Comes out more bright, and brings forth all Cato. Caesar asham'd! Has he not seen

its weight.

Enter PORTIUS.

Cato. Ha! what has he done?
Has he forsook his post? Has he giv'n way?
Did he look tamely on, and let them pass?
Por. Scarce had I left my father, but I met
him

Borne on the shields of his surviving soldiers,
Breathless and pale, and cover'd o'er with
wounds.

Long, at the head of his few faithful friends,
He stood the shock of a whole host of foes,
Till, obstinately brave, and bent on death,
Oppress'd multitudes, greatly fell.
Cato. I'm satisfy'd.

Por. Nor did he fall, before

Pharsalia!

Whate'er was done against him, Cato did it.
Add, if you please, that I request it of him-
That I myself, with with tears, request it of him-
The virtue of my friends may pass unpunish'd.
Juba, my heart is troubled for thy sake.
Should I advise thee to regain Numidia,

His sword had pierc'd through the false heart Or seek the conqueror?

of Syphax.

Yonder he lies. I saw the hoary traitor

Grin in the pangs of death, and bite the ground.
Cato. Thanks to the gods, my boy has done
his duty.
-Portius, when I am dead, be sure you place
His urn near mine.

Por. Long may they keep asunder!
Luc. Oh, Cato, arm thy soul with all its

patience;

See where the corpse of thy dead son approaches!
The citizens and senators, alarm'd,
Have gather'd round it, and attend it weeping.

Dead March. CATO meets the Corpse. Lu-
CIUS, Senators, Guards, etc. attending.
Cato. Welcome, my son! Here lay him
down, my friends,

Full in my sight, that I may view at leisure
The bloody corse, and count those glorious
wounds.

-How beautiful is death, when earn'd by virtue!
Who would not be that youth? What pity is it
That we can die but once to serve our country!
-Why sits this sadness on your brows, my
friends?

I should have blush'd if Cato's house had stood
Secure, and flourish'd in a civil war.
Portius, behold thy brother, and remember

Juba. If I forsake thee

who dare not trust the victor's clemency, Know there are ships prepar'd, by my command, That shall convey you to the wish'd-for port.

Thy life is not thy own when Rome demands it. Is there aught else, my friends, I can do for you?

When Rome demands; but Rome is now no

more.

The conqueror draws near. Once more, farewell! If e'er we meet hereafter, we shall meet Oh, liberty! oh, virtue! oh, my country! In happier climes, and on a safer shore, Juba. Behold that upright man! Rome fills Where Caesar never shall approach us more. his eyes [Pointing to his dead Son. With tears, that flow'd not o'er his own dear There the brave youth, with love of virtue fir'd, [Aside. Who greatly in his country's cause expir'd, Cato. Whate'er the Roman virtue has subdu'd, Shall know he conquer'd. The firm patriot 'The sun's whole course, the day and year, are Caesar's:

son.

For him the self-devoted Decii died,
The Fabii fell, and the great Scipios conquer'd:
Ev'n Pompey fought for Caesar. Oh, my friends,
How is the toil of fate, the work of ages,
The Roman empire, fall'n! Oh, curs'd ambition!
Fall'n into Caesar's hands! Our great forefathers
Had left him nought to conquer but his country.
Juba. While Cato lives, Caesar will blush

to see

Mankind enslav'd, and be asham'd of empire.

there, Who made the welfare of mankind his care, Though still by faction, vice, and fortune crost, Shall find the gen'rous labour was not lost. [Dead March. Exeunt in funeral Procession.

ACT V.

SCENE I.-A Chamber. CATO solus, sitting in a thoughtful Posture: in his Hand, Plato's Book on the Immor

tality of the Soul. A drawn Sword on And bar each avenue; thy gath'ring fleets the Table, by him. Cato. It must be so-Plato thou reason'st

well

Else whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire,
This longing after immortality?

Or whence this secret dread, and inward horror,
Of falling into nought? Why shrinks the soul
Back on berself, and startles at destruction?
Tis the divinity that stirs within us;
Tis heav'n itself that points out an hereafter,
And intimates eternity to man.
Eternity! thou pleasing, dreadful thought!
Through what variety of untried being,
Through what new scenes and changes must

we pass?
The wide, the unbounded prospect lies be-
fore me:

for Caesar:

O'erspread the sea, and stop up ev'ry port;
Cato shall open to himself a passage,
And mock thy hopes.-

Por. [Kneeling] Oh, sir! forgive your son, Whose grief hangs heavy on him. Oh, my

father!

How am I sure it is not the last time
I e'er shall call you so? Be not displeas'd,
Oh, be not angry with me whilst I weep,
And, in the anguish of my heart, beseech you
To quit the dreadful purpose of your soul!
Cato. Thou hast been ever good and duti-
ful.
[Embracing him.
Weep not, my son, all will be well again;
The righteous ri gods, whom I have sought to
please,
Will succour Cato, and preserve his children.
Por. Your words give comfort to my droop-
ing heart.

conduct:

and asks

But shadows, clouds, and darkness, rest upon it.
Here will I hold. If there's a power above us
And that there is, all nature cries aloud
Cato. Portius, thou may'st rely upon my
Through all her works), he must delight in
virtue;
Thy father will not act what misbecomes him.
And that which he delights in must be happy. But go, my son, and see if aught be wanting
But when, or where?-this world was made Among thy father's friends; see them embark'd,
And tell me if the winds and seas befriend them.
In weary of conjectures--this must end them. My soul is quite weigh'd down with care,
[Laying his Hand on his Sword.
Thus am I doubly arm'd: my death and life, The soft refreshment of a moment's sleep.
My bane and antidote, are both before me.
This in a moment brings me to an end;
But this informs me I shall never die.
The soul, secur'd in her existence, smiles
At the drawn dagger, and defies its point.
The stars shall fade away, the sun himself
Grow dim with age, and nature sink in years,
But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth,
Unhurt amidst the war of elements,

senses?

The wreck of matter, and the crush of worlds.
What means this heaviness that hangs upon me?
This lethargy that creeps s through through all my
Nature, oppress'd and harrass'd out with care,
Sinks down to rest. This once I'll favour her,
That my awaken'd soul may take her flight,
Renew'd in all her strength, and fresh with life,
An off'ring fit for heav'n. Let guilt or fear
Disturb man's rest, Cato knows neither of them,
Indiff rent in his choice to sleep or die.

Enter PORTIUS.

But, ha! who's this? my son! Why this in-
trusion?

Were not my orders that I would be private?
Why am I disobey'd?

Por. Alas, my father!

Por. My thoughts are more at ease, my heart revives- [Exit Cato.

Enter MARCIA.

Oh, Marcia! Oh, my sister, still there's hope
Our father will not cast away a life
So needful to us all, and to his country.
He is retir'd to rest, and seems to cherish
Thoughts full of peace. - He has dispatch'd

me hence

What means this sword, this instrument of Lucia, I feel a gentle dawning hope

death?

Cato. Wouldst thou betray me? Wouldst
thou give me up

A slave, a captive, into Caesar's hands?
Reture, and learn obedience to a father,
Or know, young man-

Por. Look not thus sternly on me;

You know, I'd rather die than disobey you.

Cats. Tis well! again I'm master of myself.

Now, Caesar, let thy troops beset our gates, But who knows Cato's thoughts?

Who knows how yet he may dispose of Oh, Marcia, what we fear'd is come to pass!

Portius,

Or how he has determin'd of thyself?

Cato has fall'n upon his sword-
Luc. Oh, Portius,

Marcia. Let him but live, commit the rest Hide all the horrors of the mournful tale,

to heav'n.

And covers all the field with gleams of fire. Luc. Marcia, 'tis time we should awake thy father.

And let us guess the rest.

Por. I've rais'd him up,

And plac'd him in his chair; where, pale and

as his life flows

faint, He gasps for breath, and from him, Demands to see his friends. His servants, weeping, Obsequious to his order, bear him hither!Mar. Oh, heav'n! assist me in this dreadful

hour,

To pay the last sad duties to my father!

CATO brought on in a Chair.
Juba. These are thy triumphs, thy exploits,
O Caesar!

Luc. Now is Rome fall'n indeed!
Cato. Here set me down-

Portius, come near me-Are my friends em

bark'd?

Can any thing be thought of for their service?
Whilst I yet live, let me not live in vain-
Oh, Lucius, art thou here?-Thou art too
good-

Let this our friendship live between our chil

dren

Make Portius happy in thy daughter Lucia.
Marcia, my daughter-
Oh, bend me forward!-Juba loves thee, Marcia.
Would not have match'd his daughter with

Caesar is still dispos'd to give us terms,
And waits at distance till he hears from Cato. A senator of Rome, while Rome surviv'd,

Enter PORTIUS.

a kingPortius, thy looks speak somewhat of impor- But Caesar's arms have thrown down all dis

tance.

What tidings dost thou bring? Methinks I see
Unusual gladness sparkle in thy eyes.

tinction

I'm sick to death-Oh, when shall I get loose
From this vain world, th' abode of guilt and

Por. As I was hasting to the port, where now My father's friends, impatient for a passage, Accuse the ling'ring winds, a sail arriv'd From Pompey's son, who, through the realms of Spain,

sorrow!

Calls out for vengeance on his father's death, The heart of man, and weigh his inmost
And rouses the whole nation up to arms.
thoughts,
Were Cato at their head, once more might If I have done amiss, impute it not-

Rome

The best may err, but you are good, andOh![Dies. Por. There fled the greatest soul that ever warm'd A Roman breast: - Oh, Cato! oh, my friend! Thy will shall be religiously observ'd. [Exit. But let us bear this awful corpse to Caesar, Luc. Cato, amidst his slumbers, thinks on And lay it in his sight, that it may stand, A fence betwixt us and the victor's wrath: Cato, though dead, shall still protect his friends.

Assert her rights, and claim her liberty.
[A groan is heard.
But, hark! what means that groan?-Oh,
give me way,
And let me fly into my father's presence!

1

CONGREVE.

WILLIAM CONGREVE, descended from the Congreves in Staffordshire, who trace their ancestry as far back as bdare the conquest, first saw the light at Bardsa, near Leeds, Yorkshire, 1672. He was educated first at Kilkenny; ni terwards sent to the university in Dublin, under the direction of Dr. Ashe. His father, who was only a younger witer, and provided for in the army by a commission on the Irish establishment, had been compelled to undertake

new thither in consequence of his command, being desirous his study should be directed to profit as well as imsent him over to England, and placed him at the age of 16 as student in the Temple. Here he lived darooral years, but with very little attention to statutes or reports. His disposition to become an author appeared wyearly; Johnson says, "Among all the efforts of early genius, which literary history records, 1 doubt whether any ran he produced that more surpasses the common limits of nature than the plays of Congreve." His first dramatic was The Old Batchelor, acted in 1693. This piece introduced him to Lord Halifax, the Maecenas of the age, vis desirous of raising so promising a genius above the necessity of too hasty productions, made him one of the commaasners for licencing hackney-coaches. He soon after bestowed upon him a place in the Pipe-office, with one in the Cams of 600 pounds a year. 1694 Congreve produced The Double Dealer. The next year, when Betterton opened the ars Teatre is Lincoln's-Inn Fields, he gave him his comedy of Love for Love. The Biographia Dramatica says, *To's met with so much success, that they immediately offered the author a share in the profits of the house, on atties of his furnishing them with one play yearly. This offer he accepted; but whether through indolence or that marotaras which he looked on as necessary to his works, his Mourning Bride did not come out till 1697, nor his Wad the World till two years after that." He had been involved in a long contest with Jeremy Collier, tom and implacable non-juror, who published A Short View of the Immorality and Prafaneness of the English Stage, which he had very severely attacked some of Congreve's pieces: this, added to the ill success his Way of the Fril though an exceeding good comedy, met with, completed his disgust; and he made a resolution of never more wry ng for tre stage, Johnson says, "At last comedy grew more modest, and Collier lived to see the reward of his labour in the mormon of the theatre." In 1714, Congreve was appointed Commissioner of Wine Licences, and 17. Dec. same year was noancsel Secretary of Jamaica, making altogether a yearly income of 1200 pounds. Johnson says, "His honours were yet far preter van his profits. Every writer mentioned him with respect; and, among other testimonies to his merit, Steele made

a fu

toe of his Miscellany, and Pope inscribed to him his Translation of the had. But he treated the Muses wasrande; for, having long conversed familiarly with the great, he wished to be considered rather as a man of fatm the of wit; and, when he received a visit from Voltaire, disgusted him by the despicable foppery of desiring town not as an author but a gentleman; to which the Frenchman replied, 'If he had been only a gentleSaid not have come to visit him." He died at his house in Surrey Street, in the Strand, January 29, Our limits will not allow us to give Johnson's account of this author; but every one agrees in considering myrongly eminent in his Theatrical pieces; at the same time, when he quitted this tract, he evidently failed; and a win his Miscellaneous Poems will ever maintain a respectable place in British literature, his crown was too cmrrerted for these to add one leaf to his poetical fame.

THE MOURNING BRIDE,

ACTED at Lincoln's-Inn Fields. 1697. This is the only Tragedy our author ever wrote, and it met with more excess than any of his other pieces. Although Dr. Johnson accuses it of bombast and want of real nature; notward & Ditdin says, that it is overcharged with imagery, as his comedies are with point, and if we try to concrime with an aching imagination, that may raise astonishment, but must destroy pleasure; it is to be conande ed that. the poet's eye in a fine phrenzy rolling," in embodying "airy nothing," raises his mind so high ahovo the Lines of this world in his look "from earth to heaven," that his conceptions appear too bold for a cool, criticisgot a certain, that the language of passion, in real life, is boisterous and elevated; and, in persons of a certain cast may go a step farther than what in cooler moments would appear simple nature; and Dr. Johnson's criti.

cra

unprepared, for he says himself, he had not read Congreve's plays for many years. Could the great asz have been rated by the same feelings that actuated Congreve in composing his tragedy, it it is very sure, he widtast have pronounced so severe a sentence. We have not the smallest pretension to call in question the opinions

aman as Johnson on this play; knowing his attention was entirely directed to chasten the taste of the age be we de thick (if we can judge by our own feelings), that he must have feit a secret delight himself in reading this prce; and hire we do not overstep the bounds of modesty in declaring the story to be extremely pleasing, affecting, wwel telds the language, although extremely elevated, may be allowed to be this side of bombast, expressing the mens vertapt in an impassioned manner; but we believe not beyond the limits of poetical nature; and will content with sometimes being astonished for pleasure, Dr. Johnson declares, that, "If he were to select from the mass of English poetry the most poetical paragraph, he knows not what he could prefer to an exclamation in dy ("No, all is hush'd, and still as death-'tis dreadful!" to: "Thy voice-my own affrights me with Johnson continues, "He who reads these lines enjoys for a moment the powers of a poet; he feels *se remembers to have felt before; but he feels it with great increase of sensibility; he recognises a familiar Mage, but moeta it again amplified and expanded, embellished with beauty, and enlarged with majesty".

ACT I.

SCENE L-A Room of State.

HELI.
SELIM.
ALMERIA.

SCENE-Granada.

ZARA.
LEONORA.

Attendants, Guards, etc..

Than trees or flint? O, force of constant woe! 'Tis not in harmony to calm my griefs. The Curtain rising slowly to soft Music, Anselmo sleeps, and is at peace; last night nig discovers ALMERIA in Mourning, LEONO- The silent tomb receiv'd the good old king; BA waiting. ALMERIA rises and comes He and his sorrows now are safely lodg'd forward.

Aim. Music has charms to sooth a savage

breast,

To soften rocks, or bend a knotted oak.
I've read that things inanimate have mov'd,
And, as with living souls, have been inform'd,
By magie numbers and persuasive sound.
What then am I? Am I more senseless grown

Within its cold, but hospitable bosom.
Why am not I at peace?

Leon. Dear madam, cease,

Or moderate your grief; there is no cause--
Alm. No cause! Peace, peace! there is eter

nal cause,

And misery eternal will succeed.
Thou canst not tell-thou hast indeed no cause.

Leon. Believe me, madam, I lament Anselmo, Who knew our flight, we closely were pursu'd,

Have softly whisper'd, and inquir'd his health, The shoal, and save me floating on the waves,

must be sacrificed, and all the vows
I gave my dear Alphonso basely broken.
No, it shall never be; for I will die
First, die ten thousand deaths.-Look down,
look down,
[Kneels.

My grief has hurry'd me beyond all thought. Alphonso, hear the sacred VOW I make;
I would have kept that secret; though I know And thou, Anselmo, if yet thou art arriv'd
Thy love and faith to me deserve all confi- Through all impediments of purging fire,

The memory of that brave prince stands fair If ever I do yield, or give consent,

Alm. If for my swelling heart I can, I'll Than any I have yet endur'd.--And now