THE Tragic Muse, revolving many a page Of time's long records drawn from every age, Forms not her plans on low or trivial deeds, But marks the striking !

When some Hero bleeds

To save his country, then her powers inspire,
And souls congenial catch the patriot fire.——
When bold oppression grinds a suffering land;
When the keen dagger gleams in murder's hand;
When black conspiracy infects the throng;
Or fell revenge sits brooding o'er his wrong;
Then walks she forth in terror; at her frown
Guilt sinks appall'd, though seated on a throne.
But the rack'd soul, when dark suspicions rend;
When Brothers hate, and Sons with Sires contend;
When clashing interests war eternal wage;
And Love, the tenderest passion, turns to Rage;
Then grief on every visage stands imprest,
And Pity throbs in every feeling breast;
Hope, Fear, and Indignation, rise by turns,
And the strong scene with various passion burns.
Such is our tale :-Nor blush, if tears should flow;
They're virtue's tribute paid to human woe :

Such drops new lustre to bright eyes impart ;
The silent witness of a tender heart :

Such drops adorn the noblest Hero's cheek,

And paint his worth, in strokes that more than speak ; Not he who cannot weep, but he who can,

Shows the great soul, and proves himself a Man.

Yet do not idly grieve at others pain,

Nor let the tears of nature fall in vain :

[grown,

Watch the close crimes from whence their ills have

And from their frailties learn to mend your own.

DRAMATIS PERSONE.

MEN.

PHILIP, King of Macedon.

PERSEUS, his elder son.

DEMETRIUS, his younger son.

PERICLES, the friend of Perseus.
ANTIGONUS, a Minister of State.
DYMAS, the King's favorite.

POSTHUMIUS, Roman Ambassadors.
CURTIUS,

WOMEN.

ERIXINE, the Thracian Princess.

Her Attendant.

Enter CURTIUS and POSTHUMIUS.

Curtius. THERE'S something of magnificence about

us

I have not seen at Rome. But you can tell me.

[Gazes round.

Posthumius. True: Hither sent on former embassies,

I know this splendid court of Macedon,

And haughty Philip, well.

Curtius.

His pride presumes

To treat us here like subjects, more than Romans,
More than ambassadors, who, in our bosoms,

Bear peace and war, and throw him which we please,
As fove his storm, or sunshine, on his creatures.

Posthumius. This Philip only, since Rome's glory rose, Preserves its grandeur to the name of king;

Like a bold star, that shews its fires by day.
The Greek, who won the world, was sent before him,
As the grey dawn before the blaze of noon :
Philip had ne'er been conqur'd, but by Rome;
And what can fame say more of mortal man ?
Curtius. I know his public character.
Posthumius.

It pains me
To turn my thoughts on his domestic state :
There Philip is no God; but pours his heart,
In ceaseless groans, o'er his contending sons;

They both are bright; but one

Benignly bright, as stars to mariners;

And one a comet with malignant blaze,

Denouncing ruin.

Posthumius.

Curtius.

You mean Perseus.

True,

The younger son Demetrius, you well know,
Was bred at Rome, our hostage from his father.
Soon after, he was sent ambassador,

When Philip fear'd the thunder of our arms.
Rome's manners won him, and his manners Rome;
Who granted peace, declaring she forgave,
To his high worth, the conduct of his father.
This gave him all the hearts of Macedon;
Which join'd to his high patronage from Rome,
Inflames his jealous brother.

Curtius.

A second brand of enmity?

Posthumius.

The fair Erixine.

Curtius.

Her smother'd story.

Posthumius.

Glows there not

O, yes;

I've partly heard

Smother'd by the king;

And wisely too. But thou shalt hear it all.
Not seals of adamant, not mountains whelm'd
On guilty secrets, can exclude the day.
Long burnt a fix'd hereditary hate

Between the crowns of Macedon and Thrace;

The sword by both too much indulg'd in blood.
Philip, at length, prevail'd; he took, by night,