Alm. Show me, for I am come in search of death, But want a guide, for tears have dimm'd my sight. Leon. Alas, a little further, and behold Alm. O, I foreknow, foresee that object. Yes, yes, I know to mourn! I'll sluice this heart, The source of woe, and let the torrent loose. I hope they murder all on whom they look. And come prepar'd to yield my throat!-They bow Give a new birth to thy long-shaded eyes, Alph. O mayst thou never dream of less Nor ever wake to less substantial joys! Confirm this miracle! Can I believe This is my lord, my life, my only husband: Alph. O, my heart's comfort! 'tis not giv'n Frail life, to be entirely bless'd. E'en now, Whose virtue has renounc'd thy father's crimes, Let us, who through our innocence survive, HILL. AARON HILL, eldest son of George Hill, Esq. of Malmsbury Abbey, Wiltshire, was born in London, Febr. 10, 1684. The life of this author presents a most astonishing instance of genius and industry. At the age of 15 we find him alone in a vessel bound for Constantinople, on a visit to Lord Paget, ambassador at that court, and a distant relation of nis mother's. His Lordship, struck with the ardent desire of knowledge, which had induced this youth to such an undertaking, provided him with a tutor with whom he travelled through Egypt, Palestine and the greater part of the East. He returned with his Lordship from Constantinople by land; and profited of the occasion of their stay at the different courts to see the greatest part of Europe. 1710, Manager of the King's Theatre, Haymarket, he wrote the opera of Rinaldo, the music of which was the first of Handel's compositions after his arrival in England. Although no man could be more qualified for this undertaking, he relinquished the management on account of some misunderstanding; and turned his thoughts entirely on a project of making sweet oil from beech-nuts. He obtained a patent, and had his fortune been sufficient for the undertaking he would undoubtedly have rendered this attempt of great advantage to the nation; but borrowing a sum of 25,000 pounds, he was obliged to submit to the formation of a company, who were to act in concert with him. These people, with the most sanguine hopes of success and ignorant of the inventor's plans, or perhaps fearing to loose their money, upon a trifling delay of their hopes, immediately com menced representations; these cansed disputes, and the whole affair was overthrown just at the time when profits were already rising from it, and, if pursued with vigour, would, in all probability have continued increasing and permanent. Another valuable project, that of applying the timber grown in the north of Scotland to the use of the navy, for which it had been long erroneously imagined to be unfit, he set on foot in 1727: here again we have a terrible account of the obstacles he met with: when the trees were chained together into a raft, the Highlanders could not be prevailed upon to go down the river on them, till he first went himself; and he was obliged to find out a method of doing away with the rocks (by lighting fires on them at low water), which choked up the passage in different parts of the river. The commencement of a lead mine in the same country employing all the men and horses, which had heretofore been at his service, put an end to this undertaking; however he was presented with the freedom of Inverness and Aberdeen, as a compliment for his great exertions. All this time his pen did not continue idle: he produced The progress of Wit, a caveat for the use of an eminent Writer; in which he retorts very severely upon Pope, who had introduced him into The Dunciad, as one of the competitors for the prize offered by the goddess of Dulness. After the death of his wife 1731, he continued in London and in intercourse with the public till about 1738, when he withdrew to Plaistow in Essex, where his indefatigable genius projected many profitable improvements. One he lived to complete, but without benefit to himself, which was the art of making potash, equal to that brought from Russia, Here he wrote and published several poetical pieces; and adapted Voltaire's tragedy of Merope to the English Stage, which was the last work he lived to complete. He died the very day before it was to he represented for his benefit, Feb. 8. 1749, in the very minute of the earthquake. The Biographia Dramatica says him to have been a person of the most amiable disposition, extensive knowledge, and elegant conversation. We find him bestowing the profits of many of his works for the relief of distressed authors and artists; though he would never accept of a benefit for himself, till his distresses at the close of his life obliged him to solicit the acting of Merope for their relief. No labour deterred him from the prosecution of any design which appeared to him to be praiseworthy and feasible, nor was it in the power of the greatest misfortunes to overcome or even shake his fortitude of mind. Although accused of being rather too turgid, and in some places obscure; yet the nervous power, and sterling sense we find in his writings ought to make us overlook our having been obliged to take some little pains in digging through the rock in which it is contained; while his rigid correctness will always make him stand in an exalted rank of merit, ZARA. ZARA was first produced 1735; and though it is founded on the principles of religious party, which are generally apt to throw an air of enthusiasm and bigotry into those dramatic works which are built on them, this piece has always been esteemed a very superior one, The Biographia Dramatica says, "It is borrowed originally from the Zaïre of Voltaire; an author who, while he resided in England, imbibed so much of the spirit of British liberty, that his writings seem almost always calculated for the meridian of London. Mr. Hill, however, has made this as well as his other translations so much his own, that it is hard to determine which of the two may most properly be called the author of this play." It is remarkable for a very extraordinary event; it is related, that a gentleman of the name of Bond, collecting a party of his friends, got up the play of Zara, at the music room in Villiers Street, York Buildings, and chose the part of Lusignan for himself. His acting was considered as a prodigy: and he yielded himself up so to the force and impetuosity of his imagination, that upon the discovery of his daughter, he fainted away. The house rung with applause; but, finding that he continued a long time in that situation, the audience began to be uneasy and apprehensive. With some difficulty, the representatives of Chatillon and Nerestan placed him in his chair; he then faintly spoke, extended his arms to receive his children, raised his eyes to heaven, and then closed them for ever. My fate's bound in by Sion's sacred wall: The sultan's property, his will my law; Sel. Have you forgot So nobly vow'd redemption from your chains! Tis plain his promise stretch'd beyond his Proposing much, means little; talks and vows, I once admir'd the unprofitable zeal, Sel. What, if yet, Zara. Can my fond heart, on such a feeble Embrace a faith abhorr'd by him I love? He, faithful should return, and hold his vow; In France a Christian, I am here a Saracen: Would you not, then Zara. No matter-Time is past. And every thing is chang'd. Sel. But whence comes this? Zara. Go; 'twere too much to tell thee The sultan's secrets all are sacred here: Were forc'd to quit fair Jordan's flow'ry bank! Sel. What of him? This conqueror of the Christians, loves- Zara. Zara! 'Tis but instruction all! Our parents' hand me: Yet, far from having lost the rev'rence due, Thou blushest, and I guess thy thoughts ac- Why will you join your hand with this proud cuse me : Osman's, But, known me better-'twas unjust suspicion. Who owes his triumph to the Christians' ruin? All emperor as he is, I cannot stoop Zara. Ah! who could slight the offer of To honours, that bring shame and baseness his heart? with 'em: Reason and pride, those props of modesty, His whole regard is fix'd on me alone: Nay, for I mean to tell thee all my weakness, Perhaps I had, ere now, profess'd thy faith, But Osman lov'd me-and I've lost it all: think on none but Osman; my pleas'd heart, Fill'd with the blessing, to be lov'd by him, Wants room for other happiness. Oh, my friend! I I talk not of a sceptre, which he gives me: Offensive tribute, and too poor for love! My heart is not surpris'd, but struck to hear it. blessings; Catch and consume my wishes, but I would- For, thou partaking, they will bless me more. wouldst thou thus [Exit Selima. a Paper, which he re-delivers to ORASMIN, with Attendants. Osman. Wait my return, or should there That may require my presence, do not fear [Exit Oras. etc. Follows my people's happiness. At length, Cares have releas'd my heart-to love and Zara. Zara. 'Twas not in cruel absence, to deprive me Of your imperial image; every where Are always present-and are always gracious. Osman. The sultans, my great ancestors, This place, long sacred to the sultan's privacies. Their empire to me, but their taste they gave not; I know, that at my will I might possess; Hence was Jerusalem to Christians lost: For thou disdain'st, like me, a languid love; This passion, so unlike your country's customs. proach us; Not the unhappy; every place alike Re-enter ORASMIN, with NERESTAN. Osman. Christian! I must confess thy cou- The jealousy, the faintness, the distrust, blessings! Let me confess it: I possess a soul, Me wretched, it if makes not Zara happy. Can, from my will, submit to take its bliss, Re-enter ORASMIN. Osman. Already interrupted! What? Who? Whence? Oras. This moment, sir, there is arriv'd That Christian slave, who, licens'd on his faith, Went hence to France; and now return'd, prays audience. Zara. Oh, heaven! he not? [Aside. They left some virtue among Saracens. To my Jerusalem-that claim, his guilt! Who must in fetters, lost to day-light, pine I had your royal word. For Lusignan- Osman. Was I not heard? Compelling my esteem, provokes my pride; Osman. Admit him--What?-Why comes While I give orders to prepare the pomp Oras. He waits without. No Christian dares approach went, What could he mean?—he sigh'd-and, as he [And the proud crescent rise in bloody triumph. From this seraglio having young escap'd, Turn'd and look'd back at Zara!-didst thou Fate, three years since, restor'd me to my chains; mark it? Oras. Alas! my sovereign master! let not Then, sent to Paris on my plighted faith, jealousy Strike high enough to reach your noble heart. Distrust is poor; and a misplac'd suspicion I flatter'd my fond hope with vain resolves, own. Ner. Oh, sir, great Lusignan, so long their captive, That last of an heroic race of kings, That warrior, whose past fame has fill'd the world, Osman refuses to my sighs for ever. Cha. Nay, then we have been all redeem'd in vain; Perish that soldier who would quit his chains, And leave his noble chief behind in fetters. And, among crowded millions, live alone. [Exit. Alas! you know him not as I have known him: ACT II. SCENE I. Enter NERESTAN and CHATILLON. Cha. Matchless Nerestan! generous and great! You, who have broke the chains of hopeless slaves! Appear, be known, enjoy your due delight; The grateful weepers wait to clasp your knees; They throng to kiss the happy hand that sav'd 'em! Indulge the kind impatience of their eyes, And, at their head, command their hearts for ever. Ner. Illustrious Chatillon! this praise o'erwhelms me; What have I done beyond a Christian's duty, Beyond what you would, in my place, have done? Cha. True-it is every honest Christian's duty; Nay, 'tis the blessing of such minds as ours, For others' good to sacrifice our own. Yet, happy they, to whom heav'n grants the power To execute, like you, that duty's call. Thank heav'n, that plac'd your birth so far remov'd Dreadful-and waving in his hand a sword, Red with the blood of infidels, cry'd out, "This way, ye faithful Christians! follow me!" Ner. How full of glory was that brave retreat! Cha. 'Twas heav'n, no doubt, that sav'd and led him on, Pointed his path, and march'd our guardian guide: We reach'd Caesarea-there the general voice I knew too well the miseries you describe, And native France have bless'd our eyes no For I was born amidst them. Chains and death, more. Caesarea lost, and Saracens triumphant, Ner. The will of gracious heav'n, that soft-Were the first objects which my eyes e'er en'd Osman, Inspir'd me for your sakes: but with our joy Caesarea's walls saw Lusignan surpris'd, look'd on. Hurried, an infant, among other infants, A temple sav'd us, till the slaughter ceas'd; |