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 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.