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This night a DOUGLAS your protection claims;
A wife! a mother! Pity's softest names:
The story of her woes indulgent hear,

And grant your suppliant all she begs, a tear.
In confidence she begs; and hopes to find
Each English breast, like noble PIERCY's, kind.

PROLOGUE.

SPOKEN AT EDINBURGH.

IN days of classic fame, when Persia's Lord
Oppos'd his millions to the Grecian sword,
Flourish'd the state of Athens, small her store,
Rugged her soil, and rocky was her shore,
Like Caledonia's: yet she gain'd a name
That stands unrival'd in the rolls of fame.

Such proud pre-eminence not valour gave, (For who than Sparta's dauntless sons more brave?) But learning, and the love of every art,

That virgin Pallas and the Muse impart.
Above the rest the Tragic Muse admir'd
Each Attic breast with noblest passions fir'd.
In
peace their poets with their heroes shar'd
Glory, the hero's, and the bard's reward.

The Tragic Muse each glorious record kept,
And, o'er the kings she conquer'd, Athens wept *.
Here let me cease, impatient for the scene,

To you I need not praise the Tragic Queen:
Oft has this audience soft compassion shown
To woes of heroes, heroes not their own.

* See the PERSAI of schylus.

He

comes,

This night our scenes no common tear demand,
the hero of your native land!
DOUGLAS, a name thro' all the world renown'd,
A name that rouses like the trumpet's sound!
Oft have your fathers, prodigal of life,

A DOUGLAS follow'd thro' the bloody strife;
Hosts have been known at that dread name to yield,
And, DOUGLAS dead, his name hath won the field.
Listen attentive to the various tale,

Mark if the author's kindred feelings fail;
Sway'd by alternate hopes, alternate fears,
He waits the test of your congenial tears.
If they shall flow, back to the muse he flies,
And bids your heroes in succession rise;
Collects the wand'ring warriors as they roam,
DOUGLAS assures them of a welcome home.

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The Court of a Castle, surrounded with Woods. Enter Lady

RANDOLPH.

Lady Randolph.

YE woods and wilds, whose melancholy gloom
Accords with my soul's sadness, and draws forth
The voice of sorrow from my bursting heart,
Farewel a while: I will not leave you long;
For in your shades I deem some spirit dwells,
Who from the chiding stream, or groaning oak,
Still hears and answers to Matilda's moan.
Oh, Douglas! Douglas! if departed ghosts
Are e'er permitted to review this world,
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 lost.
My brother's timeless death I seem to mourn
Who perish'd with thee on this fatal day.-

C

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