After an interval of four years, Mr. Thomson exhibited to the public his second Tragedy called Agamemnon.  Mr. Pope gave an instance of his great affection to Mr. Thomson on this occasion:  he wrote two letters in its favour to the managers, and honoured the representation on the first night with his presence.  As he had not been for some time at a play, this was considered as a very great instance of esteem.  Mr. Thomson submitted to have this play considerably shortened in the action, as some parts were too long, other unnecessary, in which not the character but the poet spoke; and though not brought on the stage till the month of April, it continued to be acted with applause for several nights.

Many have remark’d that his characters in his plays are more frequently descriptive, than expressive, of the passions; but they all abound with uncommon beauties, with fire, and depth of thought, with noble sentiments and nervous writing.  His speeches are often too long, especially for an English audience; perhaps sometimes they are unnaturally lengthened:  and ’tis certainly a greater relief to the ear to have the dialogue more broken; yet our attention is well rewarded, and in no passages, perhaps, in his tragedies, more so, than in the affecting account Melisander [7] gives of his being betrayed, and left on the desolate island.

  —­’Tis thus my friend. 
  Whilst sunk in unsuspecting sleep I lay,
  Some midnight ruffians rush’d into my chamber,
  Sent by Egisthus, who my presence deem’d
  Obstructive (so I solve it) to his views,
  Black views, I fear, as you perhaps may know,
  Sudden they seiz’d, and muffled up in darkness,
  Strait bore me to the sea, whose instant prey
  I did conclude myself, when first around
  The ship unmoor’d, I heard the chiding wave. 
  But these fel tools of cruel power, it seems,
  Had orders in a desart isle to leave me;
  There hopeless, helpless, comfortless, to prove
  The utmost gall and bitterness of death. 
  Thus malice often overshoots itself,
  And some unguarded accident betrays
  The man of blood.—­Next night—­a dreary night! 
  Cast on the wildest of the Cyclad Isles,
  Where never human foot had mark’d the shore,
  These ruffians left me.—­Yet believe me, Arcas,
  Such is the rooted love we bear mankind,
  All ruffians as they were, I never heard
  A sound so dismal as their parting oars.—­
  Then horrid silence follow’d, broke alone
  By the low murmurs of the restless deep,
  Mixt with the doubtful breeze that now and then
  Sigh’d thro’ the mournful woods.  Beneath a shade
  I sat me down, more heavily oppress’d,
  More desolate at heart, than e’er I felt
  Before.  When, Philomela, o’er my head
  Began to tune her melancholy strain,
  As piteous of my woes, ’till, by degrees,
  Composing sleep on wounded nature shed
  A kind but short relief.  At early