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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
Zara all pale and dead! two frightful men,
Who seem the murderers, kneel weeping by;
Feeling remorse too late for what they've done.
But O, forbear-lift up your eyes no more,
But haste away, fly from this fatal place,
Where miseries are multiply'd; return,
Return, and look not on, for there's a dagger
Ready to stab the sight, and make your eyes
Rain blood-

Alm. O, I foreknow, foresee that object.
Is it at last then so? Is he then dead?
-I do not weep! the springs of tears are dry'd,
And of a sudden I am calm, as if
All things were well; and yet my husband's
murder'd!

Yes, yes, I know to mourn! I'll sluice this

heart,

The source of woe, and let the torrent loose.
-Those men have left to weep! they look on
me!

I hope they murder all on whom they look.
Behold me well; your bloody hands have err'd,
And wrongfully have slain those innocents:
I am the sacrifice design'd to bleed;

And come prepar'd to yield my throat!-They

bow

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Give a new birth to thy long-shaded eyes,
Then double on the day reflected light.
Alm. Where am I?.Heav'n! what does this
dream intend?

Alph. O mayst thou never dream of less
delight,

Nor ever wake to less substantial joys!
Alm. Giv'n me again from death! O, all
ye pow'rs,

Confirm this miracle! Can I believe
My sight?

This is my lord, my life, my only husband:
I have him now, and we no more will part.
My father too shall have compassion-

Alph. O, my heart's comfort! 'tis not giv'n
to this

Frail life, to be entirely bless'd. E'en now,
In this extremest joy my soul can taste,
Yet I am dash'd to think that thou must weep:
Thy father fell, where he design'd my death.
Gonsalez and Alonzo, both of wounds
Expiring, have with their last breath confess'd
The just decrees of heav'n, which on themselves
Has turn'd their own most bloody purposes.
Nay, I must grant, 'tis fit you should be thus-
[She weeps.
Ill-fated Zara! Ha! a cup! alas!
Thy error then is plain; but I were flint
Not to o'erflow in tribute to thy memory.
O Garcia!-

Whose virtue has renounc'd thy father's crimes,
Seest thou how just the hand of heav'n has
been?

Let us, who through our innocence survive,
Still in the paths of honour persevere,
And not from past or present ills despair:
For blessings ever wait on virtuous deeds,
And though a late, a sure reward succeeds.
[Exeunt.

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.

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My fate's bound in by Sion's sacred wall:
Clos'd from my infancy within this palace,
Custom has learnt, from time, the power to
please.

The sultan's property, his will my law;
I claim no share in the remoter world,
Unknowing all but him, his power, his fame;
All else, an empty dream-
To live his subject is my only hope.

Sel. Have you forgot
Absent Nerestan then? whose gen'rous friend-
ship

So nobly vow'd redemption from your chains!
How oft have you admir'd his dauntless soul?
Osman, his conqu'ror, by his courage charm'd,
Trusted his faith, and on his word releas'd him:
Though not return'd in time-we yet expect him.
Nor had his noble jourrey other motive,
Than to procure our ransom.--And is this,
This dear, warm hope, become an idle dream?
Zara. Since after two long years he not
returns,

Tis plain his promise stretch'd beyond his

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Proposing much, means little; talks and vows,
Delighted with a prospect of escape:
He promis'd to redeem ten Christians more,
And free us all from slavery! I own

I once admir'd the unprofitable zeal,
But now it charms no longer.

Sel. What, if yet,

Zara. Can my fond heart, on such a feeble
proof,

Embrace a faith abhorr'd by him I love?
I see too plainly custom forms us all;
Our thoughts, our morals, our most fix'd belief,
Are consequences of our place of birth:
Born beyond Ganges, I had been a Pagan,

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
Zara's fate:

The sultan's secrets all are sacred here:
But my fond heart delights to mix with thine.
Some three months past, when thou, and other
slaves,

Were forc'd to quit fair Jordan's flow'ry bank!
Heav'n, to cut short the anguish of my days,
Rais'd me to comfort by a pow'rful hand:
This mighty Osman!-

Sel. What of him?
Zara. This sultan,

This conqueror of the Christians, loves-
Sel. Whom?

Zara. Zara!

'Tis but instruction all! Our parents' hand
Writes on our heart the first faint characters,
Which time, re-tracing deepens into strength,
That nothing can efface, but death or heaven!
Thou wert not made a pris'ner in this place,
Till after reasons, borrowing force from years,
Had lent its lustre to enlighten faith:
For me, who in my cradle was their slave,
Thy Christian doctrines were too lately taught

me:

Yet, far from having lost the rev'rence due,
This cross, as often as it meets my eye,
Strikes through my heart a kind of awful fear!
I honour, from my soul, the Christian laws,
Those laws, which, softening nature by humanity,
Melt nations into brotherhood; no doubt
Christians are happy; and 'tis just to love them.
Sel. Why have you then declar'd yourself
their foe?

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,
Sustain my guarded heart, and strengthen virtue;
No-I shall now astonish thee; his greatness
Submits to own a pure and honest flame.
Among the shining crowds, which live to please
him,

His whole regard is fix'd on me alone:
He offers marriage; and its rites now wait
To crown me empress of this eastern world.
Sel. Your virtue and your charms deserve
it all:

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:
No-to be charm'd with that were thanks too
humble!

Offensive tribute, and too poor for love!
'Twas Osman won my heart, not Osman's crown:
I love not in him aught besides himself.
Thou think'st, perhaps, that these are starts of
passion:

My heart is not surpris'd, but struck to hear it.
If to be empress can complete your happiness,
I rank myself, with joy, among your slaves.
Zara. Be still my equal, and enjoy my But had the will of heav'n, less bent to bless him,
Doom'd Osman to my chains, and me to fill
The throne that Osman sits on-ruin and
wretchedness

blessings;

Catch and consume my wishes, but I would-
To raise me to myself, descend to him.

For, thou partaking, they will bless me more.
Sel. Alas! but heaven! will it permit this
marriage?
Will not this grandeur, falsely call'd a bliss,
Plant bitterness, and root it in your heart?
Have you forgot you are of Christian blood?
Zara. Ah, me! what hast thou said, why A grand March. Enter OSMAN, reading

wouldst thou thus

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[Exit Selima.

a Paper, which he re-delivers to ORASMIN, with Attendants.

Osman. Wait my return, or should there
be a cause

That may require my presence, do not fear
To enter; ever mindful that my own

[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
You reign triumphant; memory supplies
Reflection with your power; and you, like
heaven,

Are always present-and are always gracious.

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Osman. The sultans, my great ancestors, This place, long sacred to the sultan's privacies.
bequeath'd
Osman. Go-bring him with thee. Mon-
archs, like the sun,

Their empire to me, but their taste they gave not;
Their laws, their lives, their loves, delight not me; Shine but in vain, unwarming, if unseen;
I know our prophet smiles on am'rous wishes, With forms and rev'rence let the great ap-
And opens a wide field to vast desire;

I know, that at my will I might possess;
That, wasting tenderness in wild profusion,
I might look down to my surrounded feet,
And bless contending beauties. I might speak,
Serenely slothful, from within my palace,
And bid my pleasure be my people's law.
But, sweet as softness is, its end is cruel;
I can look round and count a hundred kings,
Unconquer'd by themselves, and slaves to
others:

Hence was Jerusalem to Christians lost:
Hence from the distant Euxine to the Nile,
The trumpet's voice has wak'd the world to war;
Yet, amidst arms and death, thy power has
reach'd me,

For thou disdain'st, like me, a languid love;
Glory and Zara join, and charm together.
Zara. I hear at once, with blushes and
with joy,

This passion, so unlike your country's customs.
Osman. Passion, like mine, disdains my
country's customs;

proach us;

Not the unhappy; every place alike
Gives the distress'd a privilege to enter.
[Exit Orasmin.
I think with horror on these dreadful maxims,
Which harden kings insensibly to tyrants.

Re-enter ORASMIN, with NERESTAN.
Ner. Imperial sultan! honour'd ev'n by foes!
See me return'd, regardful of my vow,
And punctual to discharge a Christian's duty.
I bring the ransom of the captive Zara,
Fair Selima, the partner of her fortune,
And of ten Christian captives, pris'ners here.
You promis'd, sultan, if I should return,
To grant their rated liberty: behold
I am return'd, and they are yours no more.
I would have stretch'd my purpose to myself,
But fortune has deny'd it; my poor all
Suffic'd no further, and a noble poverty
Is now my whole possession. I redeem
The promis'd Christians; for I taught 'em hope:
But, for myself, I come again your slave,
To wait the fuller hand of future charity.

Osman. Christian! I must confess thy cou-
rage charms me;

The jealousy, the faintness, the distrust,
The proud, superior coldness of the east.
I know to love you, Zara, with esteem;
To trust your virtue, and to court your soul. But let thy pride be taught it treads too high,
Nobly confiding, I unveil my heart,
When it presumes to climb above my mercy.
And dare inform you that 'tis all your own: Go ransomless thyself, and carry back
My joys must all be yours; only my cares Their unaccepted ransoms, join'd with gifts,
Shall lie conceal'd within, and reach not Zara. Fit to reward thy purpose: instead of ten,
Zara. Oblig'd by this excess of tenderness, Demand a hundred Christians; they are thine:
How low, how wretched was the lot of Zara! Take 'em, and bid 'em teach their haughty
Too poor with aught but thanks to pay such
country,

blessings!
Osman. Not so-I love, and would be lov'd
again;

Let me confess it: I possess a soul,
That what it wishes, wishes ardently.
I should believe you hated, had you power
To love with moderation; 'tis my aim,
In every thing to reach supreme perfection.
If, with an equal flame I touch your heart,
Marriage attends your smile. But know, 'twill
make

Me wretched, it if makes not Zara happy.
Zara. Ah, sir! if such a heart as gen'rous
Osman's

Can, from my will, submit to take its bliss,
What mortal ever was decreed so happy?
Pardon the pride with which I own my joy:
Thus wholly to possess the man I love!
To know, and to confess his will my fate!
To be the happy work of his dear hands!
To be-

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.
Be Lusignan alone excepted. He
Who boasts the blood of kings, and dares lay
claim

To my Jerusalem-that claim, his guilt!
I mourn his lot,

Who must in fetters, lost to day-light, pine
And sigh away old age in grief and pain.
For Zara but to name her as a captive,
Were to dishonour language; she's a prize
Above thy purchase: all the Christian realms,
With all their kings to guide 'em, would unite
In vain, to force her from me. Go, retire.
Ner. For Zara's ransom, with her own
consent,

I had your royal word. For Lusignan-
Unhappy, poor old man-

Osman. Was I not heard?
Have I not told thee, Christian, all my will?
What, if I prais'd thee! This presumptuous
virtue,

Compelling my esteem, provokes my pride;
Be gone; and when to-morrow's sun shall rise,
On my dominions be not found-too near me.
[Exit Nerestan.
Zara. Assist him, heaven!
[Aside.
Osman, Zara, retire a moment.
Assume, throughout my palace, sovereign em-
pire,

Osman. Admit him--What?-Why comes While I give orders to prepare the pomp
That waits to crown thee mistress of my throne.
[Leads her out, and returns.
Orasmin! didst thou mark th'imperious slave?

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.
Osman. Jealousy, saidst thou? I disdain it.
No!

Distrust is poor; and a misplac'd suspicion
Invites and justifies the falsehood fear'd.
Yet, as I love with warmth, so I could hate!
But Zara is above disguise and art.
Jealous! I was not jealous! If I was,
I am not-no-my heart-but, let us drown
Remembrance of the word, and of the image;|
My heart is fill'd with a diviner flame.
Go, and prepare for the approaching nuptials.
I must allot one hour to thoughts of state,
Then all the smiling day is love and Zara's.
[Exit Orasmin.
Monarchs, by forms of pompous misery press'd,
In proud, unsocial misery, unbless'd,
Would, but for love's soft influence, curse
their throne,

I flatter'd my fond hope with vain resolves,
To guide the lovely Zara to that court,
Where Lewis has establish'd virtue's throne:
But Osman will detain her-yet, not Osman;
Zara herself forgets she is a Christian,
And loves the tyrant sultan! Let that pass:
I mourn a disappointment still more cruel;
The prop of all our Christian hope is lost.
Cha. Dispose me at your will; I am your

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.
For us, the relics of abandon'd war,
Forgot in France, and in Jerusalem,
Left to grow old in fetters, Osman's father
Consign'd us to the gloom of a damp dungeon,
Where, but for you, we must have groan'd
out life,

Thank heav'n, that plac'd your birth so far

remov'd

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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
Chose Lusignan, thenceforth to give us laws.
Alas! 'twas wain; Caesarea could not stand
When Sion's self was fallen! we were betray'd;
And Lusignan condemn'd to length of life,
In chains, in damps, and darkness, and despair.
Ner. Oh! I should hate the liberty he
shar'd not.

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
Flows, mix'd, a bitter sadness. I had hop'd
To save from their perversion, a young beauty,
Who, in her infant innocence, with me,
Was made a slave by cruel Noradin;
When, sprinkling Syria with the blood
Christians,

Caesarea's walls saw Lusignan surpris'd,

look'd on.

Hurried, an infant, among other infants,
Snatch'd from the bosoms of their bleeding
mothers,

A temple sav'd us, till the slaughter ceas'd;
Then were we sent to this ill-fated city;
of Here, in the palace of our former kings,
To learn from Saracens their hated faith,
And be completely wretched. Zára, too,

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