The merit we've been raising all our days,
And lose our whole reward. And now, methinks,
Now, more than ever, we have cause to fear,
And be upon our guard. The hand of Heaven
Spreads clouds on clouds o'er our benighted heads,
And, wrapt in darkness, doubles our distresses.
I had, the night last past, repeated twice,
A strange and awful dream. I would not yield
To fearful superstition, nor despise
The admonition of a friendly power,
That wished my good.

Agn. I have certain plagues enough, Without the help of dreams, to make me wretched.

Char. I would not stake my happiness or duty On their uncertain credit, nor on aught But reason, and the known decrees of Heaven; Yet dreams have sometimes shewn events to come,

And may excite to vigilance and care.

My vision may be such, and sent to warn us
(Now we are tried by multiplied afflictions,)
To mark each motion of our swelling hearts,
Lest we attempt to extricate ourselves,
And seek deliverance by forbidden ways-
To keep our hopes and innocence entire,
Till we're dismissed to join the happy dead,
Or Heaven relieves us here.

Agn. Well, to your

dream.

Chur. Methought I sat, in a dark winter's night,

On the wide summit of a barren mountain;
The sharp bleak winds pierced through my shi-
vering frame,

And storms of hail, and sleet, and driving rains,
Beat, with impetuous fury, on my head,
Drenched my chilled limbs, and poured a deluge |
round me.

On one hand, ever-gentle Patience sat,
On whose calm bosom I reclin'd my head;
And, on the other, silent Contemplation.

At length, to my unclos'd and watchful eyes,
That long had rolled in darkness, dawn appear'd;
And I beheld a man, an utter stranger,
But of a graceful and exalted mien,

Who press'd, with eager transport, to embrace

me.

I shunn'd his arms. But at some words he spoke,
Which I have now forgot, I turn'd again;
But he was gone. And, oh! transporting sight!
Your son, my dearest Wilmot! filled his place.
Agn. If I regarded dreams, I should expect
Some fair event from yours.

Char. But what's to come,
Though more obscure, is terrible indeed.
Methought we parted soon, and when I sought
him,

You, and his father-Yes, you both were thereStrove to conceal him from me. I pursued you Both with my cries, and call'd on Heaven and earth

To judge my wrongs, and force you to reveal Where you had hid my love, my life, my Wilmot! Agn. Unless you mean to offend me, spare the

rest.

'Tis just as likely Wilmot should return, As we become your foes.

Char. Far be such thought

From Charlotte's breast! But when I heard you

name

Self-murder, it revived the frightful image Of such a dreadful scene!

Agn. You will persist !

Char. Excuse me: I have done. Being a dream,
I thought, at least, it could not give offence.
Agn. You could not think so, had you thought
at all.

But I take nothing ill from thee. Adieu!
I have tarried longer than I first intended,
And my poor husband mourns the while alone.
[Exit AGNES.

Char. She's gone abruptly, and, I fear, dis-
pleased.

The least appearance of advice or caution,
Sets her impatient temper in a flame.
When grief, that well might humble, swells our
pride,

And pride, encreasing, aggravates our grief,
The tempest must prevail, till we are lost.
When Heaven incens'd proclaims unequal war
With guilty earth, and sends its shafts from far,
No bolt descends to strike, no flame to burn,
The humble shrubs that in low vallies mourn;
While mountain pines, whose lofty heads aspire
To fan the storm and wave in fields of fire,
And stubborn oaks that yield not to its force,
Are burnt, o'erthrown, or shiver'd in its course.

[Exit.

Y. Wilm. Welcome, my friend, to Penryn!
Here we're safe.

Eust. Then we're delivered twice: first from the sea,

And then from men, who, more remorseless, prey On shipwreck'd wretches, and who spoil and murder

Those, whom fell tempests and devouring waves, In all their fury, spared.

Y. Wilm. It is a scandal,

(Though malice must acquit the better sort)
The rude unpolish'd people here in Cornwall
Have long lain under, and with too much justice:
For 'tis an evil grown almost inveterate,
And asks a bold and skilful hand to cure.
Eust. Your treasure's safe, I hope?
Y. Wilm. 'Tis here, thank heaven!
Being in jewels, when I saw our danger,
I hid it in my bosom.

Eust. I observed you,

And wonder how you could command your thoughts,

In such a time of terror and confusion.

Y. Wilm. My thoughts were then at home.—
O England! England!

Thou seat of plenty, liberty, and health!
With transport I behold thy verdant fields,

13

After a long and tedious absence, Eustace,. With what delight we breathe our native air, And tread the genial soil that bore us first! 'Tis said, the world is every wise man's country; Yet, after having viewed its various nations, I am weak enough still to prefer my own To all I've seen beside-You smile, my friend! And think, perhaps, 'tis instinct more than reason. Why be it so: Instinct preceded reason, Even in the wisest men, and may sometimes Be much the better guide. But be it either, I must confess, that even death itself Appeared to me with twice its native horrors, When apprehended in a foreign land. Death is, no doubt, in every place the same; Yet nature casts a look towards home, and most, Who have it in their power, chuse to expire Where they first drew their breath.

Eust. Believe me, Wilmot,

Your grave reflections were not what I smiled at ; I own the truth. That we're returned to England

Affords me all the pleasure you can feel.

Yet I must think a warmer passion moves you: Thinking of that I smiled.

Y. Wilm. O Eustace! Eustace!

Thou know'st, for I have confest to thee, I love;
But having never seen the charming maid,
Thou canst not know the fierceness of my flame.
My hopes and fears, like the tempestuous seas
That we have past, now mount me to the skies,
Now hurl me down from that stupendous height,
And drive me to the centre. Did you know
How much depends on this important hour,
You would not be surprised to see me thus.
The sinking fortune of our ancient house
Compelled me young to leave my native country,
My weeping parents, and my lovely Charlotte,
Who ruled, and must for ever rule, my fate.
-O! should my Charlotte, doubtful of my truth,
Or in despair ever to see me more,

Have given herself to some more happy lover!Distraction's in the thought! Or should my parents,

Grieved for my absence, and opprest with want,
Have sunk beneath their burden and expired,
While I too late was flying to relieve them;
The end of all my long and weary travels,
The hope that made success itself a blessing,
Being defeated and for ever lost-

What were the riches of the world to me?
Eust. The wretch, who fears all that is pos-

A woman may be false, and friends are mortal;
And yet your aged parents may be living,
And your fair mistress constant.

Y, Wilm. True, they may;

I doubt, but I despair not. No, my friend!
My hopes are strong and lively as my fears;
They tell me, Charlotte is as true as fair;
That we shall meet never to part again;
That I shall see my parents, kiss the tears
From their pale hollow cheeks, cheer their sad
hearts,

And drive that gaping phantom, meagre want,
For ever from their board; their days to come
Crown all with peace, with pleasure and abun-
dance;

Receive their fond embraces and their blessings, And be a blessing to them.

Eust. 'Tis our weakness;

Blind to events, we reason in the dark,
And fondly apprehend what none e'er found,
Or ever shall, pleasure and pain unmixt;
And flatter and torment ourselves by turns,
With what shall never be.

Y. Wilm. I'll go this instant

To seek my Charlotte, and explore my fate.
Eust. What, in that foreign habit!
Y. Wilm. That's a trifle,

Not worth my thoughts.

Eust. The hardships you've endured, And your long stay beneath the burning zone, Where one eternal sultry summer reigns, Have marred the native hue of your complexion: Methinks you look more like a sun-burnt Indian, Than a Briton.

Y. Wilm. Well, 'tis no matter, Eustace; I hope my mind's not altered for the worse, And for my outside-But inform me, friend, When I may hope to see you.

Eust. When you please:

You'll find me at the inn.

Y. Wilm. When I have learn'd my doom, expect me there.

"Till then, farewell!

Eust. Farewell! Success attend you!
[Exit EUSTACE
Y. Wilm. We flatter and torment ourselves by
turns,

With what shall never be. Amazing folly !
We stand exposed to many unavoidable
Calamities, and therefore fondly labour
'T'increase their number and inforce their weight,
By our fantastic hopes and groundless fears:
For one severe distress impos'd by fate,
What numbers doth tormenting fear create!
Deceiv'd by hope, Ixion like, we prove
Immortal joys, and seem to rival Jove;
The cloud dissolved, impatient we complain,
And pay for fancied bliss substantial pain. [Erit.

VOL. II.

G

In which he perished, 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 falschood. 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,

Enter Young WILMOT.

Nor any man like this.

Y, Wilm. Ten thousand joys!

[Going to embrace her. Char. Sir, you are too bold-Forbear, and let me know

What business brought you here, or leave the place.

Y. Wilm. Perfidious maid! Am I forgot, or scorned?

Char. Can I forget a man I never knew?

Y. Wilm. 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, Char

lotte!

Char. Ha! Wilmot! say! what do your words
import ?

O gentle stranger! ease my swelling heart;
What dost thou know of Wilmot ?

Y. Wilmot. This I know:

When all the winds of heaven seemed to conspire
Against the stormy main, and dreadful peals
Of rattling thunder deafened every ear,
And drowned the affrightened mariners' loud
cries;

When livid lightning spread its sulphurous flames
Through all the dark horizon, and disclosed
The raging seas incensed to his destruction;
When the good ship, in which he was embarked,
Broke, and, o'erwhelmed 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 failed, and every hope forsook
him,

And his last breath pressed towards his trembling lips,

The neighbouring rocks, that echoed to his moan,
Returned no sound articulate but-Charlotte.
Chur. 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 scas

Perhaps I dream, and this is all illusion. [Aside.

Char. If, as some teach, the spirit after death,
Free from the bounds and ties of sordid earth,
Can trace us to our most concealed retreat,
See all we act, and read our very thoughts;
To thee, O Wilmot! kneeling I appeal.
If c'er I swerved in action, word, or thought,
Or ever wish'd to taste a joy on earth
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 oppressed with joy.
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?

Char. Afflict yourself no more with groundless

fears:

Your parents both are living. Their distress,
The poverty to which they are reduced,

In spite of my weak aid, was what I mourned:
That poverty in age, to them whose youth
Was crowned with full prosperity, I fear,
Is worse, much worse, than death.

Y. Wilm. My joy's complete!
My parents living, and possessed of thee !-
From this blest hour, the happiest of my life,
Fil date my rest. My anxious hopes and fears,
My weary travels, and my dangers past,
Are now rewarded all: Now I rejoice
la my success, and count my riches gain.

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

Who, in the storm last night, was shipwrecked with me.

Char. Shipwrecked last night!-O you immor. tal powers!

What have you suffered! How were you preserved ?

Y. Wilm. Let that, and all my other strange

escapes

And perilous adventures, be the theme
Of many a happy winter night to come.
My present purpose was to 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', your's, my friend's, all will be mine.
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, promis'd, gay, delightful spring ;
The painted meadows, the harmonious woods,
The gentle zephyrs and unbridled floods,
With all their charms, his ravish'd thoughts em-
ploy,

But the rich harvest must complete his joy,
[Exeunt severally.

SCENE II-A Street in Penryn.

Enter RANDAL.

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 distinguished, And marked the willing slave of some proud sub

ject,

Enough to glut even 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. Ey, fly, my Wilmot! leave thy happy Charlotte! 7y filial piety, the sighs and tears

Of thy lamenting parents call thee hence.

The fair inheritance, of every 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?

Enter Young WILMOT.

Y. Wilm. Randal!-The dear companion of my youth!

Sure lavish fortune means to give me all

I could desire, or ask for, this blessed day,