Upon thy friendly arm-Yet, O retire!
That guilty arm-Say, did it ne'er rebel
Against my peace?-But let me not revolve
Those sorrows now.-Were Heav'n again to raise
That once-lov'd head that lies, alas! so low!
And from the verge of death my life recall,
What joy could visit my forlorn estate,
Self-doom'd to hopeless woe!

DUNBAR.

Must I then wander, A pensive shade, along the dreary vale, And groan for ever under thy reproach!

ELEONORA.

Ah no, thou faithful youth! shall I repay
Thy love and virtue with ungrateful hate?
These wounds that waste so lavishly thy life,
Were they not all receiv'd in my defence?
May no repose embrace me in the tomb,
If my soul mourns not thy untimely fall
With sister-woe!--thy passion has not reap'd
The sweet returns its purity deserv'd.
DUNBAR.

A while forbear, pale minister of Fate,
Forbear a while; and on my ravish'd ear
Let the last music of this dying swan
Steal in soft blanishment, divinely sweet!
Then strike th' unerring blow.-

ELEONORA.

That thus our hopes, Which blossom'd num'rous as the flow'ry spring, Are nipp'd untimely, ere the sun of joy Matured them into fruit, repine not, youth.Life hath its various seasons, as the year; And after clust'ring autumn-but I faintSupport me nearer-in rich harvest's rear Bleak winter must have lagg'd.-Oh! now I feel The leaden hand of Death lie heavy on me.Thine image swims before my straining eye.-And now it disappears.-Speak-bid adieu To the lost Eleonora.-Not a word!

-Not one farewel!-Alas! that dismal groan Is eloquent distress!-Celestial powers, Protect my father, show'r upon his

DUNBAR.

Oh!

[Dies.

The day will soon appear!-Day shall not thrice
Return, before thy carcase be cast forth,
Unbury'd, to the dogs and beasts of prey-
Or, high-exalted, putrify in air,

The monument of treason.

ATHOL.

Empty threat!

Fate hath foretold that Athol shall be crown'd.

ANGUS.

Then Hell hath cheated thee.-Thou shalt be An iron crown intensely hot shall gird [crown'dThy hoary temples; while the shouting crowd Acclaims thee king of traitors.

ATHOL.

Lakes of fire!

Ha! said'st thou, lord!-a glowing iron crown
Shall gird my hoary temples!--Now I feel
Myself awake to misery and shame!

Ye sceptres, diadems, and rolling trains [dreams
Of flatt'ring pomp, farewell!-Curse on those

PP

Of idle superstition, that ensnare

Th' ambitious soul to wickedness and woe! Curse on thy virtue, which hath overthrown My elevated hopes! and may despair Descend in pestilence on all mankind!

ANGUS.

Thy curse just Heav'n retorts upon thyself!
To separate dungeons lead the regicides.

[Exit guard with the prisoners.
From thirst of rule what dire disasters flow!
How flames that guilt ambition taught to glow!
Wish gains on wish, desire surmounts desire!
Hope fans the blaze, and envy feeds the fire:
From crime to crime aspires the madd'ning soul!
Nor laws, nor oaths, nor fears its rage control;
'Till Heav'n at length awakes, supremely just,
And levels all its tow'ring schemes in dust!

PROLOGUE TO THE REPRISAL,

SPOKEN BY MR. HAVARD.

An ancient sage, when Death approach'd his bed,
Consign'd to Pluto his devoted head;
And, that no fiend might hiss, or prove uncivil,
With vows and pray'rs, he fairly brib'd the devil:
Yet neither vows nor pray'rs, nor rich oblation,
Cou'd always save the sinner-from damnation.

Thus authors, tott ring on the brink of fate,
The critic's rage with prologues deprecate;
Yet oft the trembling bard implores in vain,
The wit profess'd turns out a dunce in grain:
No plea can then avert the dreadful sentence,
He must be damn'd-in spite of all repentance.

Here Justice seems from her straight line to vary,
No guilt attends a fact involuntary;
This maxim the whole cruel charge destroys,
No poet sure was ever dull by choice..

So pleads our culprit in his own defence,
You cannot prove his dullness is-prepense.
He means to please he owns no other view,
And now presents you with-a sea ragout.
A dish-howe'er you relish his endeavours,
Replete with a variety of flavours.

A stout Hibernian, and ferocious Scot,
Together boil in our enchanted pot;
To taint these viands with the true fumet,
He shreds a musty, vain, French-martinet.
This stale ingredient might our porridge mar
Without some acid juice of English tar.
To rouse the appetite the drum shall rattle,
And the dessert shall be a bloodless battle.

What heart will fail to glow, what eye to brighten,
When Britain's wrath arous'd begins to lighten!
Her thunders roll-her fearless sons advance,
And her red ensigns wave o'er the pale flow'rs of
France.

Such game our fathers play'd in days of yore, When Edward's banners fann'd the Gallic shore; When Howard's arm Eliza's vengeance hurl'd, And Drake diffus'd her fame around the world: Still shall that god-like flame your bosoms fire, The gen'rous son shall emulate the sire; Her ancient splendour England shall maintain, O'er distant realms extend her genial reign, And rise th' unrival'd empress of the main,

SONG

FROM THE REPRISAL.

YE Swains of the Shannon, fair Sheelah is goue, Ye swains of the Shannon, fair Sheelah is gone, Ochone my dear jewel;

Why was you so cruel

Amidst my companions to leave me alone?

Tho' Teague shut the casement in Bally-clough hall; [hall; Tho' Teague shut the casement in Bally-clough In the dark she was groping, And found it wide open;

Och! the devil himself could not stand such a fall.

In beholding your charms, 1 can see them no more, In beholding your charms, I can see them no more, If you're dead do but own it;

Then you'll hear me bemoan it; For in loud lamentations your fate I'll deplore. Devil curse this occasion with tumults and strife! Devil curse this occasion with tumults and strife! O! the month of November, She'll have cause to remember, As a black letter day all the days of her life.

With a rope I could catch the dear creature I've lost! [lost! With a rope I could catch the dear creature I've But, without a dismission,

I'd lose my commission,

And be hang'd with disgrace for deserting my post.

SONG FROM THE SAME.

I will freely describe the wretch I despise, [guise,
FROM the man whom I love, tho' my heart I dis,
And if he has sense but to balance a straw,
He will sure take the hint from the picture I draw.

A wit without sense, without fancy a beau,
Like a parrot be chatters, and struts like a crow;
A peacock in pride, in grimace a baboon,
In courage a hind, in conceit a gascoon,

As a vulture rapacious, in falsehood a fox,
Inconstant as waves, and unfeeling as rocks;
As a tiger ferocious, perverse as a hog,
In mischief an ape, and in fawning a dog.

In a word, to sum up all his talents together,
His heart is of lead, and his brain is of feather:
Yet, if he has sense but to balance a straw,
He will sure take the hint from the picture I draw.

SONG FROM THE SAME.

LET the nymph still avoid, and be deaf to the swain Who in transports of passion affects to complain; For his rage, not his love, in that frenzy is shown; And the blast that blows loudest is soon o'erblown.

But the shepherd whom Cupid has pierc'd to the

heart

Will submissive adore, and rejoice in the smart; Or in plaintive soft murmurs, his bosom-felt woe Like the smooth gliding current of rivers will flow,

Tho' silent his tongue, he will plead with his eyes, And his heart own your sway in a tribute of sighs; But, when he accosts you in meadow or grove, His tale is all tenderness, rapture, and love.

SONG FROM THE SAME.

BEHOLD! my brave Britons, the fair springing
Fill a bumper and toss off your glasses: [gale,
Buss and part with your frolicksome lasses;
Then aboard and unfurl the wide flowing sail.
CHORUS.

While British oak beneath us rolls,
And English courage fires our souls;
To crown our toils, the Fates decree
The wealth and empire of the sea.

Our canvas and cares to the winds we display,
Life and fortune we cheerfully venture;
And we laugh, and we quaff, and we banter;
Nor think of to morrow while sure of to day.
CHORUS.

While British oak, &c.

The streamers of France at a distance appear! We must mind other music than catches; Man our quarters, and handle our matches; Our cannon produce, and for battle prepare.

CHORUS.

While British oak, &c.
Engender'd in smoke and deliver'd in flame,
British vengeance rolls loud as the thunder!
Let the vault of the sky burst asunder,
So victory follows with riches and fame.
CHORUS.

While British oak beneath us rolls,
And English courage fires our souls;
To crown our toils, the Fates decree
The wealth and empire of the sea,

Ye wits above, restrain your awful thunder:
In his first cruise, 'twere pity he should founder,
[To the gal.

Safe from your shot he fears no other foe,
Nor gulph, but that which horrid yawns be'ow,
To the pit.

The bravest chiefs, ev'n Hannibal and Cato,
Have here been tam'd with-pippin and potatoe.
Our bard embarks in a more Christian cause,
He craves not mercy; but he claims applause.
His pen against the hostile French is drawn,
Who damns him is no Antigallican.
Indulg'd with fav'ring gales and smiling skies,
Hereafter he may`board a richer prize.
But if this welkin angry clouds deform,

[Looking round the house. And hollow groans portend the approaching storm: Should the descending show'rs of hail redouble,

[To the gal. And these rough billows hiss, and boil, and bubble, [To the pit. He'll lanch no more on such fell seas of trouble.

EPILOGUE TO THE REPRISAL,

SPOKEN BY MISS MACKLIN.

AYE-now I can with pleasure look around,
Safe as I am, thank Heaven, on English ground-
In a dark dungeon to be stow'd away,
Midst roaring, thund'ring, danger and dismay;
Expos'd to fire and water, sword and bullet-
Might damp the heart of any virgin pullet-
I dread to think what might have come to pass,
Had not the British lion quell'd the Gallic ass-
By Champignon a wretched victim led
To cloister'd cell, or more detested bed,
My days in pray'r and fasting 1 had spent:
As nun or wife, alike a penitent.

His gallantry, so confident and eager,
Had prov'd a mess of delicate soupe-maigre:
To bootless longings I had fallen a martyr:
But Heav'n be prais'd, the Frenchman caught a

tartar.

Yet soft our author's fate you must decree: Shall he come safe to port or sink at sea? Your sentence, sweet or bitter, soft or sore, Floats his frail bark, or runs it bump ashore.

ADVICE: A SATIRE,

POET, FRIEND.

РОЕТ.

ENOUGH, enough; all this we knew before;
'Tis infamous, I grant it, to be poor:
And who so much to sense and glory lost,
Will hug the curse that not one joy can boast!
From the pale hag, O! could I once break loose;
Divorc'd, all Hell shall not re-tie the noose!
Not with more care shall H- avoid his wife,

Not Cope fly swifter, lashing for his life;
Than I to leave the meagre fiend behind,

FRIEND.

Exert your talents; Nature, ever kind,
Enough for happiness, bestows on all;
'Tis sloth or pride that finds her gifts too small-
Why sleeps the Muse? is there no room for praise,
When such bright names in constellation blaze?
When sage Newcastle, abstinently great,
Neglects his food to cater for the state;

A general famous for an expeditious retreat, though not quite so deliberate as that of the ten thousand Greeks from Persia; having unfortunately forgot to bring his army along with him.

Aluding to the philosophical contempt which this great personage manifested for the sensual delights of the stomach.