He is retir'd to rest, and seems to cherish Thoughts full of peace. He has dispatch'd me hence

With orders that bespeak a mind compos'd,
And studious for the safety of his friends.
Marcia, take care that none disturb his slum-
bers.
[Exit.
Mar. O ye immortal powers that guard the
just,

Watch round his couch, and soften his repose,
Banish his sorrows, and becalm his soul
With easy dreams; remember all his virtues!
And show mankind that goodness is
your care.
Enter Lucia.
Luc. Where is your father, Marcia, where is
Cato!

Mar. Lucia, speak low, he is retir'd to rest.
Lucia, I feel a gentle dawning hope
Rise in my soul. We shall be happy still.
Luc. Alas! I tremble when I think on Cato!
In every view, in every thought I tremble!
Cato is stern and awful as a god;

He knows not how to wink at human frailty,
Or pardon weakness that he never felt.

Mar. Tho' stern and awful to the foes of
Rome,

He is all goodness, Lucia, always mild,
Compassionate and gentle to his friends.
Fill'd with domestic tenderness, the best,
The kindest father I have ever found him,
Easy and good, and bounteous to my wishes.
Luc. 'Tis his consent alone can make us
bless'd.

Marcia, we are both equally involv'd
In the same intricate, perplex'd distress.
The cruel hand of fate, that has destroy'd
Thy brother Marcus, whom we both lament-
Mar. And ever shall lament, unhappy youth!
Luc. Has set my soul at large, and now I stand
Loose of my vow. But who knows Cato's
thoughts?

Who knows how yet he may dispose of Portius,
Or how he has determin'd of thyself?

Mar. Let him but live, commit the rest to
Heaven.

Enter Lucius.

Luc. Sweet are the slumbers of the virtuous man!

O Marcia, I have seen thy godlike father;
Some power invisible supports his soul,
And bears it up in all its wonted greatness.
A kind refreshing sleep is fallen on him:
I saw him stretch'd at ease, his fancy lost
In pleasing dreams: as I drew near his couch,
He smil'd, and cried, Cæsar, thou canst not

hurt me.

On the high point of yon bright western tower We ken them from afar; the setting sun Plays on their shining arins and burnish'd hel

mets,

And covers all the field with gleams of fire. Luc. Marcia, 'tis time we should awake thy father,

Cæsar is still dispos'd to give us terms,
And waits at distance till he hears from Cato.
Enter Portius.

Portins, thy looks speak somewhat of importance,
What tidings dost thou bring? Methinks I see
Unusual gladness sparkling in thine eyes.

Por. As I was hasting to the port, where now
My father's friends, impatient for a passage,
Accuse the ling'ring winds, a sail arriv'd
From Pompey's son, who thro' the realms of
Spain

Calls out for vengeance on his father's death,
And rouses the whole nation up to arms.
Were Cato at their head, once more might Rome
Assert her rights, and claim her liberty.
But, hark! what means that groan? O, give

Re-enter Portius.

Por. O sight of woe!

O Marcia, what we fear'd is come to pass!
Cato is fallen upon his sword.—
Luc. O, Portius,

Hide all the horrors of thy mournful tale,
And let us guess the rest.
Por. I've rais'd him

up, [faint, And plac'd him in his chair, where, pale and He gasps for breath, and, as his life flows from him,

Demands to see his friends. His servantsweeping, Obsequious to his order, bear him hither.

Mar.O Heaven assist me in this dreadful hour, To pay the last sad duties to my father! Jub. These are thy triumphs, thy exploits, O

Cæsar!

Luc. Lucia, why all this grief, these floods

of sorrow?

Let this our friendship live between our children, Make Portius happy in thy daughter Lucia. Alas! poor man, he weeps!-Marcia, my daughter

O, bend me forward! Juba loves thee, Marcia: A senator of Rome, while Rome surviv'd, Would not have match'd his daughter with a king;

But Cæsar's arms have thrown down all distinction :

same,

From age to age his influence sustains [tion Dependent worlds, bestows both life and moOn the dull mass that forms their dusky orbs, Cheers them with heat, and gilds them with his brightness.

Yet man, of jarring elements composed,
Who posts from change to change, from the
first hour

Of his frail being to his dissolution,
Enjoys the sad prerogative above him,

To think, and to be wretched! What is life
To him, that's born to die!

Or, what the wisdom, whose perfection ends In knowing, we know nothing?

Mere contradiction all! A tragic farce, Tedious, though short, elab'rate without art, Ridiculously sad

Enter Randal. Where hast been, Randal?

Rand. Not out of Penryn, sir; but to the strand,

To hear what news from Falmouth, since the

storm

Of wind last night.

O. Wilm. It was a dreadful one.

O. Wilm. What 'came of those on board Rand. Some few are saved, but much the greater part,

'Tis thought, are perish'd.

O. Wilm. They are past the fear Of future tempests, or a wreck on shore: Those who escaped, are still exposed to both. Where's your mistress ?

Rand. I saw her pass the High-street,
t'wards the Minster.

O. Wilm. She's gone to visit Charlotte.
She doth well.

In the soft bosom of that gentle maid [race
There dwells more goodness than the rigid
Of moral pedants e'er believed, or taught.
With what amazing constancy and truth,
Doth she sustain the absence of our son,
Whom more than life she loves! How shun
for him,
[and great;
Whom we shall ne'er see more, the rich
Who own her charms, and sigh to make her
happy!
[friend,
Since our misfortunes we have found no
None who regarded our distress, but her;
And she, by what I have observed of late,
Is wearied, or exhausted. Cursed condition!
To live a burden to one only friend,

And blast her youth with our contagious woe! Who, that had reason, soul, or sense, would bear it

A moment longer? Then this honest wretch!-
I must dismiss him-Why should I detain
A grateful, gen'rous youth, to perish with me?
His service may procure him bread elsewhere,
Though I have none to give him.-Pr'ythee,
How long hast thou been with me? [Randal,
Rand. Fifteen years.

I was a very child when first ye took me,
To wait upon your son, my dear young master.
I oft have wish'd I'd gone to India with him,
Though you, desponding, give him o'er for
lost. [OLD WILMOT wipes his eyes.
I am to blame: this talk revives your sorrow
For his long absence.

O. Wilm. That cannot be revived
Which never died.

Rand. The whole of my intent
Was to confess your bounty, that supplied
The loss of both my parents: I was long
The object of your charitable care.

O. Wilm. No more of that: Thou'st served me longer since

Without reward; so that account is balanced,
Or, rather, I'm thy debtor. I remember,
When Poverty began to show her face
Within these walls, and all my other servants,
Like pamper'd vermin from a falling house,
Retreated with the plunder they had gain'd,
And left me, too indulgent and remiss
For such ungrateful wretches, to be crush'd
Beneath the ruin they had help'd to make,
That you, more good than wise, refused to
leave me.

Rand. Nay, I beseech you, sir !—
O. Wilm. With my distress,
In perfect contradiction to the world,

Thy love, respect, and diligence, increased.
Now, all the recompence within my power,
Is to discharge thee, Randal, from my hard,
Unprofitable service.

Rand. Heaven forbid !

Shall I forsake you in your worst necessity?
Believe me, sir, my honest soul abhors
The barb'rous thought!

O. Wilm. What! canst thou feed on air? I have not left wherewith to purchase food For one meal more!

Rand. Rather than leave you thus,

I'll beg my bread, and live on others' bounty, While I serve you.

O. Wilm. Down, down, my swelling heart, Or burst in silence! 'Tis thy cruel fate Insults thee by his kindness—He is innocent Of all the pain it gives thee.-Go thy ways: I will no more suppress thy youthful hopes Of rising in the world.

Rand. 'Tis true, I'm young, And never tried my fortune, or my genius, Which may, perhaps, find out some happy

means,

As they deserve, and I've been treated by them: Thou'st seen by me, and those who now despise me,

How men of fortune fall, and beggars rise;
Shun my example; treasure up my precepts;
The world's before thee-be a knave and pros-
per.

What, art thou dumb? [After a long pause.
Rand. Amazement ties my tongue.
Where are your former principles?
O. Wilm. No matter;

Suppose I have renounced them: I have
passions,
[think,
And love thee still; therefore would have thee
The world is all a scene of deep deceit,
And he, who deals with mankind on the

square,

Is his own bubble, and undoes himself.
Farewell, and mark my counsel, boy. [Exil.
Rand. Amazement !

Is this the man I thought so wise and just?
What, teach and counsel me to be a villain!
Sure grief has made him frantic, or some fiend
Assumed his shape: I shall suspect my senses.
High-minded he was ever, and improvident,
But pitiful, and generous, to a fault.
Pleasure he loved, but honour was his idol.
O fatal change! O horrid transformation!
So a majestic temple, sunk to ruin,
Becomes the loathsome shelter and abode
Of lurking serpents, toads, and beasts of prey;
And scaly dragons hiss, and lions roar,
Where wisdom taught, and music charm'd
before.
[Exit.

Enter Charlotte and Maria.

Char. What terror and amazement must Who die by shipwreck!

[they feel

Mar. "Tis a dreadful thought!
Char. Ay; is it not, Maria?-To descend,
Alas! had we no sorrows of our own,
Living, and conscious, to the wat'ry tomb!
The frequent instances of others' woe,
But you forget you promised me to sing.
Must give a gen'rous mind a world of pain.
Though cheerfulness and I have long been
strangers,

Harmonious sounds are still delightful to me.
There's sure no passion in the human soul,
But finds its food in music. I would hear
The song, composed by that unhappy maid,
Whose faithful lover 'scaped a thousand perils
And after all, being arrived at home,
From rocks and sands, and the devouring deep;
Passing a narrow brook, was drowned there,
And perish'd in her sight.

SONG-Maria.

Cease, cease, heart-easing tears!
Adieu, you flatt'ring fears,
Which seven long tedious years
Taught me to bear.

Tears are for lighter woes;
Fear no such danger knows,
As fate remorseless shows,
Endless despair!

Dear cause of all my pain,
On the wide stormy main,
Thou wast preserved in vain,
Though still adored.
Hadst thou died there unseen,
My wounded eyes had been
Saved from the direst scene

Maid e'er deplored.
[Charlotte finds a letter.

Char. What's this?-A letter superscribed to me!

None could convey it here, but you, Maria.
Ungen'rous, cruel maid! to use me thus!
To join with flatt'ring men, to break my

peace,

And persecute me to the last retreat!

hear the sighs

Of honourable love? This letter is

Char. No matter whence: return it back unopen'd:

[mot,

I have no love, no charms, but for my WilNor would have any.

Mar. Alas! Wilmot's dead;

Or, living, dead to you.

[rish hope;
Char. I'll not despair: Patience shall che-
Nor wrong his honour by unjust suspicion.
I know his truth, and will preserve my own.
But, to prevent all future importunity,
Know, thou incessant foe to my repose,
Whether he sleeps secure from mortal cares,
In the deep bosom of the boist'rous main,
Or, toss'd with tempest, still endures its rage;
No second choice shall violate my vows:
High Heaven, which heard them, and abhors
the perjured,

Can witness, they were made without reserve:
Never to be retracted, ne'er dissolved
By accident or absence, time or death.

Mar. And did your vows oblige you to
support

His haughty parents, to your utter ruin?Well may you weep, to think on what you've done. [more Char. I weep to think that I can do no For their support. What will become of them?

The hoary, helpless, miserable pair!

Mar. What I can't praise, you force me to admire,

And mourn for you, as you lament for them.
Your patience, constancy, and resignation,
Merit a better fate.

Char. So pride would tell me,
And vain self-love, but I believe them not:
And if by wanting pleasure, I have gain'd
Humility, I'm richer for my loss.

Mar. You have the heavenly art still to improve [one, Your mind by all events-But here comes Whose pride seems to increase with her misfortunes.

Her faded dress, unfashionably fine,
As ill conceals her poverty, as that
Strain'd complaisance, her haughty, swelling

heart.

The insolent contempt of those we scorn.

Char. By scorning, we provoke them to
contempt,

And thus offend, and suffer in our turns:
We must have patience.

Agnes. No, I scorn them yet;

But there's no end of suff'ring: Who can say Their sorrows are complete? My wretched husband,

Tired with our woes, and hopeless of relief,
Grows sick of life,

And, urged by indignation and despair,
Would plunge into eternity at once,
By foul self-murder.

Char. Gracious Heaven support him!
Agnes. His fixed love for me,

Whom he would fain persuade to share his fate,
And take the same uncertain, dreadful course,
Alone withholds his hand.

[tremes of life,

Char. And may it ever! Agnes. I've known with him, the two exThe highest happiness, and deepest woe, With all the sharp and bitter aggravations Of such a vast transition-Such a fall In the decline of life!-I have as quick, As exquisite a sense of pain, as he, And would do any thing, but die, to end it; But there my courage fails. Death is the worst That fate can bring, and cuts off ev'ry hope.

Char. We must not chuse but strive to bear our lot

Without reproach or guilt. By one rash act Of desperation, we may overthrow

The merit we've been raising all our days, And lose our own reward. And now, methinks,

Now, more than ever, we have cause to fear,
And be upon our guard. The hand of Heaven
Spreads clouds on clouds o'er our benighted
heads,

And, wrapp'd in darkness, doubles our distress.
I had, the night last past, repeated twice,
A strange and awful dream: I would not yield
To fearful superstition, nor despise
The admonition of a friendly power,
That wish'd my good.

Agnes. I have certain plagues enough, Without the help of dreams, to make me

wretched.

And may excite to vigilance and care.
My vision may be such, and sent to warn us,
(Now we are tried by multiplied afflictions)
To mark each motion of our swelling hearts,
Lest we attempt to extricate ourselves,
And seek deliv'rance by forbidden ways-
To keep our hopes and innocence entire,
Till we're dismiss'd to join the happy dead,
Or Heaven relieves us here.

Agnes. Well, to your dream.

[night, Char. Methought, I sat, in a dark winter's On the wide summit of a barren mountain; The sharp, bleak winds, pierced through my shiv'ring frame,

And storms of hail, and sleet, and driving rains,
Beat with impetuous fury on my head,
Drench'd my chill'd limbs, and pour'd a de-
luge round me.

On one hand, ever-gentle Patience sat,
On whose calm bosom I reclined my head;
And on the other, silent Contemplation.
At length, to my unclosed and watchful eyes,
That long had roll'd in darkness, dawn ap-
peared;

And I beheld a man, an utter stranger,
But of a graceful and exalted mien, [me.
Who press'd with eager transport to embrace
Ishunn'd his arms: but at some words he spoke,
Which I have now forgot, I turn'd again;
But he was gone-And oh, transporting sight!
Your son, my dearest Wilmot, fill'd his place!
Agnes. If I regarded dreams, I should expect
Some fair event from yours.

Char. But what's to come,
Though more obscure, is terrible indeed.
Methought we parted soon, and when I sought
him,

You and his father-(yes, you both were there) Strove to conceal him from me. I pursued you [earth Both with my cries, and call'd on heaven and To judge my wrongs, and force you to reveal Where you had hid my love, my life, my Wil[the rest. Agnes. Unless you mean to offend me, spare 'Tis just as likely Wilmot should return, As we become your foes.

mot!

Char. Far be such thought [you name From Charlotte's breast: but when I heard Self-murder, it revived the frightful image Of such a dreadful scene! Agnes. You will persist!Char. Excuse me: I have done. I thought, at least, it could not give offence. Agnes. You could not think so, had you thought at all.

[dream, Being a

But I take nothing ill from thee.—Adieu! I've tarried longer than I first intended, And my poor husband mourns the while, alone. [Exit Agnes. Char. She's gone abruptly, and I fear, displeased.

And pride, increasing, aggravates our grief, The tempest must prevail till we are lost. Heaven grant a fairer issue to her sorrows! [Exit.

SCENE III.-The Town and Port of Penryn. Enter Young Wilmot and Eustace, in Indian Habits.

Y. Wilm. Welcome, my friend, to Penryn! Here we're safe. [the sea, Eust. Then we're deliver'd twice: first from And then from men, who, more remorseless, prey [murder On shipwreck'd wretches, and who spoil, and Those, whom fell tempests, and devouring waves, In all their fury, spared.

Y. Wilmot. It is a scandal, (Though malice must acquit the better sort,) The rude, unpolish'd people here, in Cornwall, Have long lain under, and with too much justice:

For 'tis an evil, grown almost invet'rate,
And asks a bold and skilful hand to cure.

Eust. Your treasure's safe, I hope.
Y. Wilm. "Tis here, thank Heaven!
Being in jewels, when I saw our danger,
I hid it in my bosom.

Eust. I observed you,
[thoughts,
And wonder how you could command your
In such a time of terror and confusion.

Y. Wilm. My thoughts were then at home.
O England! England!

Thou seat of plenty, liberty, and health,
With transport I behold thy verdant fields,
Thy lofty mountains rich with useful ore,
Thy num'rous herds, thy flocks, and winding

streams.

reason.

After a long and tedious absence, Eustace,
With what delight we breathe our native air,
And tread the genial soil that bore us first!
'Tis said, the world is ev'ry wise man's country;
Yet, after having view'd its various nations,
I'm weak enough, still to prefer my own
To all I've seen beside-You smile, my friend!
And think, perhaps, 'tis instinct more than
Why, be it so instinct preceded reason
E'en in the wisest men, and may sometimes
Be much the better guide. But, be it either,
I must confess, that even death itself
Appear'd to me with twice its native horrors,
When apprehended in a foreign land.
Death is, no doubt, in ev'ry place the same;
Yet nature casts a look towards home, and most
Who have it in their power, chuse to expire
Where they first drew their breath.

[at:

Eust. Believe me, Wilmot,
Your grave reflections were not what I smiled
I own the truth. That we're returned to
England,

Affords me all the pleasure you can feol.
Yet I must think a warmer passion moves you;
Thinking of that, I smiled.