Keep thine eye fix'd-let it not wink-Look on!

[Exeunt, struggling, Li

Enter (R.) NUMITORIUS, ICILIUS LUCIUS, Guard and Soldier.

Num. Not here!

Luc. Is this the dungeon? Appius is not here, Nor yet Virginius. You have sure mistaken.

Guard. This is the dungeon-Here Virginius entered.
Num. Yet is not here! Hush! The abode of death
Is just as silent. Gods! should the tyrant take
The father's life, in satisfaction for

The deed that robb'd him of the daughter's charms-
Hush! hark! A groan! There's something stirs.
Luc. 'Tis this way!

Num. Come on! Protect him, gods, or pardon me
If with my own hand I revenge his death.

[Exeunt.

SCENE IV. Another Dungeon.-Virginius discovered on one knee, with Appius lying dead before him.

Enter NUMITORIUS, ICILIUS, with the Urn of VIRGINIA, and LUCIUS.

Num. What's here? Virginius! with the tyrant prostrate and dead!

Luc. His senses are benumb'd; there is no audit to his mind, by which our words can reach it. Help to raise him the motion may recal perception.

Num. His eye is not so deathlike fix'd: it moves a little. Luc. Speak to him, Numitorius: he knows your voice the best.

Num. Virginius!

Luc. I think he hears you; speak again.

Num. Virginius!

Vir. Ah! [Virginius rises and comes forward, supported by Numitorius and Lucius.

Luc. That sigh has burst the spell which held him.
Num. Virginius! my dear brother!

Vir. Lighter! lighter! My heart is ten times lighter! What a load it has heav'd off!

had done it.

Num. Virginius!

Where is he? I thought I

Vir. Well, who are you? What do you want? I'll answer what I've done.

Num. Do you know me, brother? Speak, Icilius; try

if he knows you.

Icil. (R.) Virginius !

Num. Try again.

Icil. Virginius!

Vir. [Sinking.] That voice-that voice-I know that

voice!

It minds me of a voice was coupled with it,
And made such music, once to hear it was
Enough to make it ever after be

Remember'd!
What's this?
Icil. Virginia!

[Icilius places the Urn in his right hand.

THE END.

DISPOSITION OF THE CHARACTERS AT THE FALL OF THE CURTAIN.

Virginius looks alternately at Icilius and the Urn—looks at Numitorius and Lucius-seems particularly struck by his mourning-looks at the Urn again—bursts into a passion of tears, and exclaims, “ Virginia"-Falls on Icilius's neck. Curtain drops.

R.]

[L.

PROLOGUE,

Written by J. H. Reynolds, Esq. and spoken by Miss Booth.

[Speaking behind.] NAY, Mr. Fawcett, give me leave, I

pray :

The audience wait, and I must have my way.

What! curb a woman's tongue !-As I'm alive,
The wretch would mar our old prerogative!
Ladies! by very dint of pertinacity,
Have I preserv'd the glory of loquacity.

[Enters.

Oh! could you gaze, as I am gazing now,
And see each man behind, with gather'd brow
And clenched hand (tho' nought my spirit damps)
Beckoning, with threats, my presence from the lamps:
Each, as I broke my way, declared how well
His art could woo you to be peaceable!
One is well robed a second greatly shines
In the nice balance of cast-iron lines;

A third can sing--a fourth can touch your tears-
A fifth-"I'll see no more!"-a fifth appears,
Who had been once in Italy, and seen Rome;
In short-there's quite a hubbub in the Green-Room
But I a very woman-careless-light-
Fleet idly to your presence, this fair night;
Aud, craving your sweet pardon, fain would say
A kind word for the poet and his play.

To-night, no idle nondescript lays waste
The fairy and yet placid bower of taste :
No story, piled with dark and cumbrous fate,
And words that stagger under their own weight,
But one of silent grandeur-simply said,
As tho' it were awaken'd from the dead!
It is a tale-made beautiful by years ;-
Of pure, old, Roman sorrow-old in tears!
And those, you shed o'er it in childhood, may
Still fall and fali-for sweet Virginia!

Nor doth a crowned poet of the age
Call the sweet spirits from the historic page!
No old familiar dramatist hath spun
This tragic, antique web, to-night-but one,
An unknown author, in a sister land,
Waits, in young fear, the fiat of your hand.

EPILOGUE,

Written by Barry Cornwall, Esq. and spoken by Miss Brunton.

LEAVING the common path, which many tread,
We will not wake with jokes our poet's dead
Nor shame the young creations of his pen,
By bidding all, who've perish'd, be again.
The pale Virginia, in her bloody shroud,
Lies like a shrined saint.-Oh! then, aloud
Shall we break scurril jests, and bid depart

Those thoughts of her, which fill and teach the heart?
No moral now we offer, squar'd in form,

But Pity, like the sun-light, bright and warm,

Comes mix'd with showers; and, fading, leaves behind A beauty and a blossom on the mind.

We do not strain to show that "thus it grows,"

And hence we learn" what every body knows:
But casting idle dogmas (words) aside,

We paint a villain in his purple pride;

And tearing down a pow'r, that grew too bold,
Show merely what was done in days of old.
Leaving this image on the soul, we go
Unto our gentler story, touch'd with woe,
(With woe

The heart wantons not, nor wears away

love too perfect for decay.

But whatsne'er we do, we will not shame
Your better feeling, with an idle game

Of gria and mimicry (a loathsome task!)

Or strip the great Muse of her mighty mask,

And hoot her from her throne of tears and sighs,
Until, from folly and base jest, she dies.

No let her life be long, her reign supreme-
If but a dream, it is a glorious dream.

Dwell then upon our tale; and bear along

With you, deep thoughts-of love-of bitter wrong
Of freedom-of sad pity-and lust of power.
The tale is fitted for an after hour.