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We'll fix our grief, and our complaining there;
We'll curse the nymph that drew the ruin on,

| And moutonehe youth that was, like thereum.


Ascend, ye ghosts, fantastic forms of night, SCENE I.- A Room hung with black; on one In all your different dreadful shapes ascend,

side LOTHARIO's body on a bier ; on the other And match the present horror, if ye can!
a table, with a skull and other bones, a book
and a lamp on it.


Sci. This dead of night, this silent hour of Calista is discovered on a couch, in black; her

darkness, hair hanging loose and disordered. After soft Nature for rest ordained, and soft repose; music, she rises and comes res foræard.

And yet distraction, and tumultuous jars,

Keep all our frighted citizens awake :

The senate, weak, divided, and irresolute,
Hear, you midnight phantoms, hear, Want power to succour the afflicted state.
You who pale and wan appear,

Vainly in words and long debates they're wise, And fill the wretch who wakes with fear ; While the fierce factions scorn their peaceful orYou, who wunder, scream and groan

ders, Round the mansions once your own ;

And drown the voice of law in noise and anarYou, who still your crimes upbraid ;

chy. You, who rest not with the dead ;

Amidst the general wreck, see where she stands, From the coverts where you struy,

(Pointing to Calista. Where you lurk and shun the day,

Like Helen, in the night when Troy was sacked, From the charnel and the tomb,

Spectatress of the mischief which she made. Hither haste ye, hither come.

Cal. It is Sciolto ! Be thyself, my soul ;

Be strong to bear his fatal indignation, Chide Calista for delay,

That he may see thou art not lost so far, Tell her, 'tis for her you stay ;

But somewhat still of his great spirit lives Bid her die and come away.

In the forlorn Calista. See the serton with his spade,

Sci. Thou wert once See the grave already made ;

My daughter. Listen, fair one, to thy knell,

Cal. Happy were it had I died, This music is thy passing bell.

And never lost that name!

Sci. That's something yet; Cul. 'Tis well! these solemn sounds, this pomp Thou wert the very darling of my age: of horror,

I thought the day too short to gaze upon thee, Are fit to feed the frenzy in my soul.

That all the blessings I could gather for thee, Here's room for meditation even to madness; By cares on earth, and by my prayers to HeaTill the mind burst with thinking. This dull

ven, flame

Were little for my fondness to bestow; Sleeps in the socket. Sure the book was left Why didst thou turn to folly, then, and curse To tell me something; for instruction thenHe teaches holy sorrow and contrition,

Cal. Because my soul was rudely drawn from And penitence. Is it become an art, then?

yours; A trick, that lazy, dull, luxurious gownmen A poor imperfect copy of my father, Can teach us to do over? I'll no more on't; Where goodness, and the strength of manly vir(Throwing away the book.

tue, I have more real anguish in my heart,

Was thinly planted, and the idle void Than all their pedant discipline e'er knew. Filled up with light belief, and easy fondness; What charnel has been rifled for these bones ? It was, because I loved, and was a woman. Fie! this is pageantry; they look uncouthly. Sci. Hadst thou been honest, thou hadst been But what of that, if he or she, that owned

a cherubim ; them,

But of that joy, as of a gem long lost, Safe from disquiet sit, and smile to see

Beyond redemption gone, think we no more. The farce their miserable relies play?

Hast thou e'er dared to meditate on death ? But here's a sight is terrible indeed!

Cul. I have, as on the end of shame and sor. Is this that haughty, gallant, gay, Lothario?

row. That dear perfidious-Ah! how pale he looks! Sci. Ha! answer me ! Say, hast thou coolly How grim with clotted blood, and those dead


'Tis not the stoick's lessons got by rote, 10


eyes !

The pomp of words, and pedant dissertations, Sci. Would it were otherwise-but thou must That can sustain thee in that hour of terror;

die! Books have taught cowards to talk nobly of it, Cal. That I must die, it is my only comfort; But when the trial comes, they stand aghast; Death is the privilege of human nature, Hast thou considered what may happen after it? And life without it were not worth our taking: How thy account may stand, and what to an- Thither the poor, the prisoner, and the mourner, swer?

Fly for relief, and lay their burthens down. Cal. I have turned my eyes inward upon my- Come then, and take me into thy cold arms, self,

'Thou meagre shade; here let me breathe my Where foul offence and shame have laid all waste;

last, Therefore my soul abhors the wretched dwelling, Charmed with my father's pity and forgiveness, And longs to find some better place of rest. More than if angels tuned their golden viols, Sci. 'Tis justly thought, and worthy of that And sung a requiem to my parting soul. spirit,

Sci. I am summoned hence; ere this my friends That dwelt in antient Latian breasts, when Rome

expect me. Was mistress of the world. I would go on, There is I know not what of sad presage, And tell thee all my purpose ; but it sticks That tells me I shall never see thee more; Here at my heart, and cannot find a way. If it be so, this is our last farewell,

Cal. Then spare the telling, if it be a pain, And these the parting pangs whichi nature feels, And write the meaning with your poniard here. When aoguish rends the heart-strings—Oh, my Sci. Oh! truly guessed-see'st thou this trem


(Eril SCIOLTO bling hand

(Holding up a dagger. Cal. Now think, thou cursed Calista! now be Thrice justice urged and thrice the slackening hold sinews

The desolation, horror, blood, and ruin, Forgot their office, and confessed the father. Thy crimes and fatal folly spread around, At length the stubborn virtue has prevailed, That loudly cry for vengeance on thy head. It must, it must be so-Oh! take it then, Yet Heaven, who knows our weak, imperfect as[Giving the dagger.

tures, And know the rest untaught !

How blind with passions, and how prone to evi, Cal. I understand you.

Makes not too strict inquiry for offences, It is but thus, and both are satisfied.

But is atoned by penitence and

prayer: [She offers to kill herself : Sciolto catches Cheap recompence! here 'twould not be receihold of her arm.

ved. Sci. A moment! give me yet a moment's space. Nothing but blood can make the expiation, The stern, the rigid judge has been obeyed; And cleanse the soul from inbred, deep polloNow nature, and the father, claim their turns.

I've held the balance with an iron hand, And see, another injured wretch is come,
And put off every tender human thought, To call for justice from my tardy hand.
To doom my child to death; but spare my eyes

The most unnatural sight, lest their strings crack,
My old brain split, and I grow mad with horror!

Alt. Hail to you, horrors ! hail, thou house of Cal. Ha! Is it possible! and is there yet

death! Some little dear remains of love and tenderness And thou, the lovely mistress of the shades, For poor, undone Calista, in


heart? Whose beauty gilds the more than midnight darkSci. Oh! when I think what pleasure I took ness, in thee,

And makes it grateful as the dawn of day, What joys thou gav'st me in thy prattling in- Ah, take me in, a fellow-mourner, with thee! fancy,

I'll number groan for groan, and tear for tear; Thy sprightly wit, and early blooming beauty! And when the fountain of thy eyes is dry, How have I stood, and fed my eyes upon thee, Mine shall supply the stream, and weep for both Then, lifting up my hands, and wondering, blest Cal. I know thee well; thou art the injured thee

Altamont; By my strong grief, my heart even melts within Thou com’st to urge me with the wrongs me;

done thee; I could curse Nature, and that tyrant, Honour, But know, I stand upon the brink of life, For making me thy father, and thy judge ;

And in a moment mean to set me free Thou art my daughter still!

From shame and thy upbraiding. Cal. For that kind word,

Alt. Falsely, falsely Thus let me fall, thus humbly to the earth, Dost thou accuse me! When did I complain, Weep on your feet, and bless you for this good Or murmur at my fate? For thee I have

Forgot the temper of Italian husbands, Oh ! 'tis too much for this offending wretch,

And fondness has prevailed upon revenge. This parricide, that murders with her crimes, I bore my load of infamy with patience, Shortens her father's age, and cuts him off, As holy men do punishment from Heaven; Ere little more than half his years be numbered. I Nor thought it hard, because it came from thee.



Oh, then, forbid me not to moum thy loss, And you, ye glittering, heavenly host of stars,
To wish some better fate had ruled our loves, Hide your fair heads in clouds, or I shall blast
And that Calista had been mine, and true.

Cul. Oh, Altamont ! 'tis hard for souls like For I am all contagion, death, and ruin,

And nature sickens at me. Rest, thou world
Haughty and fierce, to yield they've done amiss. This parricide shall be thy plague no more;
But, oh, behold! my proud disdainful heart Thus, thus I set thee free. [Stubs herself
Bends to thy gentler virtue. Yes, I own,

Hor. Oh, fatal rashness ! Such is thy truth, thy tenderness, and love, Alt. Thou dost instruct me well. To lengthen Such are the graces that adorn thy youth,

life, That, were I not abandoned to destruction,

Is but to trifle now.
With thee I might have lived for ages blest, [ALTAMONT offers to kill himself ; HORATIO
And died in peace within thy faithful arms. prevents him, and wrests his sword from him.

Alt. Then happiness is still within our reach. Hor. Ha! what means
Here let remembrance lose our past misfortunes, The frantic Altamont? Some foe to man
Tear all records that hold the fatal story;

Has breathed on every breast contagious fury,
Here let our joys begin, from hence go on, And epidemic madness.
In long successive order.

Enter Saolto, pale and bloody, supported by Cal. What! in death!

Alt. Then thou art fixed to die?-But be it so; We'll go together; my adventurous love

Cal. Oh, my heart ! Shall follow thee to those uncertain beings.

Well may'st thou fail; for see, the spring that

fed Whether our lifeless shades are doomed to wander

The vital stream is wasted, and runs low. In gloomy groves, with discontented ghosts;

My father! will you now, at last, forgive me, Or whether through the upper air we fit,

If, after all my crimes, and all your suflerigs, And tread the fields of light; still I'll pursue thee,

I call you once again by that dear name? 'Till fate ordains that we shall part no more.

Will you forget my shame, and those wide

wounds ?
Cal. Oh, no! Heaven has some other better
lot in store

Lift up your hand, and bless me, ere I go
To crown thee with. Live, and be happy long:

Down to my dark abode?
Live, for some maid that shall deserve thy good. Thou'st rashly ventured on a stormy sea,

Sci. Alas, my daughter !
Some kind, unpractised heart, that never yet

Where life, fame, virtue, all were wrecked and Has listened to the false ones of thy sex,

lost. Nor known the arts of ours; she shall reward

But sure thou'st born thy part in all the anthee,

guish, Meet thee with virtues equal to thy own,

And smarted with the pain. Then, rest in peace:

Let silence and oblivion hide thy name, Charm thee with sweetness, beauty, and with truth;

And save thee from the malice of posterity; Be blest in thee alone, and thou in her.

And may'st thou find with Heaven the same for

giveness, Enter HORATIO.

As with thy father here !-Die, and be happy.

Cal. Celestial sounds ! Peace dawns upon my Hor. Now, mourn indeed, ye miserable pair; soul, For now the measure of your woes is full. And every pain grows less—Oh, gentle Altamont!

Alt. What dost thou mean, Horatio ? Think not too hardly of me when I'm gone; Hor. Oh, 'tis dreadful!

But pity me-Had I but early known The great, the good Sciolto dies this moment. Thy wond'rous worth, thou excellent young man, Cal. My father!

We had been happier both—Now, 'tis too late; Alt. That's a deadly stroke, indeed.

And yet my eyes take pleasure to behold thee; Hor. Not long ago he privately went forth, Thou art their last dear object-Mercy, Ileaven! Attended but by few, and those unbidden.

(She dies. 3 I heard which way he took, and straight pursued Alt. Cold ! dead, and cold! and yet thou art

not changed, But found him compassed by Lothario's faction, But lovely still. Hadst thou a thousand faults, Almost alone, amidst a crowd of foes.

What heart so hard, what virtue so severe, | Too late we brought him aid, and drove them But at that beauty must of force relented, back;

Melted to pity, love, and to forgiveness? Ere that, his frantic valour had provoked

Sci. Oh, turn thee from that fatal object, Al. The death he seemed to wish for from their

tamont! swords.

Come near, and let me bless thee ere I die. Cal. And dost thou bear me yet, thou patient To thee, and brave Horatio, I bequeath earth?

My fortunes-Lay me by thy noble father, Dost thou not labour with thy murderous weight: | And love my memory, as thou hast his;


For thou hast been my son-Oh, gracious Heaven !| And find my only portion in the grave! Thou that hast endless blessings still in store Hor. The storm of grief bears hard upon his For virtue, and for filial piety,

youth, Let grief, disgrace, and want be far away, And bends him, like a drooping flower, to earth But multiply thy mercies on his head !

By such examples are we taught to prove Let honour, greatness, goodness, still be with The sorrows that attend unlawful love. him,

Death, or some worse misfortune, soon divide And peace in all his ways- (He dies. The injured bridegroom from his guilty bride. Ali, Take, take it all:

If you would have the nuptial union last, To thee, Horatio, I resign the gift,

Let virtue be the bond that ties it fast. While I pursue my father, and my love,

(Eseunt opaca



You see the tripping dame could find no favour ; | Each ill-bred, senseless rogue, tho' ne'er so dol, Dearly she paid for breach of good behaviour; Has th' impudence to think his wife a fool; Nor could ber loving husband's fondness save her. He spends the night where merry wags resort

, Italian ladies lead but scurvy lives,

With joking clubs, and eighteen-penny port; There's dreadful dealings with eloping wives : While she, poor soul, 's contented to regale

, Thus 'tis, because these husbands are obeyed By a sad sea-coal fire, with wigs and ale. By force of laws, which for themselves they made. Well may the cuckold-making tribe find grate, With tales of old prescriptions they confine And fill an absent husband's empty place. The right of marriage-rules to their male line, If you would e'er bring constancy in fashion, And buff and domineer by right divine.

You men must first begin the reformation. Had we the pow'r, we'd make the tyrants know Then shall the golden age of love return, What 'tis to fail in duties which they owe; No turtle for her wand'ring mate shall moure; We'd teach the saunt’ring squire, who loves to No foreign charms shall cause domestic strife, roam,

But ev'ry married man shall toast his wife; Forgetful of his own dear spouse at home; Phillis shall not be to the country sent, Who snores, at night, supinely by her side ; For carnivals in town, to keep a tedious Lent: 'Twas not for this the nuptial knot was ty’d. Lampoons shall cease, and envious scandal de; The plodding petty-fogger, and the cit,

And all shall live in peace, like my good post Hlave learned, at least, this modern way of wit,

and I.





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TO-NIGHT, if you have brought your good old taste, He owns he had the mighty bard in view;
We'll treat you with a downright English feast: And in these scenes has made it more his care,
A tale, which told long since in homely wise, To rouse the passions, than to charm the ear;
Hath never fail'd of melting gentle eyes. Yet, for those gentle beaux, who love the chime,
Let no nice sir despise our hapless dame, The ends of acts still jingle into rhyme.
Because recording ballads chaunt her name: The ladies too, he hopes, will not complain,-
Those venerable ancient song-enditers

Here are some subjects for a softer strain,-
Soar'd many a pitch above our modern writers : A nymph forsaken, and a perjur'd swain.
They cater waul'd in no romantic ditty,

What most he fears, is, lest the dames should Sighing for Phillis's or Chloe's pity.

Justly they drew the fair, and spoke her plain, The dames of wit and pleasure about town,
And sung her by her Christian name—'twas Jane. To see our picture drawn unlike their own.
Our numbers may be more refined than those, But, lest that error should provoke to fury
But what we've gained in verse, we've lost in the hospitable hundreds of Old Drury,

He bid me say, in our Jane Shore's defence,
Their words no shuffling double-meaning knew, She doled about the charitable pence,
Their speech was homely, but their hearts were Built hospitals, turn'd saint, and dy'd long since.

For her example, whatsoe'er we make it,
In such an age, immortal Shakespeare wrote, They have their choice to let alone or take it.
By no quaint rules, nor hampering critics taught; Though few, as I conceive, will think it meet,
With rough majestic force he mov’d the heart, To weep so sorely for a sin so sweet ;
And strength and nature made amends for art. Or mourn and mortify the pleasant sense,
Our humble author does his steps pursue, To rise in tragedy two ages hence,

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