"Bold, in the battle's front he fell,

With many a wound deformed: A braver knight, nor better man,

This fair isle ne'er adorned."

While thus he spake, the grief-struck maid

A deadly swoon invaded; Lost was the lustre of her eyes, And all her beauty faded.

Sad was the sight, and sad the news,
And sad was our complaining;
But oh! for thee, my native land,
What woes are still remaining!
But why complain? the hero's soul
Is high in heaven shining:
May Providence defend our isle
From all our foes designing.

JOHN HOME, an eminent dramatic poet, and a lineal descendant of Sir John Home of Cowdenknowes, was born at Leith, Sept. 22, 1722. He was educated at the University of Edinburgh, and in April, 1745, was licensed to preach in the Church of Scotland. During the same year he joined a volunteer company on the side of the government, and was taken prisoner at the battle of Falkirk, but succeeded with some others in making his escape from Doune Castle, where he was confined. The poet's imprisonment, and that of his brother bards Buchanan, Skinner, and Smollett, must have escaped the memory of Professor Wilson when he wrote, "No Scottish poet was ever in a jail." In 1746 Home was ordained minister of Athelstaneford, made vacant by the death of the author of "The Grave." Having written the tragedy of " Agis," he proceeded to London in 1749, and offered it to David Garrick, at that time manager of Drury Lane, who refused it. The disappointed author, with the feeling natural to such a situation, wrote the following lines on the tomb of Shakspere in Westminster Abbey:

"Image of Shakspere! to this place I come,
To ease my bursting bosom at thy tomb;
For neither Greek nor Roman poet fired
My fancy first-thee chiefly I admired;
And, day and night revolving still thy page,
I hoped, like thee, to shake the British stage;
But cold neglect is now my only meed,
And heavy falls it on so proud a head.
If powers above now listen to my lyre,
Charm them to grant, indulgent, my desire;
Let petrifaction stop this falling tear,
And fix my form for ever marble here."

Six years later, having written the tragedy of "Douglas," founded upon the beautiful old ballad of "Gil Morris," Home again visited London, and offered it to Garrick, who pronounced the play totally unfitted for the stage. It was, however, performed at the Edinburgh Canongate Theatre, December 14, 1756, with the most gratifying success, in the presence of a large audience, among whom were the delighted author and several other ministers. For this flagrant violation of clerical propriety Home's friends were subjected to the censures of the church, which he himself only escaped by resigning his living. But the tragedy nevertheless became very popular with the general public, who continued and still continue to receive it with enthusiasm. It is related that during one of the early representations in Edinburgh, when the feelings of the audience burst forth as usual at the conclusion of Norval's speech, a voice from the gallery shouted out the triumphant query, "Whaur's yer Shakspere noo?" In 1757 Home again visited London, and through the influence of the Earl of Bute had the satisfaction of seeing "Douglas" brought out by Garrick with distinguished success, followed soon after by "Agis," with the great English tragedian and Mrs. Cibber playing the principal characters. His "Siege of Aquileia" was also represented on the London stage, but, owing to a lack of interest in the action, failed to win public favour. In 1760 Home printed his three tragedies in one volume, with a dedication to the Prince of Wales, whose society

he had enjoyed through the favour of Lord Bute, preceptor to the prince; and who, after his accession to the throne, granted him a pension of £300 a year, which, in addition to an equal sum from his sinecure office of conservator of Scots privileges at Campvere, in Zealand, likewise bestowed upon him, enabled the poet to repose with tranquillity upon his prospects of dramatic fame.

The following letter, which we are not aware has ever been in print, contains the original order for Home's pension, and is also interesting owing to its placing the writer's character in a most amiable and endearing light. It was addressed by George III. to the Earl of Bute:

"My dearest Friend,-In looking over the list we made together, I feel myself still in debt particularly to poor Home: no office occurs to me that I think fit for him; I therefore desire you will give him £300 per annum out of my privy purse, which mode will be of more utility to him, as it will come free from the burden of taxes and infamous fees of office. I have a double satisfaction in giving Home this mark of my favour, as I know the execution of it will be as agreeable to my dearest friend as the directing it is to myself."

Home was the author of eight additional tragedies and comedies, composed during his residence in London, which terminated in 1779, when he went to reside in Edinburgh, and thenceforth lived in the enjoyment of the highest literary society of that city. Careless

of money, he delighted in entertaining large companies of friends, and often had more guests than his house could conveniently accommodate. His latest work was a "History of the Rebellion of 1745"-a transaction of which he was entitled to say pars fui. But the work disappointed public expectation, and was certainly not what was looked for from one who was not only an actor in the scene, but the author of a tragedy like "Douglas." An explanation may perhaps be found in the fact that the author was a pensioner of George III., and that the MS. was submitted before publication for correction by the reigning family. Home died Sept. 5, 1808, aged nearly eighty-six years, and was buried in the churchyard of his native place, where also repose the remains of his friend James Sibbald, and that "inheritor of unfulfilled renown" Robert Nicoll. As a dramatic poet Home deserves the credit of having written with more fervid feeling, and less of stiffness and artificiality, than the other poets of his time; his genius in this respect approaching to that of his contemporary Collins. His Dramatic Works were published at Edinburgh in 1798, in two 12mo vols.; and in 1822 another edition appeared in the same city, entitled "The Works of John Home, Esq., now first collected, to which is prefixed an account of his Life and Writings by Henry Mackenzie," in three 8vo vols. To this admirable work we refer the reader for further particulars connected with the literary labours of our author.

ACT I.

woods.

Enter LADY RANDOLPH.

Are e'er permitted to review this world, Within the circle of that wood thou art, And with the passion of immortals hear'st

choly gloom

Accords with my soul's sadness, and draws forth
The voice of sorrow from my bursting heart,
Farewell awhile: I will not leave you long;
For in your shades I deem some spirit dwells,

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.
To thee I lift my voice; to thee address
The plaint which mortal ear has never heard.

Oh! disregard me not; though I am call'd
Another's now, my heart is wholly thine.
Incapable of change, affection lies

Buried, my Douglas, in thy bloody grave.

But Randolph comes, whom fate has made my lord,

To chide my anguish, and defraud the dead.

Enter LORD RANDOLPH.

Lord R. Again these weeds of woe! say, dost

thou well

To feed a passion which consumes thy life?
The living claim some duty; vainly thou
Bestow'st thy cares upon the silent dead.

Lady R. Silent, alas! is he for whom I mourn:
Childless, without memorial of his name,
He only now in my remembrance lives.
This fatal day stirs my time-settled sorrow,
Troubles afresh the fountain of my heart.

Lord R. When was it pure of sadness? These black weeds

Express the wonted colour of thy mind,
For ever dark and dismal. Seven long years
Are pass'd, since we were join'd by sacred ties:
Clouds all the while have hung upon thy brow,
Nor broke, nor parted by one gleam of joy.
Time that wears out the trace of deepest anguish,
As the sea smooths the prints made in the sand,
Hath past o'er thee in vain.

Lady R. If time to come
Should prove as ineffectual, yet, my lord,
Thou canst not blame me. When our Scottish

youth

Vied with each other for my luckless love,
Oft I besought them, I implored them all
Not to assail me with my father's aid,
Nor blend their better destiny with mine:
For melancholy had congeal'd my blood,
And froze affection in my chilly breast.

At last my sire, rous'd with the base attempt

To force me from him, which thou rend'rest vain, To his own daughter bow'd his hoary head, Besought me to commiserate his age,

Implacable resentment was their crime,
And grievous has the expiation been.
Contending with the Douglas, gallant lives
Of either house were lost: my ancestors
Compell'd, at last, to leave their ancient seat
On Teviot's pleasant banks; and now of them
No heir is left. Had they not been so stern,
I had not been the last of all my race.

Lord R. Thy grief wrests to its purposes my words.

I never ask'd of thee that ardent love
Which in the breasts of Fancy's children burns;
Decent affection and complacent kindness
Were all I wish'd for; but I wish'd in vain:
Hence, with the less regret my eyes behold
The storm of war that gathers o'er this land:
If I should perish by the Danish sword,
Matilda would not shed one tear the more.

Lady R. Thou dost not think so: woful as I am,
I love thy merit, and esteem thy virtues.
But whither goest thou now?

Lord R. Straight to the camp,
Where every warrior on the tip-toe stands
Of expectation, and impatient asks
Each who arrives, if he is come to tell
The Danes are landed.

Lady R. Oh! may adverse winds

Far from the coast of Scotland drive their fleet!

And every soldier of both hosts return

In peace and safety to his pleasant home! Lord R. Thou speak'st a woman's, hear a warrior's wish:

May the wind blow, till every keel be fix'd Immovable in Caledonia's strand!

And begg'd thy nobleness not to demand
Her for a wife whose heart was dead to love.
How thou persistedst after this thou know'st,
And must confess that I am not unjust,
Nor more to thee than to my myself injurious.

Lord R. That I confess; yet ever must regret
The grief I cannot cure. Would thou wert not
Compos'd of grief and tenderness alone,
But hadst a spark of other passions in thee,
Pride, anger, vanity, the strong desire
Of admiration, dear to womankind;
These might contend with and allay thy grief,

Then shall our foes repent their bold invasion, And roving armies shun the fatal shore.

Lady R. War I detest: but war with foreign foes,

Whose manners, language, and whose looks are strange,

Is not so horrid, nor to me so hateful,
As that which with our neighbours oft we wage.
A river here, there an ideal line,

By fancy drawn, divides the sister kingdoms.
On each side dwells a people similar,
As twins are to each other, valiant both,
Both for their valour famous through the world,
Yet will they not unite their kindred arms,
And, if they must have war, wage distant war,

The loss of thee, she had loud fame defy'd, Despis'd her father's rage, her father's grief, And wander'd with thee thro' the scorning world. Anna. Not seen or heard of! then, perhaps, he lives.

and rain

Had beat all night. Across the Carron lay
The destin'd road; and in its swelling flood
My faithful servant perish'd with my child.
O hapless son! of a most hapless sire!-
But they are both at rest; and I alone
Dwell in this world of woe, condemn'd to walk,
Like a guilt-troubled ghost, my painful rounds;
Nor has despiteful fate permitted me
The comfort of a solitary sorrow.
Though dead to love, I was compell'd to wed
Randolph, who snatch'd me from a villain's arms;
And Randolph now possesses the domains
That, by Sir Malcolm's death, on me devolv'd;
Domains, that should to Douglas' son have giv'n
A baron's title and a baron's power.
Such were my soothing thoughts, while I bewail'd
The slaughter'd father of a son unborn.
And when that son came, like a ray from heav'n,
Which shines and disappears; alas, my child!
How long did thy fond mother grasp the hope
Of having thee, she knew not how, restor'd!
Year after year hath worn her hope away;
But left still undiminish'd her desire.

Anna. The hand that spins th' uneven thread of life,

May smooth the length that's yet to come of

yours.

Lady R. Not in this world: I have consider'd well

Its various evils, and on whom they fall.
Alas! how oft does goodness wound itself,
And sweet affection prove the spring of woe?
Oh! had I died when my lov'd husband fell!
Had some good angel op'd to me the book
Of Providence, and let me read my life,
My heart had broke, when I beheld the sum
Of ills, which, one by one, I have endur'd.
Anna. That God, whose ministers good angels
are,

Hath shut the book in mercy to mankind.
But we must leave this theme: Glenalvon comes;
I saw him bend on you his thoughtful eyes,
And hitherwards he slowly stalks his way.
Lady R. I will avoid him. An ungracious
person

Is doubly irksome in an hour like this.

Annu. Why speaks my lady thus of Randolph's heir?

Lady R. Because he's not the heir of Randolph's virtues.

Subtle and shrewd, he offers to mankind
An artificial image of himself;

And he with ease can vary to the taste
Of different men its features. Self-denied,

And stands aloft in these unruly times.
Why I describe him thus, I'll tell hereafter:
Stay and detain him till I reach the castle.
[Erit LADY RANDOLPH.
Anna. Oh! happiness, where art thou to be

found?

I see thou dwellest not with birth and beauty, Tho' grac'd with grandeur, and in wealth arrayed: Nor dost thou, it would seem, with virtue dwell; Else had this gentle lady miss'd thee not.

Enter GLENALVON.

Glen. What dost thou muse on, meditating maid?

Like some entranc'd and visionary seer, On earth thou stand'st, thy thoughts ascend to heaven.

Anna. Would that I were e'en as thou say'st,

a seer,

To have my doubts by heavenly vision clear'd!

Glen. What dost thou doubt of what hast

thou to do

With subjects intricate? Thy youth, thy beauty, Cannot be question'd: think of these good gifts, And then thy contemplations will be pleasing.

Anna. Let woman view yon monument of woe, Then boast of beauty: who so fair as she? But I must follow: this revolving day Awakes the memory of her ancient woes.

[Erit ANNA. Glen. (alone). So!-Lady Randolph shuns me; by-and-by

I'll woo her as the lion woos his bride.
The deed's a doing now that makes me lord
Of these rich valleys, and a chief of pow'r.
The season is most apt; my sounding steps
Will not be heard amidst the din of arms.
Randolph has liv'd too long: his better fate
Had the ascendant once, and kept me down:
When I had seiz'd the dame, by chance he came,
Rescu'd and had the lady for his labour:

I 'scap'd unknown: a slender consolation!
Heav'n is my witness that I do not love
To sow in peril, and let others reap
The jocund harvest. Yet, I am not safe;
By love, or something like it, stung, inflam'd,
Madly I blabb'd my passion to his wife,
And she has threaten'd to acquaint him of it.
The way of woman's will I do not know:
But well I know the baron's wrath is deadly.
I will not live in fear: the man I dread
Is as the Dane to me: ay, and the man
Who stands betwixt me and my chief desire.
No bar but he: she has no kinsman near;
No brother in his sister's quarrel bold: