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As I do now, as wise men ever think,
When first this hell of poverty o'ertook me,
That power to die implies a right to do it,
And should be used when life becomes a pain,
What plagues had I prevented.—True, my wife
Is still a slave to prejudice and fear--

I would not leave my better part, the dear [Weeps.
Faithful companion of my happier days,
To bear the weight of age and want alone.
-I'll try once more

Enter AGNES, and after her Young WILMOT.
O. Wilm. Return'd, my life, so soon?--
Agn. The unexpected coming of this stranger
Prevents my going yet.

Y. Wilm. You're, I presume,

The gentleman to whom this is directed.

[Gives a letter.

What wild neglect, the token of despair,
[Aside.] What indigence, what misery appears
In each disorder'd, or disfurnish'd room
Of this once gorgeous house! What discontent,
What anguish and confusion fill the faces
Of its dejected owners!

O. Wilm. Sir, such welcome

As this poor house affords, you may command.
Our ever friendly neighbour- -Once we hoped
T' have call'd fair Charlotte by a dearer name——
But we have done with hope-I pray excuse
This incoherence-we had once a son. [Weeps.
Agn. That you are come from that dear virtuous
Revives in us the mem'ry of a loss, [maid,
Which, though long since, we have not learn'd to
bear.

Y. Wilm. [Aside] The joy to see them, and the
bitter pain

It is to see them thus, touches my soul
With tenderness and grief, that will o'erflow.
My bosom heaves and swells, as it would burst;
My bowels move, and my heart melts within me.
-They know me not, and yet, I fear, I shall
Defeat my purpose and betray myself.

O. Wilm. The lady calls you here her valued
friend;

Enough, though nothing more should be implied, To recommend you to our best esteem,

-A worthless acquisition !--May she find Some means that better may express her kindness! But she, perhaps, hath purposed to enrich You with herself, and end her fruitless sorrow For one whom death alone can justify For leaving her so long. If it be so, May you repair his loss, and be to Charlotte A second, happier Wilmot. Partial nature, Who only favours youth, as feeble age Were not her offspring or below her care, Has seal'd our doom : no second hope shall spring From my dead loins, and Agnes' steril womb, To dry our tears, and dissipate despair.

Agn. The last and most abandon'd of our kind, By heaven and earth neglected or despised, The loathsome grave, that robb'd us of our son And all our joys in him, must be our refuge.

Y. Wilm. Let ghosts unpardon'd, or devoted fiends,

Fear without hope, and wail in such sad strains ;
But grace defend the living from despair.
The darkest hours precede the rising sun;
And mercy may appear when least expected.

O. Wilm. This I have heard a thousand times repeated,

And have, believing, been as oft deceived.

Y. Wilm. Behold in me an instance of its truth. At sea twice shipwreck'd, and as oft the prey Of lawless pirates; by the Arabs thrice Surprised, and robb'd on shore; and once reduced To worse than these, the sum of all distress That the most wretched feel on this side hell, Ev'n slavery itself: yet here I stand, Except one trouble that will quickly end, The happiest of mankind.

O. Wilm. A rare example

Of fortune's caprice; apter to surprise,
Or entertain, than comfort, or instruct.
If you would reason from events, be just,
And count, when you escaped, how many perish'd;
And draw your inf'rence thence.

Agn. Alas! who knows

But we were render'd childless by some storm,
In which you, though preserved, might bear a part.
Y. Wilm. How has my curiosity betray'd me
Into superfluous pain! I faint with fondness;
And shall, if I stay longer, rush upon 'em,
Proclaim myself their son, kiss and embrace 'em
Till their souls, transported with the excess
Of pleasure and surprise, quit their frail mansions,
And leave 'em breathless in my longing arms.
By circumstances then, and slow degrees,
They must be let into a happiness

Too great for them to bear at once, and live :
That Charlotte will perform: I need not feign
To ask an hour for rest. [Aside.] Sir, I entreat
The favour to retire where, for a while,
I may repose myself. You will excuse
This freedom, and the trouble that I give you :
"Tis long since I have slept, and nature calls.

O. Wilm. I pray, no more: believe we're only

troubled

That you should think any excuse were needful. Y. Wilm. The weight of this is some incumbrance to me;

[Takes a casket out of his bosom, and
gives it to his mother.]

And its contents of value: if you please
To take the charge of it 'till I awake,

I shall not rest the worse. If I should sleep
Till I am ask'd for, as perhaps I may,

I beg that you would wake me.

Agn. Doubt it not :

Distracted as I am with various woes,

I shall remember that.

[Exit.

Y. Wilm. Merciless grief! What ravage has it made! how has it changed Her lovely form and mind! I feel her anguish, And dread I know not what from her despair.

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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 prodigious!
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
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 thrill'd with horror? "Tis not choice,
But dire necessity suggests the thought.

Enter OLD WILMOT.

O. Wilm. The mind contented, with how little The wand'ring senses yield to soft repose, [pains 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 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 delivered 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.
Agn. Shows sovereign madness, and a scorn of
Pursue no farther this detested theme: [sense!

I will not die,-I will not leave the world
For all that you can urge, until compell'd.

O. Wilm. 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,
This warmth might be excused-But take thy choice:
Die how you will, you shall not die alone.
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 betray'd 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.

We must despatch him sleeping: should he wake, "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,

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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.

THOMAS TICKELL.
[Born, 1686. Died, 1740.]

THOMAS TICKELL, the son of the Rev. Richard Tickell, was born at Bridekirk, in Cumberland, studied at Oxford, and obtained a fellowship which he vacated by marrying about his fortieth year. Though he sung the praises of peace when the Tories were negotiating with France, he seems, from the rest of his writings, and his close connexion with Addison, to have deserved the epithet of Whiggissimus, which Swift bestowed on him.

His friendship with Addison lasted for life; he accompanied him to Ireland in the suite of Lord Sunderland, became his secretary when Addison was made secretary of state, was left the charge of publishing his works, and prefixed to them his excellent elegy. He was afterwards secretary to the lords justices of Ireland, a place which he held till his death.

TO THE EARL OF WARWICK, ON THE DEATH OF MR. ADDISON.*

IF, dumb too long, the drooping Muse hath stay'd, | Blame not her silence, Warwick, but bemoan, And left her debt to Addison unpaid,

[* This Elegy by Mr. Tickell is one of the finest in our language. There is so little new that can be said upon the death of a friend, after the complaints of Ovid and the Latin Italians in this way, that one is surprised to see so

And judge, O judge, my bosom by your own.

much novelty in this to strike us, and so much interest to affect.-GOLDSMITH,

Of this Elegy, which is indirectly preferred by Johnson to the Lycidas of Milton, Steele has said with uncharitable truth, that it is only "prose in rhyme."]

What mourner ever felt poetic fires!
Slow comes the verse that real woe inspires:
Grief unaffected suits but ill with art,
Or flowing numbers with a bleeding heart.

Can I forget the dismal night that gave
My soul's best part for ever to the grave?
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 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!

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? Nor he survived to give, nor thou to claim.

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,

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,

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:

Till luckless love, and pining care,
Impair'd her rosy hue,

Her coral lips, and damask'd cheeks,
And eyes of glossy blue.

Oh, have you seen a lily pale,

When beating rains descend?

So droop'd the slow-consuming maid,
Her life now near its end.
By Lucy warn'd, of flattering swains
Take heed, ye easy fair:
Of vengeance due to broken vows,
Ye perjured swains, beware.

Three times, all in the dead of night,
A bell was heard to ring;
And shrieking at her window thrice,
The raven flapp'd his wing.
Too well the love-lorn maiden knew
The solemn boding sound:
And thus, in dying words, bespoke
The virgins weeping round:

"I hear a voice you cannot hear,
Which says, I must not stay;

I see a hand you cannot see,

Which beckons me away.
By a false heart, and broken vows,
In early youth I die :
Was I to blame, because his bride
Was thrice as rich as I?

[* 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.]

"Ah, Colin! give not her thy vows,

Vows due to me alone:
Nor thou, fond maid, receive his kiss,
Nor think him all thy own.
To-morrow, in the church to wed,
Impatient, both prepare!

But know, fond maid; and know, false man,
That Lucy will be there!

Then bear my corse, my comrades, bear, This bridegroom blithe to meet,

He in his wedding-trim so gay,

I in my winding-sheet."

She spoke; she died; her corse was borne,
The bridegroom blithe to meet,
He in his wedding-trim so gay,

She in her winding-sheet.

Then what were perjured Colin's thoughts?
How were these nuptials kept ?
The bridesmen flock'd round Lucy dead,
And all the village wept.
Confusion, shame, remorse, despair,

At once his bosom swell:

The damps of death bedew'd his brow,
He shook, he groan'd, he fell.

From the vain bride, ah, bride no more!
The varying crimson fled,

When, stretch'd before her rival's corse,
She saw her husband dead.
Then to his Lucy's new-made grave,

Convey'd by trembling swains,

One mould with her, beneath one sod,
For ever he remains.

Oft at his grave the constant hind

And plighted maid are seen ;
With garlands gay, and true-love knots,
They deck the sacred green;

But, swain forsworn, whoe'er thou art,
This hallow'd spot forbear;
Remember Colin's dreadful fate,
And fear to meet him there.

JAMES HAMMOND.

[Born, 1710. Died, 1742.]

ELEGY XIII.

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:

[*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 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

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. 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 salvation of his verse, is more true when said of Hammond, of disease and Lord Chesterfield.]

BB

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