Then wept the Eyes, and from their springs did pour Whereat the Lips, mov'd with delight and pleasure, 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, A [By T. P.] LAS, poor Julia! when the tidings came, That Death's cold hand had seiz'd thy lovely frame; Spite of the busy tongues which slurr'd thy fame, My heavy heart drank deep of sorrow's stream; O, fair as light! and hapless too as fair! If these few lines the public eye should find, Prone on the earth, where some rude storm had thrown it, And have ye wept? O then, I'm sure ye'll come As for the rest, too well, too well I know, But of all forms the Demons us'd to bear, O how unlike the wond'rous Man, whose heart *Trembling with fear, and waiting his commands, 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, 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, As if their wisdom had conspir'd Or, like those Sophists that would drown a fish, The Cynic hugs his poverty; And 'tis the Indian's pride to be These manacles upon mine arm, So he that strook at Jason's life, Malice, I see, wants wit; for what is meant I'm in this cabinet lock'd up, And thus, proud Sultan, I'm as great as thee. Here sin, for want of food, must starve, When once my prince affliction hath, And to make smooth so rough a path, Now not to suffer shews no loyal heart, When kings want ease, subjects must bear a part. What though I cannot see my king, Yet contemplation is a thing Have you not seen the Nightingale How doth she chant her wonted tale 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, And clear'd obstruction that might intervene ; The Moderns previous hints like these despise, "The Destinies that slit the thin-spun life." By traitors madden'd, and by sophists sham'd; Ere giant Vanity, with impious hand, 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, Anarchy made the fair creation void. Britons, to you, by temperate freedom crown'd, The Stage can have no motive to enforce |