame,
Nor he survived to give, nor thou to claim.
Swift after him thy social spirit flies,
And close to his, how soon! thy coffin lies.
Blest pair! whose union future bards shall tell
In future tongues: each other's boast! farewell!
Farewell! whom, join'd in fame, in friendship

tried,

No chance could sever, nor the grave divide.

COLIN AND LUCY.

A BALLAD.

OF Leinster, famed for maidens fair,
Bright Lucy was the grace;
Nor e'er did Liffy's limpid stream
Reflect so sweet a face:

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He imagines himself married to Delia, and that, content with each other, they are retired into the country. LET others boast their heaps of shining gold, And view their fields, with waving plenty crown'd, Whom neighbouring foes in constant terror hold, And trumpets break their slumbers, never sound:

Through all Tickell's works there is a strain of balladthinking, if I may so express it; and in this professed ballad he seems to have surpassed himself. It is, perhaps, the best in our language in this way.-GOLDSMITH.

I always thought Tickell's ballad the prettiest in the world.-GRAY to Walpole.]

[† The best criticism on Hammond has been anticipated by Cowley, that "he served up the cold-meats of the ancients, new-heated and new set-forth."

"Sure Hammond has no right," says Shenstone," to the

While calmly poor I trifle life away,
Enjoy sweet leisure by my cheerful fire,
No wanton hope my quiet shall betray,
But, cheaply bless'd, I'll scorn each vain desire.

With timely care I'll sow my little field,
And plant my orchard with its master's hand,
Nor blush to spread the hay, the hook to wield,
Or range my sheaves along the sunny land.

least inventive merit. I do not think that there is a single thought in his Elegies of any eminence, that is not literally translated. I am astonished he could content himself with being so little an original." "I question," he adds in another place, "whether they had taken without the interest of his genteel acquaintance, or indeed if the author had not died precedently." What has been said of Kirke White, that consumption and Southey have been the sal vation of his verse, is more true when said of Hammond, of disease and Lord Chesterfield.]

If late at dusk, while carelessly I roam, I meet a strolling kid, or bleating lamb, Under my arm I'll bring the wanderer home, And not a little chide its thoughtless dam. What joy to hear the tempest howl in vain, And clasp a fearful mistress to my breast! Or, lull'd to slumber by the beating rain, Secure and happy, sink at last to rest! Or, if the sun in flaming Leo ride, By shady rivers indolently stray, And with my Delia, walking side by side, Hear how they murmur as they glide away! What joy to wind along the cool retreat, To stop and gaze on Delia as I go! To mingle sweet discourse with kisses sweet, And teach my lovely scholar all I know! Thus pleased at heart, and not with fancy's dream, In silent happiness I rest unknown; Content with what I am, not what I seem, I live for Delia and myself alone.

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Ah, what avails to press the stately bed,
And far from her 'midst tasteless grandeur weep,
By marble fountains lay the pensive head,
And, while they murmur, strive in vain to sleep!

Delia alone can please, and never tire,
Exceed the paint of thought in true delight;
With her, enjoyment wakens new desire,
And equal rapture glows through every night:

Beauty and worth in her alike contend,
To charm the fancy, and to fix the mind;
In her, my wife, my mistress, and my friend,
I taste the joys of sense and reason join'd.

On her I'll gaze, when others' loves are o'er,
And dying press her with my clay-cold hand—
Thou weep'st already, as I were no more,
Nor can that gentle breast the thought withstand.
Oh, when I die, my latest moments spare,
Nor let thy grief with sharper torments kill,
Wound not thy cheeks, nor hurt that flowing hair,
Though I am dead, my soul shall love thee still:

Oh, quit the room, oh, quit the deathful bed,
Or thou wilt die, so tender thy heart;
Oh, leave me, Delia, ere thou see me dead,
These weeping friends will do thy mournful part;
Let them extended on the decent bier,
Convey the corse in melancholy state;
Through all the village spread the tender tear,
While pitying maids our wondrous loves relate.

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