Then wept the Eyes, and from their springs did pour
Of liquid Oriental Pearls a show'r;

Whereat the Lips, mov'd with delight and pleasure,
Through a sweet sm.le, unlockt the pearly treasure,
And bade Love judge, whether did add more grace,
Weeping or smiling Pearls in Celia's face?

M,

LINES

TO THE MEMORY OF

A BEAUTIFUL YOUNG LADY,

Who died at NEWPORT, in the ISLE of WIGHT, in the Month of January 1793,
Aged about 16 Years.

A

[By T. P.]

LAS, poor Julia! when the tidings came,

That Death's cold hand had seiz'd thy lovely frame;
That thou, whose smile was bliss, who ne'er couldst frown,]
Wert thus untimely to the grave gone down!

Spite of the busy tongues which slurr'd thy fame,

My heavy heart drank deep of sorrow's stream;
I fied the face of man to hide my grief,
And wrote these lines to give my soul relief,

O, fair as light! and hapless too as fair!
Sweet as the fragrance balmy zephyrs bear;
And soft as sweet, and blithe as the day dawn
Bright rising o'er the dewy spangled lawn,
When in close covert of the leafy grove,
Birds sing gay songs, and tune their early love:
And O, so young a flower! and stricken down
Ere half thine opening charms were fully blown!
Sure Death, long sated with more common spoil,
Has cropt the prettiest blossom of the isle ;
And hast thou been as good as thou wert fair,
Though Heav'n be good, thou'dst found no rival there!

If these few lines the public eye should find,
Some Wit shall say (for wit is seldom kind),
'Tis gratitude demands that I should pay,
For favours once receiv'd, the tribute lay.
Julia ne'er heard my voice, she knew me not,
Or, seen one moment, was the next forgot:
To such as these I write not, but to you
(And much I fear your number is but few)
Whose hearts oft steep'd in pity's kindly dew,
Though you must blame, can yet have mercy too.
O, have ye known a tree, the forest's pride,
Grow green, and flourish fair, and young befide!
For beauty lov'd (for after all is said,
'Tis Nature's law, and she will be obey'd),
And seen when least expecting, passing by,
"Lovely in death, the beauteous ruin lie;"

Prone on the earth, where some rude storm had thrown it,
"With all its leafy honours still upon it "

And have ye wept? O then, I'm sure ye'll come
Draw Pity's veil o'er hapless Julia's tomb!
O, ye will wish her gentle spirit rest,
And bid the sod lie lightly on her breast!"

As for the rest, too well, too well I know,
How envy influences all below;

But of all forms the Demons us'd to bear,
To hide her shape, and wage the cruel war,
Unblemish'd Chastity she most affects,
And, dress'd like woman, rails at all the sex:
Malignant smiles to see a sinking maid,
Raises the tempest round her friendless head;
And though o'erwhelm'd beneath her fatal pow'r,
Breaks in upon the grave's most solemn hour;
Consigns to infamy her wretched prey,
Nor then without reluctance dies away.

O how unlike the wond'rous Man, whose heart
In all our sorrows took a brother's part;
Sent down from Heav'n to comfort, not to kill,
His duty seem'd but second to his will;

*Trembling with fear, and waiting his commands,
Her eyes cast down, lo, where the culprit stands-
Fain would she speak, but grief withholds the word,
She rather sobs than answers "No man, Lord:"
"Neither do I condemn thee," said the saint;
Ye then that do, are ye more free from taint?
Search each his heart, when that is fully known,
Then, with what face ye may, cast the first stone.

To the EDITOR of the FREEMASONS' MAGAZINE.

SIR,

THE following elegant Stanzas were written by ARTHUR LORD CAPEL, in the Tower, during the usurpation of CROMWELL. A mutilated copy of them having lately appeared in some of the Public Prints, has induced me to send you an exact transcript. At a time like the present, they cannot but afford peculiar pleasure to every friend of humanity, elegance, and loyalty. I am, &c.

EAT on proud billows, Boreas blow,

BEA

Swell curled waves high as Jove's roof;

Your incivility doth show

That innocence is tempest proof.

Though surly Nereus frown, my thoughts are calm;

Then strike Affliction, for thy wounds are balm.

That which the world miscals a gaol,

A private closet is to me:

Whilst a good conscience is my bail,
And innocence my liberty:

Locks, bars, and solitude, together met,

Make me no prisoner, but an anchoret.

*John, Chap. viii.

W.

I, whilst I wish to be retir'd,
Into this private room am turn'd;

As if their wisdom had conspir'd
The Salamander should be burn'd.

Or, like those Sophists that would drown a fish,
I am condemn'd to suffer what I wish.

The Cynic hugs his poverty;
The Pelican her wilderness;

And 'tis the Indian's pride to be
Naked on frozen Caucasus.
Contentment cannot smart, Stoics we see
Make torments easy by their apathy.

These manacles upon mine arm,
I, as my mistress' favours wear;
And for to keep my ancles warm
I have some iron shackles there,
These walls are but my garrison, this cell,
Which men call gaol, doth prove my citadel.

So he that strook at Jason's life,
Thinking he had his purpose sure ;
By a malicious, friendly knife,
Did only wound him to his cure.

Malice, I see, wants wit; for what is meant
Mischief, oft times proves favour by th' event.

I'm in this cabinet lock'd up,
Like some high-priz'd margarite;
Or like some great mogul or pope,
I'm cloister'd up from public sight.
Retirement is a piece of majesty,

And thus, proud Sultan, I'm as great as thee.

Here sin, for want of food, must starve,
Where tempting objects are not seen;
And these strong walls do only serve
To keep rogues out, and keep me in.
Malice of late's grown charitable sure,
I'm not committed, but I'm kept secure.

When once my prince affliction hath,
Prosperity doth treason seem;

And to make smooth so rough a path,
I can learn patience from him.

Now not to suffer shews no loyal heart,

When kings want ease, subjects must bear a part.

What though I cannot see my king,
Neither in person, nor in coin;

Yet contemplation is a thing
That renders what I have not, mine.
My king from me what adamant can part,
Whom I do wear engraven on my heart?

Have you not seen the Nightingale
A hermit kept up in a cage ?

How doth she chant her wonted tale
In that her narrow hermitage!

Even then her charming melody doth prove,

That all her boughs are trees, her cage a grove.

A

New Play was produced for the first time at Covent Garden Theatre, under the title of "FONTAINVILLE FOREST;" the characters of which are as follow, and thus represented:

Marquis Montault,

La Motte,

Lewis,

Peter,

Hortenfia,

Adeline,

The story of the piece is unusually interesting.

Mr. FARREN,

Mr. POPE,

Mr. MIDDLETON,

Mr. HULL,

Mifs MORRIS,

Mrs. POPE.

La Motte, a Frenchman of a good family and connections, reduced by a life of extravagance, retires with his wife from the disgrace which attaches to his humble circumstances, to a ruined abbey, in a remote forest, the estate of the Marquis Montault. To this retirement he also takes under his protection a Lady (Adeline) whom he had rescued from the hands of a ruffian-she had been designed for a nun, but her parents were dead. Made desperate by penury-for the temporary support of his family, La Motte rushes from his retreat, and robs the lord of the surrounding territory, while on a hunting party in the neighbourhood-is at length discovered, and purchases the forbearance and secrecy of the Marquis, by promising to forward his suit with Adeline. She has already fixed her affections on young La Motte, who about this point of time had arrived in good circumstances from the army, but last from Paris; her antipathy to the Marquis is moreover rooted at first sight, which the event justifies.

Wandering by midnight through the intricacies of the abbey, she comes to an apartment, the door to which had been concealed behind the hangings of an outer room, that bears suspicious marks of having been the scene of a former murder; this suspicion is confirmed by the discovery of a scroll, which had been hidden by the deceased, unravelling his melancholy case, and lastly, by the appearance of his ghost!

To be brief-at length, it appears, that this unfortunate was the brother of the Marquis, sacrificed by him-and the father of Adeline! The Marquis also receives horror-working conviction of the latter fact, irom a picture of Adeline's mother, which he perceives worn by that lady, at the moment when he is about to commit violence upon her person: this discovery sets the wretch upon working up the shame-depressed La Motte, whom he considers as his creature, to murder Adeline, which he pretends to give into, but temporizes, and thus ultimately saves her.

The conclusion is poetically just-Young La Motte having been entrusted with the dreadful secret discovered by Adeline, returns from a journey to Paris, which he made purposely to forward legal vengeance against the execrable Maquis, to see him

in the agonies of guilty desperation plunge a dagger in his own heart.-The La Mottes are restored to fortune and honour, and the piece concludes with the marriage of the two lovers.

The scenery of this new Drama is very fine, particularly a moon-light, a thunderstorm by night shattering the ruins of the abbey, the apartment where the murder was committed, and the cell in which the ghost appears.

The introduction of the Ghost is by far the boldest attempt of the modern drama. But it has been conducted with such address by the Author, and the whole scene is so well performed, that it forms one of the best instances of terror, excited by mystery, which the stage can boast.

Fontainville Forest is avowedly taken from Mrs. Radcliffe's Novel of the "Romance of the Forest." All the incidents are to be found in that part of the Romance of which the Old Abbey is the scene. The chief deviation from the Novel seems to be the making the son of La Motte the favoured lover of Adeline, by which means the character of Theodore is totally omitted.

The Play was throughout well received, and has been since frequently repeated with applause.

PROLOGUE.

BY MR. JAMES BOADEN,

(Author of the Play.)

THE Prologue once indeed, in days of old,
Some previous facts of the new Drama told;
Pointed your expectation to the scene,

And clear'd obstruction that might intervene ;
Possess'd you with those aids the Author thought
Were requisite to judge him as you ought.

The Moderns previous hints like these despise,
Demand intrigue, and banquet on surprise :
The Prologue, notwithstanding, keeps its station,
A trembling Poet's solemn lamentation.
Cloak'd up in metaphor, it tells of shocks
Fatal to ships new launch'd, from hidden rocks;
Of critic batteries, of rival strife,

"The Destinies that slit the thin-spun life."
Our Author chuses to prepare the way
With lines at least suggested by his Play.
Caught from the Gothic treasures of Romance,
He frames his work, and lays the scene in France.
The word, I see, alarms-it vibrates here,
And Feeling marks its impulse with a tear.
It brings to thought a people once refin'd,
Who led supreme the manners of mankind;
Deprav'd by cruelty, by pride inflam'd,

By traitors madden'd, and by sophists sham'd;
Crushing that freedom, which, with gentle sway,
Courted their Revolution's infant day,

Ere giant Vanity, with impious hand,
Assail'd the sacred Temples of the Land.

Fall'n is that land beneath Oppression's flood;

Its purest sun has set, alas, in blood!

The milder planet drew from him her light,
And when He rose no more, soon sunk in night:
The regal source of order once destroy'd,

Anarchy made the fair creation void.

Britons, to you, by temperate freedom crown'd,
For every manly sentiment renown'd,

The Stage can have no motive to enforce
The principles that guide your glorious course;
Proceed triumphant-'mid the world's applause,
Firm to your King, your Altars, and your Laws.