morn,
  Wak’d by the chant of birds, I look’d around
  For usual objects:  objects found I none,
  Except before me stretch’d the toiling main,
  And rocks and woods in savage view behind. 
  Wrapt for a moment in amaz’d confusion,
  My thought turn’d giddy round; when all at once,
  To memory full my dire condition rush’d—­

In the year 1736 Mr. Thomson offered to the stage a Tragedy called Edward and Eleonora, which was forbid to be acted, for some political reason, which it is not in our power to guess.

The play of Tancred and Sigismunda was acted in the year 1744; this succeeded beyond any other of Thomson’s plays, and is now in possesion of the stage.  The plot is borrowed from a story in the celebrated romance of Gil Blas:  The fable is very interesting, the characters are few, but active; and the attention in this play is never suffered to wander.  The character of Seffredi has been justly censured as inconsistent, forced, and unnatural.

By the command of his royal highness the prince of Wales, Mr. Thomson, in conjunction with Mr. Mallet, wrote the Masque of Alfred, which was performed twice in his royal highness’s gardens at Cliffden.  Since Mr. Thomson’s death, this piece has been almost entirely new modelled by Mr. Mallet, and brought on the stage in the year 1751, its success being fresh in the memory of its frequent auditors, ’tis needless to say more concerning it.

Mr. Thomson’s last Tragedy, called Coriolanus, was not acted till after his death; the profits of it were given to his sisters in Scotland, one of whom is married to a minister there, and the other to a man of low circumstances in the city of Edinburgh.  This play, which is certainly the least excellent of any of Thomson’s, was first offered to Mr. Garrick, but he did not think proper to accept it.  The prologue was written by Sir George Lyttleton, and spoken by Mr. Quin, which had a very happy effect upon the audience.  Mr. Quin was the particular friend of Thomson, and when he spoke the following lines, which are in themselves very tender, all the endearments of a long acquaintance, rose at once to his imagination, while the tears gushed from his eyes.

  He lov’d his friends (forgive this gushing tear: 
  Alas!  I feel I am no actor here)
  He lov’d his friends with such a warmth of heart,
  So clear of int’rest, so devoid of art,
  Such generous freedom, such unshaken real,
  No words can speak it, but our tears may tell.

The beautiful break in these lines had a fine effect in speaking.  Mr. Quin here excelled himself; he never appeared a greater actor than at this instant, when he declared himself none:  ’twas an exquisite stroke to nature; art alone could hardly reach it.  Pardon the digression, reader, but, we feel a desire to say somewhat more on this head.  The poet and the actor were friends, it cannot then be quite foreign to the purpose to proceed.  A deep fetch’d sigh filled up the heart felt pause; grief spread o’er all the countenance; the tear started to the eye, the muscles fell, and,