And will not be deluded.

Oras. Hark! I hear

The steps of men along the neighb'ring wall! Osman. Fly! seize him! 'tis Nerestan! Wait no chains,

But drag him down to my impatient eye.

[Exit Oras.

Osman. Dost thou behold her, slave?
Ner. Unhappy sister!

Osman. Sister! Didst thou say sister? If thou didst,

Bless me with deafness, heaven!

Ner. Tyrant! I did.

She was my sister. All that now is left thee, Dispatch-From my distracted heart drain next Enter ZARA and SELIMA, in the dark. The remnant of the royal Christian blood! Zara. Where art thou, Selima? Give me Old Lusignan, expiring in my arms, Sent his too wretched son, with his last blessing,

thy hand.

known sound

It is so dark, I tremble as I step,
With fears and startings, never felt till now! To his now murder'd daughter!
Osman. Damnation! "tis her voice! the well-Would I had seen the bleeding innocent!
I would have liv'd to speak to her in death;
That bas so often charm'd me into baseness! Would have awaken'd in her languid heart
[Draws a Dagger. A livelier sense of her abandon'd God;
Revenge, stand firm, and intercept his wishes! That God, who left by her, forsook her too,
Revenge! On whom? No matter: earth and And gave the poor lost sufferer to thy rage.
Osman. Thy sister! Lusignan her father!

heaven Would blush, should I forbear: now, Zara, now! [Drops the Dagger. I must not, cannot strike, the starting steel, Lawilling, flies my hand, and shuns to wound ber.

Zara. This is the private path; come near-
er, lead me.

Are we not notic'd, think'st thou ?
Sel Fear not, madam;

Zara. I walk in terror, and my heart forebodes.

Selima!

Can this be true? and have I wrong'd thee,
Zara?

Sel. Thy love was all the cloud 'twixt her
and heav'n!

Osman. Be dumb! for thou art base, to
add distraction

To my already more than bleeding heart.
And was thy love sincere? What then remains?
Ner. Why should a tyrant hesitate on mur-
der!

thine,

It cannot now be long, ere we shall meet him.
Osman. That word has given me back my
ebbing rage.
There now remains but mine of all the blood,
[Recovers the Dagger. Which through thy father's cruel reign and
Has never ceas'd to stream on Syria's sands.
Who's there? Nerestan! Is it you? O wel-Restore a wretch to his unhappy race;
Nor hope that torments, after such a scene,
Osman. [Stabs her.] This to thy heart. Can force one feeble groan to feast thy anger.
'Tis not the traitor meets thee, I waste my fruitless words in empty air;
Tis the betray'd, who writes it in thy blood. The tyrant, o'er the bleeding wound he made,
Zara. Oh, gracious heaven! receive my Hangs his unmoving eye, and heeds not me.
Osman. Oh, Zara!

come

parting soul,

And take thy trembling servant to thy mercy.

[Dies.

Oras. Alas, my lord, return! Whither would grief

Osman. Soul! then revenge has reach'd Transport, your gen'rous heart? This Christian

thee. I will now

Haste from this fatal place: I cannot leave her!
Whom did I strike? Was this the act of love?
Sallow me, earth! She's silent! Zara's dead!
Ard should I live to see returning day,
Twill show me but her blood! show me left
joyless,

In a wide, empty world, with nothing round

Thy miseries, shall mourn 'em with their tears; in But, if thou tell'st 'em mine, and tell'st 'em truly,

Whose love, descending to a slave like thee,
From my dishonour'd hand receiv'd her doom.

See where she lies

Ner. Oh, fatal, rash mistake!

They who shall hate my crime, shall pity me.
Take too, this poniard with thee, which my

hand

Has stain'd with blood far dearer than my own;

Tell 'em-with this I murder'd her I lov'd;
The noblest and most virtuous among wo-
men!

The soul of innocence, and pride of truth:
Tell 'em I laid my empire at her feet:
Tell 'em 1 plung'd my dagger in her blood:
Tell 'em I so ador'd- and thus reveng'd her.
[Stabs himself.

[Rev'rence this hero, and conduct him safe.
[Die
Ner. Direct me, great inspirer of the sou
How I should act, how judge in this distress
Amazing grandeur! and detested rage!
Ev'n I, amidst my tears, admire this for,
And mourn his death, who liv'd to give m
[Curtain fall.

woe.

HOME.

па

the

JOHN HOME, a native of Scotland, born in the vicinity of Ancrum, in Roxburgshire, in 1724, after the usual cours of education for the church, was ordained and inducted to the living of Athelstaneford, and was the successor of the Rev Mr. Blair, author of The Grave. In the rebellion of 1745 he took up arms in defence of the existing government He was present at the battle of Falkirk; where he was taken prisoner, and, with five or six other gentlemen escaped from the castle of Down. After the rebellion he resumed the duties of his profession. Having a tural inclination for the Belles Lettres, which he had cultivated with some care; he wrote his tragedy of Douglas, and presented it to the managers of the Edinburgh Theatre. Its reception will be easily imagined from following anecdote. During the representation a young and sanguine Scotchman, in the pit, transported with delight and enthusiasm, cried out on a sudden with an air of triumph, "Weel lods; hwar's yeer Wolly Shokspeer nou !' (where is your William Shakspeare now). The author being a clergyman, the resentment of the elders of the kirk, and many other zealous members of that sect was inflamed, not only against him, but the performers also; on whom, together with him, they freely denounced their anathemas in pamphlets and public papers. The latter indeed it was out of their power greatly to injure; but their rod was near falling very heavy on the author, whom the assembly repudiated, and cut off from his preferments. In England, however, he had the good fortune to meet with friends. and being through the interest of the Earl of Bute and some other persons of distinction, recommended to the notice of his present majesty, then Prince of Wales, his Royal Highness was pleased to bestow a pension on him; thus, sheltering him under his own patronage, he put it out of the power of either bigotry, envy, or malevolence to blast his laurels. Mr. Home afterwards pursued his poetical efforts, and produced more dramatic pieces, which were brought on the stage in London; but Douglas must always stand as his master-piece in dramatic writing. He never afterwards resumed his clerical profession, which he had abandoned in 1757; but enjoyed a place under government in Scotland. Mr. Home, always the friend and patrons of merit, as far as his circumstances would admit, was the means of bringing the celebrated poems of Ossian to light. While Macpherson was schoolmaster of Ruthven in Badenoch, occupied his leisure hours in collecting, from the native, but illiterate bards of the mountains of Scotland, fragments of these inimitable poems; a few of them he translated, and inserted in a weekly Miscellany, then publishing at Edinburgh. The beauty of these pieces soon attracted the notice of Mr. Home, Dr. Robertson and Dr. Blair; and they resolved to sent Macpherson on a journey all over the Highlands, at their expence, to collect the originals of those poems, which have since been a subject of so much controversy. Mr. Home died at Manchester-house near Edinburgh, Sept. the 4th 18c8.

DOUGLAS.

he

THIS piece was first produced at Edinburgh, 1756; and the success it met with, induced our author to offer it to the London managers; where, notwithstanding all the influence exerted in its favour, it was refused by Garrick. Mr. Rich, however, accepted it, and it was acted the first time at Covent-garden, March the 14th 1757; where its real worth soon placed it out of the reach of critical censure. The plot was suggested by the pathetical old Scotch ballad of Gil (or Child) Morrice, reprinted in the third volume of Percy's Reliques of Ancient Poetry, and it is founded on the quarrels of the families of Douglas and other of the Scots clans. This tragedy has a great deal of pathos in it, some of the narratives are pleasingly affecting, and the descriptions poetically beautiful. On its first appearance Hume gave his opinion, that is was one of the most interesting and pathetic pieces ever exhibited in any theatre. He declared. that the author possessed the true theatric genius of Shakspeare and Otway; but we must remember, that the author was a Scotchman, consequently such extravagant praise requires no comment. Gray however had so high an opinion of this first drama of Mr. Home, that in a letter to a friend in 1757, he says, "I am greatly struck with the tragedy of Douglas, though it has infinite faults: the author seems to have retrieved the true language of the Stage, which had been lost for these hundred years; and there is one scene (between Matilda and the Old Peasant) so masterly, that it strikes me blind to all the defects in the world." To this opinion every reader of taste will readily subscribe. Johnson blames Mr. Gray for concluding his celebrated ode with suicide; a circumstance borrowed perhaps from Douglas, in which lady Randolph, otherwise a blameless character, precipitates herself, like the Bard, from a cliff, into eternity.

Still hears and answers to Matilda's moan.
Oh, Douglas! Douglas! if departed ghosts

SCENE I.-The Court of a Castle, surrounded Are e'er permitted to review this world,

with Woods.

Enter LADY RANDOLPH. Lady R. YE woods and wilds, whose melancholy gloom

Within the circle of that wood thou art, And with the passion of immortals hear'st My lamentation: hear'st thy wretched wife Weep for her husband slain, her infant lost. Accords with my soul's sadness, and draws forth My brother's timeless death I seem to mourn, The voice of sorrow from my bursting heart, Who perish'd with thee on this fatal day. Farewell awhile: I will not leave you long; But Randolph comes, whom fate has made For in your shades I deem some spirit dwells, Who from the chiding stream, or groaning oak, To chide my anguish, and defraud the dead.

my lord,

Enter LORD RANDOLPH.

Lord R. Again these weeds of woe! say,
dost thou well

To feed a passion which consumes thy life?
The living claim some duty; vainly thou
Bestow'st thy cares upon the silent dead.

Anna. Have I distress'd you with officious

love,

And ill-tim'd mention of your brother's fate?
Forgive me, lady: humble though I am,
The mind I bear partakes not of my fortune:
So fervently I love you, that to dry

Lady R. Silent, alas! is he for whom I These piteous tears, I'd throw my life away.

mourn:

Chadless, without memorial of his name,
He only now in my remembrance lives.
Lord R. Time, that wears out the trace of
deepest anguish,

Has past o'er thee in vain.
Sare thou art not the daughter of sir Malcolm:
Strang was his rage, eternal his resentment:
For when thy brother fell, he smil'd to hear
That Douglas' son in the same field was slain.
Lady R. Oh! rake not up the ashes of my

fathers:

Implacable resentment was their crime,
And grievous has the expiation been.
Lord R. Thy grief wrests to its purposes
my words.

I never ask'd of thee that ardent love
Which in the breasts of fancy's children burns.
Decent affection and complacent kindness
Were all I wish'd for; but I wish'd in vain.
Hlence with the less regret my eyes behold
The storm of war that gathers o'er this land:
I should perish by the Danish sword,
Matilda would not shed one tear the more.
Lady R. Thou dost not think so: woful
as I am,

I love thy merit, and esteem thy virtues.
But whither goest thou now?

Lord R. Straight to the camp,

Where

every warrior on the tiptoe stands
Of expectation, and impatient asks
Each who arrives, if he is come to tell
The Danes are landed.

Lady R. O, may adverse winds,
Far from the coast of Scotland drive
fleet!

ما

their

And every soldier of both hosts return
peace and safety to his pleasant home!
Lord R. Thou speak'st a woman's, hear a
warrior's wish:

Right from their native land, the stormy north,
May the wind blow, till every keel is fix'd
Immoveable in Caledonia's strand!
Then shall our foes repent their bold invasion,
And roving armies shun the fatal shore.
Lady, farewell: I leave thee not alone;
Louder comes one whose love makes duty
light.

Enter ANNA.

Lady R. What power directed thy unconscious tongue

To speak as thou hast done? to name

Anna. I know not:

But since my words have made my mistress
tremble,

I will speak so no more; but silent mix
My tears with hers.

Lady R. No, thou shalt not be silent.
I'll trust thy faithful love, and thou shalt be
Henceforth the instructed partner of my woes
But what avails it? Can thy feeble pity
Roll back the flood of never-ebbing time?
Compel the earth and ocean to give up
Their dead alive?

Anna. What means my noble mistress?
Lady R. Didst thou not ask, what had my
sorrows been,

If I in early youth had lost a husband?
In the cold bosom of the earth is lodg'd,
Mangled with wounds, the husband of my
youth;

And in some cavern of the ocean lies
My child and his-

Anna. Oh! lady most rever'd!
The tale wrapt up in your amazing words
Deign to unfold.

Lady R. Alas! an ancient feud,
Hereditary evil, was the source

Of my misfortunes. Ruling fate decreed,
That my brave brother should in battle save
The life of Douglas' son, our house's foe:
The youthful warriors vow'd eternal friendship.
To see the vaunted sister of his friend,
Impatient, Douglas to Balarmo came,
Under a borrow'd name. My heart be gain'd;
Nor did I long refuse the hand he begg'd:
My brother's presence authoriz'd our marriage.
Three weeks, three little weeks, with wings
of down,

Had o'er us flown, when my lov'd lord was
call'd

To fight his father's battles; and with him,
In spite of all my tears, did Malcolm go.
Scarce were they gone, when my stern sire
was told,

That the false stranger was lord Douglas' son.
[Exit. Frantic with rage, the baron drew his sword,
And question'd me. Alone, forsaken, faint,
Kneeling beneath his sword, falt'ring, I took
An oath equivocal, that I ne'er would
Wed one of Douglas' name. Sincerity!
Thou first of virtues, let no mortal leave
Thy onward path! although the earth should

Anna. Forgive the rashness of your Anna's love;

presum'd

rgd by affection, I have thus
To interrupt your solitary thoughts;
And warn you of the hours that you neglect,
And lose in sadness.

Lady R. So to lose my hours

all the use I wish to make of time.
Anna. To blame thee, lady, suits not with

my state:

But sure I am, since death first prey'd on man,
Never did sister thus a brother mourn.
What had your sorrows been if you had lost,
In early youth the husband of your heart?
Lady R. Oh!

My lord! my life! my husband!-mighty God!| Glen. What dost thou doubt of? Wha What had I done to merit such affliction?

Anna. My dearest lady, many a tale of tears With subjects intricate? Thy youth,
I've listen'd to; but never did I hear
A tale so sad as this.

Whose valour sav'd me from a wretched death. As down the winding dale I walk'd alone, At the cross way four armed men attack'd me; Like some entranc'd and visionary seer, Rovers, I judge, from the licentious camp, On earth thou stand'st, thy thoughts ascend to Who would have quickly laid lord Randolph

Anna. Would that I were, e'en as thou Had not this brave and generous stranger come,
Like my good angel, in the hour of fate,
And mocking danger, made my foes his own.

say'st, a seer,
To have my doubts by heavenly vision clear'd.

And, heaven directed, came this day to do

They turn'd upon him, but his active arm
Struck to the ground, from whence they rose The happy deed that gilds my humble name.
Lord R. He is as wise as brave.

. no more,

The fiercest two; the others fled amain,
And left him master of the bloody field.
Speak, lady Randolph, upon beauty's tongue
Dwell accents pleasing to the brave and bold;
Speak, noble dame, and thank him for thy lord.
Lady R. My lord, I cannot speak what
now I feel;

My heart o'erflows with gratitude to heaven,
And to this noble youth, who, all unknown
To you and yours, deliberated not,
Nor paus'd at peril, but, humanely brave,

Was

With such gallant modesty rehears'd?
My brave deliverer! thou shalt enter now
A nobler list, and in a monarch's sight
Contend with princes for the prize of fame.
I will present thee to our Scottish king,
Whose valiant spirit ever valour lov'd."
Ah! my Matilda, wherefore starts that tear?
Lady R. I cannot say; for various affee-
tions,

And strangely mingled, in my bosom swell; Fought on your side against such fearful odds. Yet each of them may well command a tear. I joy that thou art safe; and I admire Him and his fortunes, who hath wrought thy safety;

Have you not learn'd of him whom we should

thank?

Whom call the saviour of lord Randolph's life?

swer'd not;

But I must know who my deliverer is.

Lord R. I ask'd that question, and he an-Yea, as my mind predicts, with thine his own.
Obscure and friendless he the army sought,
Bent upon peril, in the range of death
Resolv'd to hunt for fame, and with his sword
To gain distinction which his birth denied.
In this attempt, unknown he might have pe-
rish'd,

cure,

[To Norval.
Nor. A low-born man, of parentage obs-
Who nought can boast, but his desire to be
A soldier, and to gain a name in arms.
Lord R. Whoe'er thou art, thy spirit is

ennobl'd

Lady R. I will be sworn thou wilt not.
Thou shalt be

My knight; and ever, as thou didst to-day,
With happy valour guard the life of Randolph,
Lord R. Well hast thou spoke.

Let me

forbid reply; [To Norval.
We are thy debtors still. Thy high desert
O'ertops our gratitude. I must proceed,
As was at first intended, to the camp.
Some of my train I see are speeding hither,
Impatient doubtless of their lord's delay.
Go with me, Norval, and thine eyes shall see
The chosen warriors of thy native land,
Who languish for the fight, and beat the air
With brandish'd swords.

Nor. Let us be gone, my lord.
Lord R. [To Lady R.] About the tim
that the declining sun
Shall his broad orbit o'er yon hill suspend,
Expect us to return. This night once more
Within these walls I rest; my tent I pitch
To-morrow in the field. Prepare the feast:
Free is his heart who for his country fights:
He in the eve of battle may resign
Himself to social pleasure: sweetest then,
When danger to a soldier's soul endears