Ayr, gurgling, kiss'd his pebbled shore,
O'erhung with wild woods, thickening green,
The fragrant birch, and hawthorn haw,

Twined amorous round the raptured scene;
The flowers sprang wanton to be prest,
The birds sang love on every spray,
Till too, too soon, the glowing west
Proclaim'd the speed of winged day.

Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes,
And fondly broods with miser care!
Time but the impression stronger makes,
As streams their channels deeper wear.
My Mary, dear departed shade!

Where is thy place of blissful rest?

Seest thou thy lover lowly laid?

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?

BRUCE'S ADDRESS.

Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled,
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led;
Welcome to your gory bed,

Or to victory!

Now 's the day, and now 's the hour;
See the front o' battle lour;

See approach proud Edward's power-
Chains and slavery!

Wha will be the traitor knave?
Wha can fill a coward's grave

Wha sae base as be a slave?

Let him turn and flee!

Wha for Scotland's king and law
Freedom's sword will strongly draw
Freeman stand, or freeman fa',
Let him follow me!

By oppression's woes and pains!
By your sons in servile chains!
We will drain our dearest veins,
But they shall be free!

Lay the proud usurpers low!
Tyrants fall in every foe!

Liberty 's in every blow!

Let us do, or die!

Lecture the Forty-First.

DRAMATIC WRITERS.

LY-RICHARD

EDWARD MOORE-JOHN HOME-GEORGE COLMAN-ARTHUR MURPHY-HUGH KEL CUMBERLAND-RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN-MRS. HANNAH COWLEY-DAVID GARRICK-REV. MR. TOWNLEY-SAMUEL FOOTE-COFFEY

CHARLES DIBDIN.

HE most distinguishing feature of the dramatic literature of this period

the Farce. In the brief remarks which this subject will here elicit, we shall, therefore, treat these three departments of the drama separately.

Of the tragic dramatists, one of the most successful and conspicuous was the author of the Night Thoughts.' Dr. Young, before he entered the church, produced three tragedies, all having one peculiarity, that they ended in suicide. "The Revenge,' still a popular acting play, contains, amidst much rant, passages of strong passion and eloquent declamation. Like Othello, 'The Revenge' is founded on jealousy, and the principal character, Zanga, is a Moor. The latter, a son of the Moorish king Abdallah, is taken prisoner after a conquest of the Spaniards, in which his father fell, and is condemned to servitude by Don Alonzo. In revenge, he sows the seeds of jealousy in the mind of his conqueror, Alonzo, and then thus glories in the ruin of his victim:

Thou seest a prince, whose father thou hast slain,
Whose native country thou hast laid in blood,
Whose sacred person, oh! thou hast profaned,
Whose reign extinguished-what was left to me,
So highly born? No kingdom but revenge;
No treasure but thy torture and thy groans.
If men should ask who brought thee to thy end,
Tell them the Moor, and they will not despise thee.
If cold white mortals censure this great deed,
Warn them they judge not of superior beings,
Souls made of fire, and children of the sun,
With whom revenge is virtue.

In 1749, Dr. Johnson produced his tragedy of Irene; but it met with little success on the stage, and has never since been revived. It is cold and stately, but contains some admirable sentiments and maxims of morality, though destitute of elegance, simplicity, and pathos. The following passage in this play is of unusual merit:

To-morrow!

That fatal mistress of the young, the lazy,
The coward and the fool, condemned to lose
A useless life in waiting for to-morrow-
To gaze with longing eyes upon to-morrow,
Till interposing death destroys the prospect!
Strange! that this general, fraud from day to day
Should fill the world with wretches undetected.
The soldier labouring through a winter's march,
Still sees to-morrow dressed in robes of triumph;
Still to the lover's long-expecting arms
To-morrow brings the visionary bride.

But thou, too old to bear another cheat,

Learn that the present hour alone is man's.

Between 1729, and his death, the author of 'The Seasons' produced the following five tragedies:-Sophonisba, Agamemnon, Edward and Eleonora, Tancred and Sigismunda, and Coriolanus. They all, however, exhibit the defects of Thomson's style, without its excellences. The author was deficient in the plastic powers of the dramatist, and though he could declaim forcibly on the moral virtues, and against corruption and oppression, he could not draw characters, or invent scenes, to lead captive the feelings and the imagination.

The Gustavus Vasa of Brooke, and the Barbarossa of Dr. Brown, were tragedies of a similar kind to those of Thomson, though more easy in dialogue, and animated in expression. The latter, sustained by the genius of Garrick, was unusually successful. The following sentiment, at the conclusion, is finely expressed :—

Heaven but tries our virtue by affliction,

And oft the cloud which wraps the present hour
Serves but to brighten all our future days.

The Gamester, one of the most affecting domestic tragedies in the English language, was written by EDWARD MOORE, and produced upon the stage, in 1753. Though wanting the merit of ornamental poetical language and blank verse, the vivid picture drawn by the author of the evils of gambling, ending in despair and suicide, and the dramatic art evinced in the characters and incidents, have given, to this tragedy, a high place among acting dramas. The following thrilling scene, though long, will not bear to be curtailed:

THE GAMESTER'S LAST STAKE.

Beverley. Why, there's an end then. I have judged deliberately, and the result is death. How the self-murderer's account may stand, I know not; but this I know, the load of hateful life oppresses me too much. The horrors of my soul are more than I can bear. [Offers to kneel.] Father of mercy! I can not pray; despair has laid his iron hand upon me, and sealed me for perdition. Conscience! conscience! thy clamours are too loud: here's that shall silence thee. [Takes a phial of poison out of his pocket.] Thou art most friendly to the miserable. Come, then, thou cordial for sick minds, come to my heart. [Drinks it.] Oh, that the grave would bury memory as well as body! for, if the soul sees and feels the sufferings of those dear ones it leaves behind, the Everlasting has no vengeance to torment it deeper. I'll think no more on it; reflection comes too late; once there was a time for it, but now 'tis past. Who's there?

[Enter Jarvis.]

Jar. One that hoped to see you with better looks. Why do you turn so from me? I have brought comfort with me; and see who comes to give it welcome. Bev. My wife and sister! Why, 'tis but one pang more then, and farewell, world.

[Enter Mrs. Beverley and Charlotte.]

Mrs. B. Where is he? [Runs and embraces him.] O, I have him! I have him! And now they shall never part us more. I have news, love, to make you happy forever. Alas! he hears us not. Speak to me, love! I have no heart to see you thus. Bev. This is a sad place.

Mrs. B. We come to take you from it; to tell you the world goes well again; that Providence has seen our sorrows, and sent the means to help them; your uncle died yesterday.

Bev. My uncle? No, do not say so. O! I am sick at heart!

Mrs. B. Indeed, I meant to bring you comfort.

Bev. Tell me he lives, then; if you would bring me comfort, tell me he lives. Mrs. B. And if I did, I have no power to raise the dead. He died yesterday. Bev.

And I am heir to him?

Jar. To his whole estate, sir. But bear it patiently, pray bear it patiently.

Bev. Well, well. [Pausing.] Why, fame says I am rich then?

Mrs. B. And truly so. Why do you look so wildly?

Bev. Do I? the news was unexpected. But has he left me all?

Jar. All, all, sir; he could not leave it from you.

Bev. I am sorry for it.

Mrs. B. Why are you disturbed so?

Bev. Has death no terrors in it?

Mrs. B. Not an old man's death; yet if it trouble you, I wish him living. Bev. And I, with all my heart; for I have a tale to tell, shall turn you into stone; or if the power of speech remain, you shall kneel down and curse me. Mrs. B. Alas! Why are we to curse you? I'll bless you ever.

Bev. No; I have deserved no blessings. All this large fortune, this second bounty of heaven, that might have healed our sorrows, and satisfied our utmost hopes, in a cursed hour I sold last night.

Mrs. B. Impossible!

Bev. That devil Stukely, with all hell to aid him, tempted me to the deed. To pay false debts of honour, and to redeem past errors, I sold the reversion, sold it for a scanty sum, and lost it among villains.

Char. Why, farewell all then.