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But thy known voice has lur'd her back again.
Methinks, I fain wou'd set all right with thee,
Make up this most unlucky breach, and then,
With thine and Heaven's forgiveness on my soul,
Shrink to my grave, and be at ease for ever.
Hor. By heav'n, my heart bleeds for thee; e'n this

moment, I feel thy pangs of disappointed love. “ Is it not pity that this youth should fall, " That all his wond'rous goodness should be lost, " And the world never know it? Oh, my Altamont!” Give me thy sorrows, let me bear 'em for thee, And shelter thee from ruin.

Lav. Oh, my brother, Think not but we will share in all thy woes; We'll sit all day, and tell sad tales of love : And when we light upon some faithless woman, 440 Some beauty, like Calista, false and fair, We'll fix our grief, and our complaining there ; We'll curse the nymph that drew the ruin on, And mourn the youth that was, like thee, undone.



A Room hung with Black; on one side Lothario's Body on

a Bier ; on the other a Table, with a Scull and other Bones, a Book and a Lamp on it.

Calista is discovered on a Couch, in Black; her Hair hanging loose and disordered. After soft Music,

she rises and comes forward.

" S O N G.
« HEAR, you midnight phantoms, hear,
You who pale and wan appear,
And fill the wretch who wakes with fear ;
You, who wander, scream and groan
" Round the mansions once your own ;
You, who still your crimes upbraid;
You who rest not with the dead;

" From the coverts where you stray,


lurk and shun the day,
From the channel and the tomb,
Hither haste ye, hither come.
Chide Calista for delay,
Tell her, 'tis for her you stay;
Bid her die and come away.
See the sexton with his spade,
See the grave already made;
Listen, fair one, to try knell,
This music is thy passing bell.


Cal. 'Tis well! these solemn sounds, this pomp

of horror, Are fit to feed the frenzy in my soul. Here's room for meditation ev'n to madness; Till the mind burst with thinking. This dull Aame Sleeps in the socket. Sure the book was left To tell me something ;—for instruction thenHe teaches holy sorrow and contrition, And penitence.-Is it become an art, then? A trick that lazy, dull, luxurious gownmen Can teach us to do over? I'll no more o'nt;

[Throwing away the book. I have more real anguish in my heart, Than all their pedant discipline e'er knew. What charnel has been rifled for these bones? Fie! this is pageantry;-they look uncouthly, But what of that, if he or she that own'd'em Safe from disquiet sit, and smile to see The farce their miserable reliets play? But here's a sight is terrible indeed! Is this that haughty, gallant, gay, Lothario, That dear perfidious—Ah !-how pale he looks! How grim with clotted blood, and those dead eyes! Ascend, ye ghosts, fantastic forms of night, In all your diff'rent dreadful shapes ascend, And match the present horror, if you can.


Enter SCIOLTO. Sci. This dead of night, this silent hour of darkNature for rest ordain'd, and soft repose; And yet distraction, and tumultuous jars, Keep all our frighted citizens awake: “ The senate, weak, divided, and irresolute, Want pow'r to succour the afflicted state. Vainly in words and long debates they're wise, " While the fierce factions scorn their peaceful


orders, “ And drown the voice of law in noise and anarchy." Amidst the general wreck, see where she stands,

[Pointing to Calista. Like Helen, in the night when Troy was sack'd, Spectatress of the mischief which she made.

Cal. It is Sciolto! Be thyself, my soul; Be strong to bear his fatal indignation, That he may see thou art not lost so far, But somewhat still of his great spirit lives In the forlorn Calista.

Sci. Thou wert once My daughter.

Cal. Happy were it I had dy'd, And never lost that name.

Sci. That's something yet ; Thou wert the very darling of my age : I thought the day too short to gaze upon thee, That all the blessings I could gather for thee, By cares on earth, and by my pray’rs to Heav'n, Were little for my fondness to bestow; Why didst thou turn to folly, then, and curse me? Cal. Because my soul was rudely drawn from yours;

H н

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A poor imperfect copy of my father,
“ Where goodness, and the strength of manly virtue,
" Was thinly planted, and the idle void
“ Filld up with light belief, and easy fondness;'
It was, because I lov'd, and was a woman.
Sci. Hadst thou been honest, thou hadst been à

cherubim ;
But of that joy, as of a gem long lost,
Beyond redemption gone, think we no more.
Hast thou e'er dar'd to meditate on death?

Cal. I have, as on the end of shame and sorrow.

Sci. Ha! answer me! Say, hast thou coolly thought?
'Tis not the stoick's lessons got by rote,
The pomp of words, and pedant dissertations,
That can sustain thee in that hour of terror;
Books have taught cowards to talk nobly of it,
But when the trial comes, they stand aghast;
Hast thou consider'd what may happen after it?
How thy account may stand, and what to answer ?

Cal. I've turn’d my eyes inward upon myself,
Where foul offence and shame have laid all waste;
Therefore my soul abhors the wretched dwelling,
And longs to find some better place of rest.

Sci. 'Tis justly thought, and worthy of that spirit
That dwelt in ancient Latian breasts, when Rome
Was mistress of the world. I wou'd go on,
And tell thee all my purpose ; but it sticks
Here at my heart, and cannot find a way.

Cal. Then spare the telling, if it be a pain,
And write the meaning with your poignard here. 100

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