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Tell 'em-with this I murder'd her I lov'd;
The noblest and most virtuous among wo-
men!

The soul of innocence, and pride of truth:
Tell 'em I laid my empire at her feet:
Tell 'em I plung'd my dagger in her blood:
Tell 'em I so ador'd—and thus reveng'd her.
[Stabs himself.

Rev'rence this hero, and conduct him safe.

[Dies. Ner. Direct me, great inspirer of the soul! How I should act, how judge in this distress! Amazing grandeur! and detested rage! Ev'n I, amidst my tears, admire this foe, And mourn his death, who liv'd to give me [Curtain falls.

woe.

HOME.

JOHN HOME, a native of Scotland, born in the vicinity of Ancrum, in Roxburgshire, in 1724, after the usual course of education for the church, was ordained and inducted to the living of Athelstaneford, and was the successor of the Rev. Mr. Blair, author of The Grave. In the rebellion of 1745 he took up arms in defence of the existing government, He was present at the battle of Falkirk; where he was taken prisoner, and, with five or six other gentlemen, escaped from the castle of Down, After the rebellion he resumed the duties of his profession. Having a na tural inclination for the Belles Lettres, which he had cultivated with some care; he wrote his tragedy of Douglas, and presented it to the managers of the Edinburgh Theatre. Its reception will be easily imagined from the following anecdote. During the representation a young and sanguine Scotchman, in the pit, transported with delight and enthusiasm, cried out on a sudden with an air of triumph, "Weel lods; hwar's yeer Wolly Shokspeer nou!" (where is your William Shakspeare now). The author being a clergyman, the resentment of the elders of the kirk, and many other zealous members of that sect was inflamed, not only against him, but the performers also; on whom, together with him, they freely denounced their anathemas in pamphlets and public papers. The latter indeed it was out of their power greatly to injure; but their rod was near falling very heavy on the author, whom the assembly repudiated, and cut off from his preferments. In England, however, he had the good fortune to meet with friends. and being through the interest of the Earl of Bute and some other persons of distinction, recommended to the notice of his present majesty, then Prince of Wales, his Royal Highness was pleased to bestow a pension on him; thus, sheltering him under his own patronage, he put it out of the power of either bigotry, envy, or malevolence to blast his laurels. Mr. Home afterwards pursued his poetical efforts, and produced more dramatic pieces, which were brought on the stage in London; but Douglas must always stand as his master-piece in dramatic writing. He never afterwards resumed his clerical profession, which he had abandoned in 1757; but enjoyed a place under government 17 Scotland. Mr. Home, always the friend and patron of merit, as far as his circumstances would admit, was the means bringing the celebrated poems of Ossian to light. While Macpherson was schoolmaster of Ruthven in Badenoch, he occupied his leisure hours in collecting, from the native, but illiterate bards of the mountains of Scotland, fragments these inimitable poems; a few of them he translated, and inserted in a weekly Miscellany, then publishing at Ediaburgh. The beauty of these pieces soon attracted the notice of Mr. Home, Dr. Robertson and Dr. Blair; and they resolved to sent Macpherson on a journey all over the Highlands, at their expence, to collect the originals of thor poems, which have since been a subject of so much controversy. Mr. Home died at Manchester-house near Ediburgh, Sept. the 4th 18c8.

DOUGLAS.

He declare

THIS piece was first produced at Edinburgh, 1756; and the success it met with, induced our author to offer it the London managers; where, notwithstanding all the influence exerted in its favour, it was refused by Garrick. M Rich, however, accepted it, and it was acted the first time at Covent-garden, March the 14th 1757; where its real werd soon placed it out of the reach of critical censure. The plot was suggested by the pathetical old Scotch ballad of C (or Child) Morrice, reprinted in the third volume of Percy's Reliques of Ancient Poetry, and it is founded on t quarrels of the families of Douglas and other of the Scots clans. This tragedy has a great deal of pathos in it, so of the narratives are pleasingly affecting, and the descriptions poetically beautiful. On its first appearance Hume go his opinion, that is was one of the most interesting and pathetic pieces ever exhibited in any theatre. that the author possessed the true theatric genius of Shakspeare and Otway; but we must remember, that the was a Scotchman, consequently such extravagant praise requires no comment. Gray however had so high an opin of this first drama of Mr. Home, that in a letter to a friend in 1757, he says, "1'am greatly struck with the trag of Douglas, though it has infinite faults: the author seems to have retrieved the true language of the Stage, which been lost for these hundred years; and there is one scene (between Matilda and the Old Peasant) so masterly, that strikes me blind to all the defects in the world." To this opinion every reader of taste will readily subscribe. Jo son blames Mr. Gray for concluding his celebrated ode with suicide; a circumstance borrowed perhaps from Doug in which lady Randolph, otherwise a blameless character, precipitates herself, like the Bard, from a cliff, into etern

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Still hears and answers to Matilda's moan.
Oh, Douglas! Douglas! if departed ghosts

SCENE I.-The Court of a Castle, surrounded Are e'er permitted to review this world,

with Woods.

Enter LADY RANDOLPH. Lady R. YE woods and wilds, whose melancholy gloom

Within the circle of that wood thou art, And with the passion of immortals hear'st My lamentation: hear'st thy wretched wife Weep for her husband slain, her infant lo Accords with my soul's sadness, and draws forth My brother's timeless death I seem to mourn The voice of sorrow from my bursting heart, Who perish'd with thee on this fatal day. Farewell awhile I will not leave you long; But Randolph comes, whom fate has ma For in your shades I deem some spirit dwells, Who from the chiding stream, or groaning oak, To chide my anguish, and defraud the dead

my lord,

Enter LORD RANDOLPH.

Lord R. Again these weeds of woe! say,
dost thou well

To feed a passion which consumes thy life?
The living claim some duty; vainly thou
Bestow'st thy cares upon the silent dead.

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And ill-tim'd mention of your brother's fate?
Forgive me, lady: humble though I am,
The mind I bear partakes not of my fortune:
So fervently I love you, that to dry

Lady R. Silent, alas! is he for whom I These piteous tears, I'd throw my life away.

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Implacable resentment was their crime,
And grievous has the expiation been.

Lord R. Thy grief wrests to its purposes
my words.

I never ask'd of thee that ardent love
Which in the breasts of fancy's children burns.
Decent affection and complacent kindness
Were all I wish'd for; but I wish'd in vain.
Hence with the less regret my eyes behold
The storm of war that gathers o'er this land:
If I should perish by the Danish sword,
Matilda would not shed one tear the more.
Lady R. Thou dost not think so: woful

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ht from their native land, the stormy north, May the wind blow, till every keel is fix'd imoveable in Caledonia's strand! The shall our foes repent their bold invasion, And roving armies shun the fatal shore. dy, farewell: I leave thee not alone; Lader comes one whose love makes duty light.

Enter ANNA.

Lady R. What power directed thy un-
conscious tongue

To speak as thou hast done? to name-
Anna. I know not:

But since my words have made my mistress
tremble,

I will speak so no more; but silent mix
My tears with hers.

Lady R. No, thou shalt not be silent.
I'll trust thy faithful love, and thou shalt be
Henceforth the instructed partner of my woes
But what avails it? Can thy feeble pity
Roll back the flood of never-ebbing time?
Compel the earth and ocean to give up
Their dead alive?

Anna. What means my noble mistress?
Lady R. Didst thou not ask, what had my
sorrows been,

If I in early youth had lost a husband?
In the cold bosom of the earth is lodg'd,
Mangled with wounds, the husband of my
youth;

And in some cavern of the ocean lies
My child and his-

Anna. Oh! lady most rever'd!
The tale wrapt up in your amazing words
Deign to unfold.

Lady R. Alas! an ancient feud,
Hereditary evil, was the source

Of my misfortunes. Ruling fate decreed,
That my brave brother should in battle save
The life of Douglas' son, our house's foe:
The youthful warriors vow'd eternal friendship.
To see the vaunted sister of his friend,
Impatient, Douglas to Balarmo came,
Under a borrow'd name.-My heart he gain'd;
Nor did I long refuse the hand he begg'd:
My brother's presence authoriz'd our marriage.
Three weeks, three little weeks, with wings
of down,

Had o'er us flown, when my lov'd lord was

call'd

To fight his father's battles; and with him,
In spite of all my tears, did Malcolm go.
Scarce were they gone, when my stern sire
was told,

That the false stranger was lord Douglas' son.
[Exit. Frantic with rage, the baron drew his sword,
And question'd me. Alone, forsaken, faint,
Kneeling beneath his sword, falt'ring, I took
An oath equivocal, that I ne'er would
Wed one of Douglas' name. Sincerity!
Thou first of virtues, let no mortal leave
Thy onward path! although the earth should
gape,

Anna. Forgive the rashness of your Anna's love;

id by affection, I have thus presum'd aterrupt your solitary thoughts;

And warn you of the hours that you neglect, lose in sadness.

Lady R. So to lose my
hours

at the use I wish to make of time,
Anna. To blame thee, lady, suits not with
my state:

sare I am, since death first prey'd on man,
er did sister thus a brother mourn.
hat had your sorrows been if you had lost,
rly youth the husband of your heart?
Lady R. Oh!

And from the gulf of hell destruction cry,
To take dissimulation's winding way.

Anna. Alas! how few of women's fearful
kind

Durst own a truth so hardy!

Lady R. The first truth

Is easiest to avow. This moral learn,
This precious moral, from my tragic tale.-
In a few days the dreadful tidings came
That Douglas and my brother both were slain.

My lord! my life! my husband!-mighty God! Glen. What dost thou doubt of? What
What had I done to merit such affliction?

Anna. My dearest lady, many a tale of tears With subjects
I've listen'd to; but never did I hear
A tale so sad as this.

Ludy R. In the first days

Of my distracting grief, I found myself-
As women wish to be who love their lords.
But who durst tell my father? the good priest
Who join'd our hands, my brother's ancient
tutor,

With his lov'd Malcolm, in the battle fell:
They two alone were privy to the marriage.
On silence and concealment I resolv'd,
Till time should make my father's fortune mine.
That very night on which my son was born,
My nurse, the only confidant I had,
Set out with him to reach her sister's house:
But nurse, nor infant have I ever seen,
Or heard of, Anna, since that fatal hour.
Anna. Not seen nor heard of! then perhaps
he lives.

Lady R. No. It was dark December; wind

and rain

Had beat all night. Across the Carron lay
The destin'd road, and in its swelling flood
My faithful servant perish'd with my child.
Oh! had I died when my lov'd husband fell!
Had some good angel op'd to me the book
Of Providence, and let me read my life,
My heart had broke, when I beheld the sum
Of ills, which one by one I have endur'd.
Anna. That God, whose ministers good
angels are,
Hath shut the book, in mercy to mankind.
But we must leave this theme: Glenalvon

comes;

I saw him bend on you his thoughtful eyes,
And hitherwards he slowly stalks his way.
Lady R. I will avoid him. An ungracious
person

Is doubly irksome in an hour like this.
Anna. Why speaks my lady thus of Ran-
dolph's heir?

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Lady R. Because he's not the heir of Ran-
dolph's virtues.

Subtle and shrewd, he offers to mankind
An artificial image of himself:
Yet is he brave and politic in war,
And stands aloft in these unruly times.
Why I describe him thus I'll tell hereafter.
Stay, and detain him till I reach the castle.

[Exit. Anna. Oh happiness! where art thou to be found?

I see thou dwellest not with birth and beauty, Though grac'd with grandeur, and in wealth array'd;

Nor dost thou, it would seem, with virtue dwell;

Else had this gentle lady miss'd thee not.

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hast thou to do

intricate? Thy youth, thy beauty,

Cannot be question'd: think of these good
gifts;

And then thy contemplations will be pleasing.
Anna. Let women view yon monument of

woe,

Then boast of beauty: who so fair as she?
But I must follow; this revolving day
Awakes the memory of her ancient woes.
[Exit.

Glen. So!-Lady Randolph shuns me; by-
and-by

I'll woo her as the lion wooes his brides.
The deed's a doing now, that makes me lord
Of these rich valleys, and a chief of pow'r.
The season is most apt; my sounding steps
Will not be heard amidst the din of arms.
Randolph has liv'd too long; his better fate
Had the ascendant once, and kept me down:
When I had seiz'd the dame, by chance he

came,

Rescu'd, and had the lady for his labour:
I 'scap'd unknown; a slender consolation!
Heav'n is my witness that I do not love
To sow in peril, and let others reap
The jocund harvest. Yet I am not safe;
By love, or something like it, stung, inflam'd,
Madly I blabb'd my passion to his wife,
And she has threaten'd to acquaint him of it.
The way of woman's will I do not know:
But well I know the baron's wrath is deadly
I will not live in fear; the man I dread
Is as a Dane to me; ay, and the man
Who stands betwixt me and my chief desire-
No bar but he; she has no kinsman near;
No brother in his sister's quarrel bold;"
And for the righteous cause, a stranger's cause
know no chief that will defy Glenalvon.

I

ACT II.

[Exi

SCENE I-4 Court, etc.
Enter Servants and a Stranger at one Doo
and LADY RANDOLPH and ANNA at another.
Lady R. What means this clamour? Strai
ger, speak secure;
Hast thou been wrong'd? have these rude me
presum'd

To vex the weary, traveller on his way?
1 Serv. By us no stranger ever suffer
wrong:
This man with outcry wild has call'd us fort
So sore afraid he cannot speak his fears.
Enter LORD RANDOLPH and NORVAL, Wi
their Swords drawn and bloody.
Lady R. Not vain the stranger's fears! he
fares my lord?

Lord R. That it fares well, thanks to !
gallant youth,

Whose valour sav'd me from a wretched dea
As down the winding dale I walk'd alone,
At the cross way four armed men attack'd n
Rovers, I judge, from the licentious camp,
Who' would have quickly laid lord Rando
low,

Had not this brave and generous stranger co
Like my good angel, in the hour of fate,
And mocking danger, made my foes his o

They turn'd upon him, but his active arm
Struck to the ground, from whence they rose

no more,

The fiercest two; the others fled amain,
And left him master of the bloody field.
Speak, lady Randolph, upon beauty's tongue
Dwell accents pleasing to the brave and bold;
Speak, noble dame, and thank him for thy lord.
Lady R. My lord, I cannot speak what
now I feel;

My heart o'erflows with gratitude to heaven,
And to this noble youth, who, all unknown
To you and yours, deliberated not,
Nor paus'd at peril, but, humanely brave,
Fought on your side against such fearful odds.
Have you not learn'd of him whom we should
thank?

swer'd not;

And, heaven directed, came this day to do
The happy deed that gilds my humble name.
Lord R. He is as wise as brave. Was
ever tale

With such a gallant modesty rehears'd?
My brave deliverer! thou shalt enter now
A nobler list, and in a monarch's sight
Contend with princes for the prize of fame.
I will present thee to our Scottish king,
Whose valiant spirit ever valour lov'd.
Ah! my Matilda, wherefore starts that tear?
Lady R. I cannot say; for various affec-
tions,

And strangely mingled, in my bosom swell;
Yet each of them may well command a tear.
I joy that thou art safe; and I admire
Him and his fortunes, who hath wrought thy
safety;

Whom call the saviour of lord Randolph's life?
Lord R. I ask'd that question, and he an-Yea, as my mind predicts, with thine his own.
Obscure and friendless he the army sought,
Bent upon peril, in the range of death
Resolv'd to hunt for fame, and with his sword
To gain distinction which his birth denied.
In this attempt, unknown he might have pe-
rish'd,

But I must know who my deliverer is.
[To Norval.
Ner. A low-born man, of parentage obs-

cure,

Who nought can boast, but his desire to be
A soldier, and to gain a name in arms.
Lord R. Whoe'er thou art, thy spirit is
ennobl'd

By the great King of kings: thou art ordain'd
And stamp'd a hero, by the sovereign hand
Of nature! Blush not, flower of modesty
As well as valour, to declare thy birth.

Nor. My name is Norval: on the Gram-
pian hills

My father feeds his flocks; a frugal swain,
Whose constant cares were to increase his
store,

And keep bis only son, myself, at home.
For I had heard of battles, and I long'd
To follow to the field some warlike lord:
And heav'n soon granted what my sire denied.
This moon which rose last night, round as
my shield,

Had not yet fill'd her horns, when, by her light,
A band of fierce barbarians, from the hills,
Rush'd like a torrent down upon the vale,
Sweeping our flocks and herds. The shep-
herds fled

For safety and for succour. I alone,
With bended bow, and quiver full of arrows,
Hover'd about the enemy, and mark'd
The road he took; then hasted to my friends,
Whom, with a troop of fifty chosen men,
I met advancing. The pursuit I led,
Till we o'ertook the spoil-encumber'd foe.
We fought and conquer'd. Ere a sword was
drawn,

An arrow from my bow had pierc'd their
chief,

Who wore that day the arms which now

wear.

I

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And gain'd with all his valour, but oblivion.
Now grac'd by thee, his virtues serve no more
Beneath despair. The soldier now of hope,
He stands conspicuous; fame and great renown.
Are brought within the compass of his sword.
On this my mind reflected, whilst you spoke,
And bless'd the wonder-working Lord of heaven.
Lord R. Pious and grateful ever are thy
thoughts!

My deeds shall follow where thou point'st the

way.

Next to myself, and equal to Glenalvon,
In honour and command shall Norval be.
Nor. I know not how to thank you. Rude
I am

In speech and manners: never till this hour
Stood I in such a presence: yet, my lord,
There's something in my breast, which makes
me bold

To say, that Norval ne'er will shame thy fa

vour.

Lady R. I will be sworn thou wilt not.
Thou shalt be
My knight; and ever, as thou didst to-day,
With happy valour guard the life of Randolph.
Lord R. Well hast thou spoke.

"

Let me

forbid reply; [To Norval.
We are thy debtors still. Thy high desert
O'ertops our gratitude. I must proceed,
As was at first intended, to the camp.
Some of my train I see are speeding hither,
Impatient doubtless of their lord's delay.
Go with me, Norval, and thine
shall see
eyes
The chosen warriors of thy native land,
Who languish for the fight, and beat the air
With brandish'd swords.

Nor. Let us be gone, my lord.
Lord R. [To Lady R.] About the tim
that the declining sun

Shall his broad orbit o'er yon hill suspend,
Expect us to return. This night once more
Within these walls I rest; my tent I pitch
To-morrow in the field. Prepare the feast:
Free is his heart who for his country fights:
He in the eve of battle may resign
Himself to social pleasure: sweetest then,
When danger to a soldier's soul endears

The human joy that never may return.

[Exeunt Lord Randolph and Norval. Lady R. His parting words have struck a fatal truth.

Oh, Douglas! Douglas! tender was the time
When we two parted, ne'er to meet again!
How many years of anguish and despair
Has heaven annex'd to those swift passing hours
Of love and fondness.

Wretch that I am! Alas! why am I so?
At every happy parent I repine.
How blest the mother of yon gallant Norval!
She for a living husband bore her pains,
And heard him bless her when a man was born:
She nurs'd her smiling infant on her breast;
Tended the child, and rear'd the pleasing boy;
She, with affection's triumph, saw the youth
In grace and comeliness surpass his peers:
Whilst I to a dead husband bore a son,
And to the roaring waters gave my child.

I have a counsel for Glenalvon's ear.

[Exit Anna. Glen. To him your counsels always are commands.

Lady R. I have not found so; thou art known to me.

Glen. Known!

Lady R. And most certain is my cause of
knowledge.
Glen. What do you know? By the most
blessed cross,
You much amaze me.
No created being,
Yourself except, durst thus accost Glenalvon.
Lady R. Is guilt so bold? and dost thou
make a merit

Of thy pretended meekness? this to me,
Who, with a gentleness which duty blames,
Have hitherto conceal'd, what, if indulg'd,
Would make thee nothing! or what's worse
than that,

mankind!

Anna. Alas! alas! why will you thus resume An outcast beggar, and unpitied too!
Your grief afresh? I thought that gallant youth For mortals shudder at a crime like thine.
Would for awhile have won you from your woe. Glen. Thy virtue awes me. First of wo-
On him intent you gazed, with a look
Much more delighted, than your pensive eye
Has deign'd on other objects to bestow.
Lady R. Delighted, say'st thou? Oh! even
there mine eye

Found fuel for my life-consuming sorrow;
I thought, that had the son of Douglas liv'd,
He might have been like this young gallant
stranger,

And pair'd with him in features and in shape,
In all endowments, as in years, I deem,
My boy with blooming Norval might have
number'd.

Permit me yet to say, that the fond man
Whom love transports beyond strict virtue's
bounds,

If he is brought by love to misery,
In fortune ruin'd, as in mind forlorn,
Unpitied cannot be. Pity's the alms
Which on such beggars freely is bestow'd;
For mortals know that love is still their lord,
And o'er their vain resolves advances still:
As fire, when kindled by our shepherds, moves
Through the dry heath before the fanning wind.
Lady R. Reserve these accents for some
other ear;

Whilst thus I mus'd, a spark from fancy fell
On my sad heart, and kindled up a fondness To love's apology I listen not.
For this young stranger, wand'ring from his Mark thou my words: for it is meet thou

home,

And like an orphan cast upon my care.
I will protect thee, said I to myself,
With all my power, and grace with all my

favour.

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Against a rival in his kinsman's love,
If I deter him not; I only can.
Bold as he is, Glenalvon will beware
How he pulls down the fabric that I raise.
I'll be the artist of young Norval's fortune.
Enter GLENALVON.

Glen. Where is my dearest kinsman, noble
Randolph ?

Lady R. Have you not heard, Glenalvon,
of the base-

shouldst.

His brave deliverer, Randolph here retains.
Perhaps his presence may not please thee well-
But, at thy peril, practise ought against him:
Let not thy jealousy attempt to shake
And loosen the good root he has in Randolph
Whose favourites I know thou hast supplanted.
Thou look'st at me, as if thou wouldst pry
Into my heart. "Tis open as my speech.
I give this early caution, and put on
The curb, before thy temper breaks away.
The friendless stranger my protection claims
His friend I am, and be not thou his foe.

[Exi

Glen. Child that I was to start at my ow

shadow,

And be the shallow fool of coward conscience
I am not what I have been; what I should be
The darts of destiny have almost pierc'd
My marble heart. Had I one grain of faith
In holy legends and religious tales,

I should conclude there was an arm above That fought against me, and malignant turn Glen. I have; and that the villains may not To catch myself, the subtle snare I set.

'scape,

Why, rape and murder are not simple mear With a strong band I have begirt the wood. The imperfect rape to Randolph gave a spous If they lurk there, alive they shall be taken, And the intended murder introduc'd

And torture force from them the important A favourite to hide the sun from me;
And worst of all, a rival. Burning hell!
Whether some foe of Randolph's hir'd their This were thy centre, if I thought she lo

secret,

swords,

Or if

Lady R. That care becomes a kinsman's love.

him!

'Tis certain she contemns me; nay, comman

me,

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