And tread the genial soil that bore us first!
'Tis said, the world is ev'ry wise man's country;
Yet, after having view'd its various nations,
I'm weak enough, still to prefer my own,
To all I've seen beside.-You smile, my friend,
And think, perhaps, 'tis instinct more than reason.
Why, be it so. Instinct preceded reason,
E'en in the wisest men, and may sometimes
Be much the better guide. But, be it either,
1 must confess, that even death itself
Appear'd to me with twice its native horrors,
When apprehended in a foreign land.
Death is, no doubt, in ev'ry place the same:
Yet nature cast a look towards home, and most,
Who have it in their power, choose to expire
Where they first drew their breath.

Eust. Believe me, Wilmot,

And fondly apprehend what none e'er found, Or ever shall, pleasure and pain unmix'd; And flatter and torment ourselves by turns, With what shall never be.

Wil. I'll go this instant

To seek my Charlotte, and explore my fate.
Eust. What! in that foreign habit?
Wil. That's a trifle,

Not worth my thoughts.

Eust. The hardships you've endur'd,
And your long stay beneath the burning zone,
Where one eternal sultry summer reigns,
Have marr'd the native hue of your complexion;
Methinks, you look more like a sun-burnt Indian
Than a Briton.

Wil. Well, 'tis no matter, Eustace!
I hope my mind's not altered for the worse;

I own the truth. That we're returned to

land,

Affords me all the pleasure, you can feel,
Yet I must think a warmer passion moves you;
Thinking of that, I smil’d.

Wil. Ŏ Eustace! Eustace!

Thou know'st, for I've confess'd to thee, I love;
But, having never seen the charming maid,
Thou canst not know the fierceness of my flame.
My hopes and fears, like the tempestuous seas
That we have past, now mount me to the skies,
Now hurl me down from that stupendous height,
And drive me to the centre. Did you know
How much depends on this important hour,
You would not be surprised to see me thus.
The sinking fortune of our ancient house
Compell'd me, young, to leave my native country,
My weeping parents, and my lovely Charlotte;
Who rul'd, and must for ever rule my fate.
O! should my Charlotte, doubtful of my truth,
Or in despair ever to see me more,
Have given herself to some more happy lover!-
Distraction's in the thought!-Or should

my

parents, Griev'd for my absence and oppressed with want, Have sunk beneath their burden, and expir'd, While I, too late, was flying to relieve them; The end of all my long and weary travels, The hope that made success itself a blessing, Being defeated, and for ever lost,

What were the riches of the world to me?

Eust. The wretch who fears all that is possible,

Must suffer more than he who feels the worst
A man can feel, who lives exempt from fear.
A woman may be false, and friends are mortal;
And yet your aged parents may be living,
And your fair mistress constant.

Wil. True, they may;

I doubt, but I despair not-No, my friend!
My hopes are strong, and lively as my fears;
They tell me, Charlotte is as true as fair,
That we shall meet, never to part again;
That I shall see my parents, kiss the tears
From their pale hollow cheeks, cheer their sad
hearts,

And drive that gaping phantom, meagre want,
For ever from their board; crown all their days
To come, with peace, with pleasure and abun-
dance;

Receive their fond embraces and their blessings, And be a blessing to them.

Eust. 'Tis our weakness:

Blind to events, we reason in the dark,

VOL. I..... B

You'll find me at the inn.

Wil. When I have learn'd my doom, expect me there.

When all the winds of heaven seem'd to conspire
Against the stormy main, and dreadful peals
Of rattling thunder deafened ev'ry ear,
And drown'd th' affrighten'd mariners' loud cries;
When livid lightning spread its sulphurous flames
Through all the dark horizon, and disclos'd
The raging seas incens'd to his destruction;
When the good ship in which he was embark'd
Broke, and, o'erwhelm'd by the impetuous surge,
Sunk to the oozy bottom of the deep,

And left him struggling with the warring waves;
In that dread moment, in the jaws of death,

him,

And his last breath press'd towards his trembling

lips,

The neighbouring rocks, that echo'd to his moan, Return'd no sound articulate, but-Charlotte.

Char. The fatal tempest, whose description strikes

The hearer with astonishment, is ceas'd;
And Wilmot is at rest. The fiercer storm
Of swelling passion that o'erwhelms the soul,
And rages worse than the mad foaming seas
In which he perish'd, ne'er shall vex him more.
Wil. Thou seem'st to think he's dead; enjoy
that thought;

Persuade yourself, that what you wish is true;
And triumph in your falsehood.-Yes, he's dead;
You were his fate. The cruel winds and waves,
That cast him pale and breathless on the shore,
Spar'd him for greater woes-To know his Char-
lotte,

Forgetting all her vows to him and heaven,
Had cast him from her thoughts-then, then he
died;

But never must have rest. E'en now he wanders,
A sad, repining, discontented ghost,
The unsubstantial shadow of himself,
And pours his plaintive groans in thy deaf ears,
And stalks, unseen, before thee.

Char. 'Tis enough

Detested falsehood now has done its worst.
And art thou dead?- -And would'st thou die,

my Wilmot! For one thou thought'st unjust thou soul of truth!

What must be done?-Which way shall I express

Unutterable woe? or how convince
Thy dear departed spirit of the love,
Th' eternal love, and never-failing faith,
Of thy much injur'd, lost, despairing Charlotte?
Wil. Be still, my futt'ring heart; hope not too

soon:

Perhaps I dream, and this is all illusion.

Char. If, as some teach, the spirit after death,
Free from the bonds and ties of sordid earth,
Can trace us to our most conceal'd retreat,
See all we act, and read our very thoughts;
To thee, O Wilmot! kneeling, I appeal:-
If e'er I swerv'd in action, word, or thought,
Or ever wished to taste a joy on earth

That centred not in thee since last we parted,-
May we ne'er meet again, but thy loud wrongs
So close the ear of mercy to my cries,
That I may never see those bright abodes
Where truth and virtue only have admission,
And thou inhabit'st now!

Wil. Assist me, Heaven!
Preserve my reason, memory, and sense!
O moderate my fierce tumultuous joys,
Or their excess will drive me to distraction.
O Charlotte! Charlotte! lovely virtuous maid!
Can thy firm mind, in spite of time and absence,
Remain unshaken, and support its truth;
And yet thy frailer memory retain
No image, no idea, of thy lover?

Why dost thou gaze so wildly? look on me: Turn thy dear eyes this way; observe me well. Have scorching climates, time, and this strange habit,

So chang'd and so disguis'd thy faithful Wilmot, That nothing in my voice, my face, or mien,

[After viewing him sometime, she approaches weeping, and gives him her hand; and then, turning towards him, sinks upon his bosom.

Why dost thou weep? why dost thou tremble thus?

Why doth thy panting heart and cautious touch Speak thee but half convinc'd? whence are thy fears?

Why art thou silent? canst thou doubt me still? Char. No, Wilmot! no; I'm blind with too much light:

O'ercome with wonder, and oppress'd with joy;
This vast profusion of extreme delight,
Rising at once, and bursting from despair,
Defies the aid of words, and mocks description;
But for one sorrow, one sad scene of anguish,
That checks the swelling torrent of my joys,
I could not bear the transport.

Wil. Let me know it:

Give me my portion of thy sorrow, Charlotte! Let me partake thy grief, or bear it for thee.

Char. Alas! my Wilmot! the sad tears are thine;

They flow for thy misfortunes. I am pierc'd
With all the agonies of strong compassion,
With all the bitter anguish you must feel,
When you shall hear your parents—
Wil. Are no more.

Char. You apprehend me wrong.
Wil. Perhaps I do.

Perhaps you mean to say, the greedy grave
Was satisfied with one, and one is left
To bless my longing eyes. But which, my
Charlotte?

Char. Afflict yourself no more with ground

less fears:

Your parents both are living. Their distress,
The poverty to which they are reduc'd,
In spite of my weak aid, was what I mourn'd;
And that in helpless age, to them whose youth
Was crowned with full prosperity, I fear,
Is worse, much worse, than death.

Wil. My joy's complete!

My parents living, and possessed of thee
From this bless'd hour, the happiest of my life,
I'll date my rest. My anxious hopes and fears,
My weary travels, and my dangers past,
Are now rewarded all: now I rejoice
In my success, and count my riches gain.
For know, my soul's best treasure! I have
wealth

Enough to glut e'en avarice itself:

No more shall cruel want, or proud contempt,
Oppress the sinking spirits, or insult

The hoary heads of those, who gave me being.!
Char. 'Tis now, O riches, I conceive your

worth;

Wil. Let that, and all my other strange escapes And perilous adventures, be the theme Of many a happy winter night to come. My present purpose was t'intreat my angel, To know this friend, this other better Wilmot; And come with him this evening to my father's: I'll send him to thee.

Char. I consent with pleasure.

Wil. Heavens! what a night! How shall I bear my joy?

My parents, yours, my friends, all will be mine.
If such the early hopes, the vernal bloom,
The distant prospect of my future bliss,
Then what the ruddy autumn ?-What the fruit,
The full possession of thy heavenly charms?

[Exeunt.

SCENE IL-A Street in Penryn.
Enter RANDAL.

Ran. Poor! poor! and friendless! whither shall I wander,

And to what point direct my views and hopes?
A menial servant !-No-What! shall I live,
Here in this land of freedom, live distinguish'd,
And mark'd the willing slave of some proud
subject,

To swell his useless train for broken fragments;
The cold remains of his superfluous board;
I would aspire to something more and better.
Turn thy eyes then to the prolific ocean,
Whose spacious bosom opens to thy view:
There deathless honour, and unenvied wealth,
Have often crown'd the brave adventurer's toils.
This is the native uncontested right,
The fair inheritance of ev'ry Briton
That dares put in his claim. My choice is made:
A long farewell to Cornwall, and to England.
If I return-But stay, what stranger's this,
Who, as he views me, seems to mend his pace 2:

Enter WILMOT,

Ran. 'Tis hard for me to judge. You are already

Grown so familiar to me, that I wonder
I knew you not at first; yet it may be;
For you're much alter'd, and they think you dead.
Wil. This is certain; Charlotte beheld me long,
And heard my loud reproaches and complaints,
Without remembering she had ever seen me.
My mind at ease grows wanton: I would fain
Refine on happiness. Why may I not
Indulge my curiosity, and try
If it be possible, by seeing first
My parents as a stranger, to improve
Their pleasure by surprise?

Ran. It may indeed

Enhance your own, to see from what despair Your timely coming and unhop'd success Have given you power to raise them.

Wil. I remember,

E'er since we learned together, you excell'd
In writing fairly, and could imitate
Whatever hand you saw, with great exactness.
I therefore beg you'll write, in Charlotte's name
And character, a letter to my father,
And recommend me as a friend of hers
To his acquaintance.

Ran. Sir, if you desire it—

And yet

Wi. Nay, no objections-Twill save time,
Most precious with me now. For the deception,
If doing what my Charlotte will approve,
'Cause done for me, and with a good intent,
Deserves the name, I'll answer it myself.
If this succeeds, I purpose to defer
Discov'ring who I am till Charlotte comes.
And thou, and all who love me. Ev'ry friend
Who witnesses my happiness to night,
Will, by partaking, multiply my joys.

Could I deny you aught, I would not write
Ran. You grow luxurious in imagination.
This letter. To say true, I ever thought
Your boundless curiosity a weakness.

Wil. What canst thou blame in this?
Ran. Your pardon, Sir!
Perhaps I spoke too freely;
I'm ready to obey your orders.

Wil. I am much thy debtor;
But I shall find a time to quit thy kindness.
Randal! but imagine to thyself

The floods of transport, the sincere delight
That all my friends will feel, when I disclose
To my astonished parents, my return;
And then confess that I have well contriv'd
By giving others joy, to exalt my own.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III-A Room in OLD WILMOT'S

House.

OLD WILMOT and AGNES.

O. Wil. Here, take this Seneca, this haughty pedant

Who, governing the master of mankind,
And awing power imperial, prates of patience;
And praises poverty-possess'd of millions;
Sell him, and buy us bread. The scantiest meal
The vilest copy of his book e'er purchas'd,
Will give us more relief in this distress,
Than all his boasted precepts. Nay, no tears;
Keep them to move compassion when you beg.
Agn. My heart may break, but never stoop to

that.