HILL.

Anos HILL, eldest son of George Hill, Esq. of Malmsbury Abbey, Wiltshire, was born in London, Febr. 10, The life of this author presents a most astonishing instance of genius and industry. At the age of 15 we find alese in a vessel bound for Constantinople, on a visit to Lord Paget, ambassador at that court, and a distant reof his mother's. His Lordship, struck with the ardent desire of knowledge, which had induced this youth to undertaking, provided him with a tutor with whom he travelled through Egypt, Palestine and the greater of the East. He returned with his Lordship from Constantinople by land; and profited of the occasion of their at the different courts to see the greatest part of Europe. 1710, Manager of the King's Theatre, Haymarket, he ure the opera of Rinaldo, the music of which was the first of Handel's compositions after his arrival in England. Agh so mas 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 caused disputes, and the whole affair was overthrown just at the time when profits were already rising from it, and, if pursned 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 paris 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 1758, 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 poctical 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 obsiged 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 1755; and though it is founded on the principles of religious party, which are generall 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 Zaire 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 hi 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 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 s 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 ther faintly spoke, extended his arms to receive his children, raised his eyes to heaven, and then closed them for ever.

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
please.

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

Sel. Have you forgot
Absent Nerestan then? whose gen'rous frien
ship
So nobly vow'd redemption from your chair
How oft have you admir'd his dauntless so
Osman, his conqu'ror, by his courage charm
Trusted his faith, and on his word releas'd hi
Though not return'd in time-we yet expect hi
Nor had his noble journey other motive,
Than to procure our ransom.-And is this
This dear, warm hope, become an idle drea
Zara. Since after two long years be
returns,

Tis plain his promise stretch'd beyond

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:

'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!

Zara. Go; 'twere too much to tell thee Thou wert not made a pris'ner in this place,

Thou blushest, and I guess thy thoughts ac- Why will you join your hand with this proud

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:

e you forgot you are of Christian blood? Zara. Ab, me! what hast thou said, why A grand March. Enter OSMAN, reading

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

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.

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;

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.
Nobly confiding, I unveil my heart,
And dare inform you that 'tis all your own:
My joys must all be yours; only my cares
Shall fie conceal'd within, and reach not Zara.
Zara. Oblig'd by this excess of tenderness,
How low, how wretched was the lot of Zara!
Too poor with aught but thanks to pay such
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 1 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, 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, sulton, 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;

But let thy pride be taught it treads too high,
When it presumes to climb above my mercy.
Go ransomless thyself, and carry back
Their unaccepted ransoms, join'd with gifts,
Fit to reward thy purpose: instead of ten,
Demand a hundred Christians; they are thine.
Take 'em, and bid 'em teach their haughty
country,

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 realm:
With all their kings to guide 'em, would unit
In vain, to force her from me. Go, retire.
Ner. For Zara's ransom, with her ow
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 wil
What, if I prais'd thee! This presumptuo
virtue,

Compelling my esteem, provokes my pride:
Be gone; and when to-morrow's sun shall ris
On my dominions he not found-too near n
[Exit Neresta
[Asic

Zara. Assist him, heaven!
Osman. Zara, retire a moment.
Assume, throughout my palace, sovereign e
pire,

While I give orders to prepare the pomp
That waits to crown thee mistress of my thro
[Leads her out, and retur
Orasmin! didst thou mark th'imperious slay

What could he mean?—he sigh'd—and, as he | And the proud crescent rise in bloody triumph.
went,
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

mark it?

chains;

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

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.

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

remov'd

From those detested days of blood and woe:
But I, less happy, was condemn'd to see
Thy walls, Jerusalem, beat down, and all

Cha. Matchless Nerestan! generous and Our pious fathers' labours lost in ruins!

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'er-
whelms 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,

And native France have bless'd our eyes no

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 vain; 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,
For I was born amidst them. Chains and death,
Caesarea lost, and Saracens triumphant,
Ner. The will of gracious heav'n, that soft-Were the first objects which my eyes e'er

more.

en'd Osman,

look'd on.

Inspir'd me for your sakes: but with our joy Hurried, an infant, among other infants,
Flows, mix'd, a bitter sadness. I had hop'd Snatch'd from the bosoms of their bleeding
To save from their perversion, a young beauty,
mothers,
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,

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. Zara, too,