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And know you by myself. If these sad eyes,
Since last we parted, have beheld the face
Of any comfort, or once wished to see
The light of any other heaven but you,
May I be struck this moment blind, and lose
Your blessed sight, never to find you more.
Oroo. Imoinda! Oh! this separation
Has made you dearer, if it can be so,
Than you were ever to me. You appear
Like a kind star to my benighted steps,
To guide me on my way to happiness:
I can not miss it now. Governor, friend,
You think me mad; but let me bless you all,
Who any ways have been the instruments
of finding her again. Imoinda 's found!

And every thing that I would have in her.

[Embraces her.]

Bland. Sir, we congratulate your happiness; I do most heartily.
Lieut. And all of us: but how it comes to pass-

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More precious time than I can spare you now.

I have a thousand things to ask of her,

And she as many more to know of me.

But you have made me happier, I confess,
Acknowledge it, much happier than I

Have words or power to tell you. Captain, you,

Even you, who most have wronged me, I forgive.

I wo' not say you have betrayed me now:

I'll think you but the minister of fate,

To bring me to my loved Imoinda here.

Imo. How, how shall I receive you? how be worthy
Of such endearments, all this tenderness?

These are the transports of prosperity
When fortune smiles upon us.

Oroo. Let the fools

Who follow fortune live upon her smiles;
All our prosperity is placed in love;

We have enough of that to make us happy.

This little spot of earth you stand upon

Is more to me than the extended plains

Of my great father's kingdom. Here I reign

In full delights, in joys to power unknown;

Your love my empire, and your heart my throne.

[Exeunt.]

Southerne, according to Hallam, was the first English writer who denounced, as he did in this play, the traffic in slaves, and the cruelties of their West Indian bondage. This is an honor that, in any mention of this dramatist, should never be forgotten. 'Isabella' is a more correct and regular drama than ‘Oroonoko,' and the part of the heroine affords scope for a tragic actress, scarcely inferior, in pathos, to 'Belvidera.' Otway, however, has greater depth of passion, and is more vigorous in the delineation of character. The plot of 'Isabella' is very simple. In abject distress, and believing her husband, Biron, dead, Isabella is hurried into a second mar

riage. Biron returns, and the distress of the heroine terminates in madness and death. The following scene, embracing Biron's return, is of a very high order of dramatic writing :

A CHAMBER.

[Enter Isabella.]

Isa. I've heard of witches, magic spells, and charms,
That have made nature start from her old course;

The sun has been eclipsed, the moon drawn down
From her career, still paler, and subdued

To the abuses of this under world.
Now I believe all possible. This ring,

This little ring, with necromantic force,

Has raised the ghost of pleasure to my fears;
Conjured the sense of honour and of love
Into such shapes, they fright me from myself!
I dare not think of them.

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My fears were woman's-I have viewed him all;

And let me, let me say it to myself,

I live again, and rise but from his tomb.

Bir. Have you forgot me quite ?

Isa. Forgot you!

Bir. Then farewell my disguise, and my misfortunes!

My Isabella!

Isa. Ha!

Bir. Oh! come again;

[He goes to her, she shrieks, and faints.]

Thy Biron summons thee to life and love;
Thy once-loved, ever-loving husband calls--
Thy Biron speaks to thee.

Excess of love and joy for my return,
Has overpowered her. I was to blame
To take thy sex's softness unprepared;
But sinking thus, thus dying in my arms,
This ecstasy has made my welcome more
Than words could say. Words may be counterfeit,
False coined, and current only from the tongue,

Without the mind; but passion 's in the soul,

And always speaks the heart.

Isa. Where have I been? Why do you keep him from me?

I know his voice; my life, upon the wing,

Hears the soft lure that brings me back again;

'Tis he himself, my Biron,

Do I hold you fast,

Never to part again?

If I must fall, death 's welcome in these arms.

Bir. Live ever in these arms.

Isa. But pardon me;

Excuse the wild disorder of my soul;

The joy, the strange surprising joy of seeing you,

Of seeing you again, distracted me.

Bir. Thou everlasting goodness!

Isa. Answer me:

What hand of Providence has brought you back

To your own home again?

Oh, tell me all,

For every thought confounds me.

Bir. My best life! at leisure all.

Isa. We thought you dead; killed at the siege of Candy.
Bir. There I fell among the dead;

But hopes of life reviving from my wounds,

I was preserved but to be made a slave.

I often writ to my hard father, but never had

An answer; I writ to thee too.

Isa. What a world of woe

Had been prevented but in hearing from you!

Bir. Alas! thou could'st not help me.

Isa. You do not know how much I could have done;

At least, I'm sure I could have suffered all;

I would have sold myself to slavery,

Without redemption: given up my child,

The dearest part of me, to basest wants.

Bir. My little boy!

Isa. My life, but to have heard

You were alive.

Bir. No more, my love; complaining of the past,

We lose the present joy. 'Tis over price

Of all my pains, that thus we meet again!

I have a thousand things to say to thee.

Isa. Would I were past the hearing.

Bir. How does my child, my boy, my father too?

I hear he 's living still.

Isa. Well, both; both well;

And may he prove a father to your hopes,

Though we have found him none.

Bir. Come, no more tears.

Isa. Seven long years of sorrow for your loss

Have mourned with me.

Bir. And all my days to come

Shall be employed in a kind recompense

For thy afflictions. Can't I see my boy?

[Aside.]

Isa. He's gone to bed; I'll have him brought to you.
Bir. To-morrow I shall see him; I want rest
Myself after this weary pilgrimage.

Isa. Alas! what shall I get for you?

Bir. Nothing but rest, my love. To-night I would not Be known, if possible, to your family:

I see my nurse is with you; her welcome

Would be tedious at this time;

To-morrow will do better.

Isa. I'll dispose of her, and order every thing

As you would have it.

Bir. Grant me but life, good Heaven, and give the means To make this wondrous goodness some amends;

And let me then forget her, if I can.

Oh! she deserves of me much more than I

Can lose for her, though I again could venture

A father and his fortune for her love!
You wretched fathers, blind as fortune all!
Not to perceive that such a woman's worth
Weighs down the portions you provide your sons.
What is your trash, what all your heaps of gold,
Compared to this, my heartfelt happiness?
What has she, in my absence, undergone?
I must not think of that; it drives me back
Upon myself, the fatal cause of all.

[Enter Isabella.]

Isa. I have obeyed your pleasure; Every thing is ready for you.

Bir. I can want nothing here; possessing thee, All my desires are carried to their aim

Of happiness; there's no room for a wish,

But to continue still this blessing to me;

I know the way, my love. I shall sleep sound.

Isa. Shall I attend you?

Bir. By no means;

I've been so long a slave to others' pride,

To learn, at least, to wait upon myself;

You'll make haste after?

[Exit.]

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Ha! a lucky thought

Works the right way to rid me of them all;
All the reproaches, infamies, and scorns,

That every tongue and finger will find for me.
Let the just horror of my apprehensions

But keep me warm; no matter what can come.
'Tis but a blow; yet I will see him first,

Have a last look, to heighten my despair,

And then to rest forever.

Comic scenes are interspersed throughout Southerne's tragedies, which, though they relieve the sombre coloring of the main action and interest of the piece, are sometimes misplaced and unpleasant,

NICHOLAS ROWE, one of the most successful tragic poets of the present period, was descended from ancestors who distinguished themselves in the Holy Wars, and born at Little Beckford, Bedfordshire, in 1673. The first years of his classical study were passed at a private grammar-school in Highgate, after which he was sent to Westminster, where he attained to great excellence in classical learning, under the direction of the celebrated Busby. To his skill in Latin and Greek he is said to have added very considerable knowledge of the Hebrew, but from childhood poetry was his passion. His father, who was himself a lawyer, designed him for the legal profession; and with this view he took him from school at the age of sixteen, and entered him as a student in the Middle Temple. Being capable of acquiring with facility, any branch of knowledge, Rowe made great proficiency in the law, and would doubtless have risen to distinction in that profession, had not the softer graces of the muses drawn him from so laborious a pursuit. When in the twenty-fifth year of his age, he produced his first tragedy, The Ambitious Stepmother, the representation of which was attended with such marked success, that he at once relinquished the law, and resolved to devote himself to the drama. "The Ambitious Stepmother' was followed by Tamerlane, The Fair Penitent, Ulysses, The Royal Convert, Jane Shore, and Lady Jane Grey. He also wrote a comedy, The Biter, which proved a failure.

Rowe, on rising into fame as an author, was munificently patronized. The Duke of Queensberry appointed him secretary for public affairs; and on the accession of George the First, he was made poet laureate, and surveyor of the customs. The Prince of Wales also appointed him clerk of his council, and the Lord Chancellor gave him the office of secretary for the presentations. One of the secrets of his success was, in all probability, his great personal popularity. It is remarked that his voice was so uncommonly sweet, his observations so lively, and his manners so engaging, that his friends, among whom were Addison, Swift, and Pope, always delighted in his society. With all his attractive traits of character, Rowe was a man of superficial feelings, and hence Pope declared that he had no heart. He

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