Back on herself, and startles at destruction? 'Tis the divinity that stirs within us;

'Tis Heaven itself that points out an hereafter,
And intimates eternity to man.

Eternity! thou pleasing, dreadful thought!
Through what variety of untried being,

Through what new scenes and changes, must we pass?
The wide, the unbounded prospect lies before me :
But shadows, clouds, and darkness, rest upon it.
Here will I hold. If there's a power above us
(And that there is, all Nature cries aloud

Through all her works), he must delight in virtue;
And that which he delights in must be happy.

But when, or where ?-This world was made for Cæsar.
I'm weary of conjectures :—this must end them.

[Laying his hand on his sword.

Thus am I doubly armed: my death and life,
My bane and antidote, are both before me.
This in a moment brings me to an end;
But this informs me I shall never die.
The soul, secured in her existence, smiles
At the drawn dagger, and defies its point.
The stars shall fade away, the sun himself
Grow dim with age, and Nature sink in years,
But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth,
Unhurt amidst the war of elements,

The wreck of matter, and the crush of worlds.
What means this heaviness that hangs upon me?
This lethargy that creeps through all my senses?
Nature, oppressed and harassed out with care,
Sinks down to rest. This once I'll favour her,
That my awakened soul may take her flight,

Renewed in all her strength, and fresh with life,
An offering fit for Heaven. Let guilt or fear
Disturb man's rest, Cato knows neither of them—
Indifferent in his choice, to sleep or die.

.... Portius, thou mayst rely upon my conduct:
Thy father will not act what misbecomes him.
But go, my son, and see if aught be wanting
Among thy father's friends; see them embarked,
And tell me if the winds and seas befriend them.
My soul is quite weighed down with care, and asks
The soft refreshment of a moment's sleep.

"CATO falls on his own sword.” The tragedy ends with the following

lines:

From hence, let fierce contending nations know,

What dire effects from civil discord flow:

"Tis this that shakes our country with alarms,
And gives up Rome a prey to Roman arms;
Produces fraud, and cruelty, and strife,
And robs the guilty world of Cato's life.

That fatal mistress of the young, the lazy,

The coward, and the fool, condemned to lose

A useless life in waiting for to-morrow—

Το 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.

George Lillo.

FATAL CURIOSITY.

Young WILMOT, supposed by Parents and Friends to have been shipwrecked on his return from the Indies, has escaped Death, and arrives in England, where he learns that his Parents are reduced to great Poverty. He has acquired a large Fortune, and, impelled by a “fatal Curiosity," he visits his Father and Mother in disguise; and afterwards, to increase their pleasure by the surprise of his discovery, he puts his design in execution, and delivers into his Mother's hands a Casket of Jewels, and then retires to rest, still under his disguise. Old WILMOT's House.-AGNES enters alone, with the Casket in her hand.

He

Agn. Who should this stranger be? And then this casket— 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 !

My eyes are dazzled, and my ravished 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 forever
Base poverty, and all its abject train;
Famine; the cold neglect of friends;

The galling scorn, or more provoking pity
Of an insulting world-Possessed 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.
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 touched
The bright temptation, and I see it yet--

"Tis here 'tis mine-I have it in possession-
Must I resign it? must I give it back?

Am I in love with misery and want

To rob myself, and court so vast a loss?—
Retain it then; but how? There is a way—

Why sinks my heart? why does my blood run cold?
Why am I thrilled with horror? 'Tis not choice,
But dire necessity, suggests the thought.

Enter OLD WILMOT.

O. Wil. The mind contented, with how little pains, The wand'ring senses yield to soft repose,

And die to gain new life!

He's fallen asleep

Already-happy man!--What dost thou think,
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 pressed it to his lips;
And, with a look that pierced me to the soul,
Begged me to comfort thee: and-dost thou hear me?——
What art thou gazing on?-Fie, 'tis not well-
This casket was delivered to you closed:

Why have you opened it? Should this be known,
How mean must we appear!

Agn. And who shall know it?

O. Wil. There is a kind of pride, a decent dignity, Due to ourselves; which, spite of our misfortunes, May be maintained, and cherished to the last.

To live without reproach, and without leave

To quit the world, shows sovereign contempt,
And noble scorn of its relentless malice.

Agn. Shows sov'reign madness, and a scorn of sense. Pursue no further this detested theme:

I will not die, I will not leave the world

For all that you can urge, until compelled.

O. Wil. To chase a shadow, when the setting sun 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,

Your warmth might be excused-But take thy choice;

Die how you will, you shall not die alone.

Agn. Nor live, I hope.

0. Wil. There is no fear of that