The melancholy man such dreams,
As brightest evidence, esteems;
Fain would he see some distant scene
Suggested by his restless Spleen,
And Fancy's telescope applies
With tinctured glass to cheat his eyes.
Such thoughts, as love the gloom of night,
I close examine by the light;

For who, though bribed by gain to lie,
Dare sunbeam-written truths deny,
And execute plain common sense
On faith's mere hearsay evidence?

That superstition mayn't create,
And club its ills with those of fate,
I many a notion take to task,
Made dreadful by its visor-mask.
Thus scruple, spasm of the mind,
Is cured, and certainty I find;
Since optic reason shows me plain,
I dreaded spectres of the brain;
And legendary fears are gone,
Though in tenacious childhood sown.
Thus in opinions I commence
Freeholder in the proper sense,
And neither suit nor service do,
Nor homage to pretenders show,
Who boast themselves by spurious roll
Lords of the manor of the soul;
Preferring sense from chin that's bare,
To nonsense throned in whisker'd hair.

To thee, Creator uncreate,
O Entium Ens! divinely great !—
Hold, Muse, nor melting pinions try,
Nor near the blazing glory fly,
Nor straining break thy feeble bow,
Unfeather'd arrows far to throw ;
Through fields unknown nor madly stray,
Where no ideas mark the way.
With tender eyes, and colours faint,
And trembling hands, forbear to paint.
Who, features veil'd by light, can hit ?
Where can, what has no outline, fit?
My soul, the vain attempt forego,
Thyself, the fitter subject, know.
He wisely shuns the bold extreme,
Who soon lays by th' unequal theme,

Nor runs, with wisdom's sirens caught,

On quicksands swallowing shipwreck'd thought:
But conscious of his distance, gives

Mute praise, and humble negatives.
In one, no object of our sight,
Immutable, and infinite,

Who can't be cruel, or unjust,
Calm and resign'd, I fix my trust;
To him my past and present state
I owe, and must my future fate.
A stranger into life I'm come,
Dying may be our going home,
Transported here by angry Fate,
The convicts of a prior state.
Hence I no anxious thoughts bestow
On matters I can never know.

Through life's foul way, like vagrant, pass'd,

He'll grant a settlement at last ;

And with sweet ease the wearied crown

By leave to lay his being down.

If doom'd to dance th' eternal round

Of life no sooner lost but found,
And dissolution soon to come,

Like spunge, wipes out life's present sum,
But can't our state of pow'r bereave
An endless series to receive;
Then, if hard dealt with here by fate,
We balance in another state,
And consciousness must go along,
And sign th' acquittance for the wrong.
He for his creatures must decree
More happiness than misery,
Or be supposed to create,
Curious to try, what 'tis to hate :
And do an act, which rage infers,
'Cause lameness halts, or blindness errs.

Thus, thus I steer my bark, and sail
On even keel with gentle gale;
At helm I make my reason sit,
My crew of passions all submit.
If dark and blust'ring prove some nights,
Philosophy puts forth her lights;
Experience holds the cautious glass,
To shun the breakers, as I pass,
And frequent throws the wary lead,
To see what dangers may be hid :
And once in seven years I'm seen
At Bath or Tunbridge, to careen.
Though pleased to see the dolphins play,
I mind my compass and my way.
With store sufficient for relief,
And wisely still prepared to reef,
Nor wanting the dispersive bowl
Of cloudy weather in the soul,

I make (may heaven propitious send
Such wind and weather to the end)
Neither becalm'd, nor overblown,
Life's voyage to the world unknown.

Even situations far depressed beneath the familiar mediocrity of life are more picturesque and poetical than its ordinary level. It is certainly on the virtues of the middling rank of life that the strength and comforts of society chiefly depend, in the same manner as we look for the harvest not on cliffs and precipices, but on the easy slope and the uniform plain. But the

painter does not in general fix on level countries for the subjects of his noblest landscapes. There is an analogy, I conceive, to this in the moral painting of tragedy. Disparities of station give it boldness of outline. The commanding situations of life are its mountain scenery-the region where its storm and sunshine may be portrayed in their strongest contrast and colouring.

Persons-Maria, Charlotte, and YOUNG WILMOT.

Enter CHARLOTTE, thoughtful; and soon after MARIA from the other side.

Mar. MADAM, a stranger in a foreign habit Desires to see you.

Char. In a foreign habit

'Tis strange, and unexpected-But admit him. [Exit MARIA. Who can this stranger be? I know no foreigner,

Enter YOUNG WILMOT.

Nor any man like this.
Y. Wilm. Ten thousand joys!

[Going to embrace her. Char. You are rude, sir-Pray forbear, and let me know

What business brought you here, or leave the place.
Y. Wilm. She knows me not, or will not seem to
know me.
[Aside.

Perfidious maid! Am I forgot or scorn'd?
Char. Strange questions from a man I never

knew!

Y. Wilm. With what aversion and contempt she views me!

My fears are true; some other has her heart: -She's lost-My fatal absence has undone me. [Aside. O! could thy Wilmot have forgot thee, Charlotte? Char. Ha! Wilmot! say! what do your words import ?

O gentle stranger! ease my swelling heart

That else will burst! Canst thou inform me aught?— What dost thou know of Wilmot ?

Y. Wilm. This I know,

When all the winds of heaven seem'd to conspire
Against the stormy main, and dreadful peals
Of rattling thunder deafen'd every ear,
And drown'd th' affrighten'd mariners' loud cries,
While livid lightning spread its sulph'rous flames
Through all the dark horizon, and disclosed
The raging seas incensed to his destruction;
When the good ship in which he was embark'd,
Unable longer to support the tempest,
Broke, and o'erwhelm'd by the impetuous surge,
Sunk to the oozy bottom of the deep,
And left him struggling with the warring waves;
In that dread moment, in the jaws of death,
When his strength fail'd and every hope forsook him,

And his last breath press'd t'wards his trembling lips, The neighbouring rocks, that echoed to his moan, Return'd no sound articulate, but Charlotte !

Char. The fatal tempest whose description strikes The hearer with astonishment is ceased; And Wilmot is at rest. The fiercer storm Of swelling passions that o'erwhelms the soul, And rages worse than the mad foaming seas In which he perish'd, ne'er shall vex him more. Y. Wilm. Thou seem'st to think he's dead: enjoy that thought;

Persuade yourself that what you wish is true,
And triumph in your falsehood-Yes, he's dead ;
You were his fate. The cruel winds and waves,
That cast him pale and breathless on the shore,
Spared him for greater woes-To know his
Charlotte,

Forgetting all her vows to him and heaven,
Had cast him from her thoughts-Then, then he

died;

That centred not in thee, since last we parted;
May we ne'er meet again, but thy loud wrongs
So close the ear of mercy to my cries,
That I may never see those bright abodes
Where truth and virtue only have admission,
And thou inhabit'st now

Y. Wilm. Assist me, Heaven!
Preserve my reason, memory, and sense!
O moderate my fierce tumultuous joys,
Or their excess will drive me to distraction.
O Charlotte! Charlotte! lovely, virtuous maid!
Can thy firm mind, in spite of time and absence,
Remain unshaken, and support its truth;
And yet thy frailer memory retain
No image, no idea of thy lover?

Why dost thou gaze so wildly? Look on me ; Turn thy dear eyes this way; observe me well, Have scorching climates, time, and this strange habit So changed and so disguised thy faithful Wilmot, That nothing in my voice, my face, or mien, Remains to tell my Charlotte I am he?

[After viewing him some time, she approaches weeping, and gives him her hand; and then turning towards him, sinks upon his bosom.] Why dost thou weep? Why dost thou tremble thus? Why doth thy panting heart and cautious touch Speak thee but half convinced? Whence are thy fears?

Why art thou silent? Canst thou doubt me still? Char. No, Wilmot! no; I'm blind with too much light:

O'ercome with wonder and oppress'd with joy;
The struggling passions barr'd the doors of speech,
But speech enlarged, affords me no relief.
This vast profusion of extreme delight,
Rising at once, and bursting from despair,
Defies the aid of words, and mocks description:
But for one sorrow, one sad scene of anguish,
That checks the swelling torrent of my joys,
I could not bear the transport.

Y. Wilm. Let me know it:
Give me my portion of thy sorrow, Charlotte!
Let me partake thy grief, or bear it for thee.
Char. Alas! my Wilmot! these sad tears are
thine;

They flow for thy misfortunes. I am pierced
With all the agonies of strong compassion,
With all the bitter anguish you must feel,
When you shall hear your parents—

Y. Wilm. Are no more.

Char. You apprehend me wrong.
Y. Wilm. Perhaps I do:

Perhaps you mean to say, the greedy grave
Was satisfied with one, and one is left

To bless my longing eyes-But which, my Charlotte?
-And yet forbear to speak, 'till I have thought-
Char. Nay, hear me, Wilmot !

Y. Wilm. I perforce must hear thee: For I might think 'till death, and not determine, Of two so dear which I could bear to lose. [fears: Char. Afflict yourself no more with groundless Your parents both are living. Their distress, The poverty to which they are reduced,

In spite of my weak aid, was what I mourn'd;
And that in helpless age, to them whose youth
Was crown'd with full prosperity, I fear,
Is worse, much worse, than death.

Y. Wilm. My joy's complete.

My parents living, and possess'd of thee !—
From this blest hour, the happiest of my life,
I'll date my rest. My anxious hopes and fears,
My weary travels, and my dangers past,
Are now rewarded all. Now I rejoice
In my success, and count my riches gain.
For know, my soul's best treasure! I have wealth
Enough to glut ev'n avarice itself:

No more shall cruel want, or proud contempt,
Oppress the sinking spirits, or insult
The hoary heads of those who gave me being.

Char. "Tis now, O riches, I conceive your worth, You are not base, nor can you be superfluous, But when misplaced in base and sordid hands. Fly, fly, my Wilmot! leave thy happy Charlotte! Thy filial piety, the sighs and tears

Of thy lamenting parents call thee hence.

Y. Wilm. I have a friend, the partner of my

voyage, [me. Who, in the storm last night, was shipwreck'd with Char. Shipwreck'd last night !-O ye immortal

pow'rs!

What have you suffer'd-How was you preserved?

Y. Wilm. Let that, and all my other strange And perilous adventures, be the theme [escapes Of many a happy winter night to come. My present purpose was t' intreat my angel, To know this friend, this other better Wilmot ; And come with him this evening to my father's : I'll send him to thee.

Char. I consent with pleasure.

Y. Wilm. Heavens, what a night!-How shall I bear my joy!

My parents, yours, my friends, all will be mine,
And mine, like water, air, or the free splendid sun,
The undivided portion of you all.

If such the early hopes, the vernal bloom,
The distant prospect of my future bliss,
Then what the ruddy autumn? what the fruit?
The full possession of thy heavenly charms.
The tedious, dark, and stormy winter o'er,
The hind, that all its pinching hardships bore,
With transport sees the weeks appointed bring
The cheerful, promised, gay, delightful spring:
The painted meadows, the harmonious woods,
The gentle zephyrs, and unbridled floods,
With all their charms, his ravish'd thoughts employ,
But the rich harvest must complete his joy.

SCENE-A Street in Penryn. Enter RANDAL,

[Exeunt.

Rand. Poor, poor and friendless; whither shall

I wander,

And to what point direct my views and hopes ? A menial servant? No. What! shall I live, Here in this land of freedom, live distinguish'd,

And mark'd the willing slave of some proud subject,
And swell his useless train for broken fragments;
The cold remains of his superfluous board ?—
I would aspire to something more and better-
Turn thy eyes then to the prolific ocean,
Whose spacious bosom opens to thy view:
There deathless honour, and unenvied wealth
Have often crown'd the brave adventurer's toils.
This is the native uncontested right,

The fair inheritance, of ev'ry Briton

That dares put in his claim-My choice is made:
A long farewell to Cornwall, and to England!
If I return-But stay, what stranger's this,
Who, as he views me, seems to mend his pace?

[think,

Y. Wilm. I doubt it not-But tell me, dost thou
My parents not suspecting my return,
That I may visit them, and not be known?
Rand. "Tis hard for me to judge.
You are
Grown so familiar to me, that I wonder [already
I knew you not at first: yet it may be ;
For you're much alter'd, and they think you dead.
Y. Wilm. This is certain: Charlotte beheld me
long,

And heard my loud reproaches and complaints
Without rememb'ring she had ever seen me.
My mind at ease grows wanton: I would fain
Refine on happiness. Why may I not
Indulge my curiosity, and try

If it be possible by seeing first

My parents as a stranger, to improve
Their pleasure by surprise!

Rand. It may indeed

Enhance your own, to see from what despair
Your timely coming, and unhoped success,
Have given you power to raise them.
Y. Wilm. I remember,

E'er since we learn'd together you excell'd
In writing fairly, and could imitate
Whatever hand you saw with great exactness.
Of this I'm not so absolute a master.

I therefore beg you'll write, in Charlotte's name
And character, a letter to my father;
And recommend me, as a friend of hers,
To his acquaintance.

Rand. Sir, if you desire it
And yet-

Y. Wilm. Nay, no objections-Twill save time, Most precious with me now. For the deception, If doing what my Charlotte will approve, 'Cause done for me and with a good intent, Deserves the name, I'll answer it myself. If this succeeds, I purpose to defer Discov'ring who I am till Charlotte comes, And thou, and all who love me. Ev'ry friend Who witnesses my happiness to-night, Will, by partaking, multiply my joys.

Rand. You grow luxurious in your mental plea-
Could I deny you aught, I would not write [sures:
This letter. To say true, I ever thought
Your boundless curiosity a weakness.

Y. Wilm. What canst thou blame in this?
Rand. Your pardon, sir;

I only speak in general: I'm ready
T' obey your orders.

Y. Wilm. I am much thy debtor,
But I shall find a time to quit thy kindness.
O Randal! but imagine to thyself

The floods of transport, the sincere delight
That all my friends will feel, when I disclose
To my astonish'd parents my return;
And then confess, that I have well contrived
By giving others joy t' exalt my own.
As pain, and anguish, in a gen'rous mind,
While kept conceal'd and to ourselves confined,
Want half their force; so pleasure, when it flows
In torrents round us, more ecstatic grows.

SCENE-A Room in Old Wilmot's House.

OLD WILMOT and his Wife AGNES.

[Exeunt.

O. Wilm. Here, take this Seneca, this haughty Who governing the master of mankind, [pedant, And awing power imperial, prates of patience; And praises poverty-possess'd of millions: -Sell him, and buy us bread. The scantiest meal The vilest copy of his book e'er purchased, Will give us more relief in this distress, Than all his boasted precepts.-Nay, no tears; Keep them to move compassion when you beg. Agn. My heart may break, but never stoop to that. O. Wilm. Nor would I live to see it.-But despatch. [Exit AGNES. Where must I charge this length of misery, That gathers force each moment as it rolls, And must at last o'erwhelm me; but on hope, Vain, flattering, delusive, groundless hope; A senseless expectation of relief

That has for years deceived me ?-Had I thought