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My fears are true; some other has her heart :
-She's lost~My fatal absence has undone me.

[Aside. O! could thy Wilmot have forgot thee, Charlotte ! Char. Ha! Wilmot ! say! what do your words

import?
O gentle stranger ! ease my swelling heart
That else will burst ! Canst thou inform me aught ?
What dost thou know of Wilmot ?

Y. Wilm. This I know,
When all the winds of heav'n seem'd to conspire
Against the stormy main, and dreadful peals
Of rattling thunder deafen'd ev'ry ear,
And drown'd th' affrighten'd mariners loud cries;
While livid lightning spread its sulph'rous 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,
Unable longer to support the tempest,
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,
When his strength fail'd and ev'ry hope forsook him,
And his last breath press'd t'wards his trembling lips,
The neighbouring rocks, that echoed 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 passions that o'erwhelms the soul,

And rages worse than the mad foaming seas
In which he perish'd, ne'er shall vex him more.
Y. Wilm. 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,
Spared him for greater woes-To know his Charlotte,
Forgetting all her vows to him and heaven,
Had cast him from her thoughts--Then, then he

died; But never must have rest. Ev'n 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 ? Y. Wilm. Be still, my flutt'ring heart ; hope not too soon :

[Aside. Perhaps I dream, and this is all illusion.

Char. If, as some teach, the mind intuitive,

Free from the narrow bounds and slavish ties
Of sordid earth, that circumscribe its power
While it remains below, roving at large,
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,
From the severest constancy and truth,
Or ever wish'd to taste a joy on earth
That center'd 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.

Y. Wilm. Assist me, heav'n!
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,
Remains to tell my Charlotte I am he?

VOL. IV.

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[After viewing him some time, 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 halfconvinc'd? Whenceare 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 opprest with joy;
The struggling passions barr’d the doors of speech,
But speech enlarg'd, affords me no relief.
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.

Y. Wilm. 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! these 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

Y. Wilm. Are no more.
Char. You apprehend me wrong.

Y. Wilm. Perhaps I do:
Perhaps you mean to say, the greedy grave

and one Was satisfied with one,

is left To bless my longing eyes—But which, my Charlotte ? -And yet forbear to speak, 'till I have thought

Char. Nay, hear me, Wilmot !

Y. Wilm. I perforce must hear thee:
For I might think 'till death, and not determine,
Of two so dear which I could bear to lose.
Char. Afflict yourself no more with groundless

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 crown'd with full prosperity, I fear,
Is worse, much worse, than death.

Y. Wilm. My joy's complete.
My parents living, and possess'd of thee !
From this blest 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 ev'n 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 You are not base, nor can you be superfluous, But when misplac'd in base and sordid hands. Fly, fly, my Wilmot ! leave thy happy Charlotte!

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