This he likewise dedicated to lord Bolingbroke; and was the last he ever wrote.—There is a melancholy thread of fatal prophecy in the beginning of it; of his own approaching dissolution.
Cover'd in fortune's shade, I rest reclin'd;
My griefs all silent; and my joys resign'd.
With patient eye life's evening gloom survey:
Nor shake th'out-hast'ning sands; nor bid 'em stay—
Yet, while from life my setting prospects fly,
Fain wou'd my mind's weak offspring shun to die.
Fain wou'd their hope some light through time explore;
The name's kind pasport—When the man's no more.
From about the time he was solliciting the bringing on this play, an illness seized him; from the tormenting pains of which he had scarce an hour's intermission; and after making trial of all he thought could be of service to him in medicine; he was desirous to try his native air of London (as that of Plaistow was too moist a one) but he was then past all recovery, and wasted almost to a skeleton, from some internal cause, that had produced a general decay (and was believed to have been an inflamation in the kidneys; which his intense attachment to his studies might probably lay the foundation of.—When in town, he had the comfort of being honoured with the visits of the most worthy and esteemed among his friends; but he was not permitted many weeks to taste that blessing. [Transcriber's note: closing brackets missing in original.]
The same humane and generous Mr. Mallet, who had before aided his Merope, about this time was making interest for its being played again, for the advantage of its author:—His royal highness the prince of Wales; had the great goodness to command it; and Mr. Hill just lived to express his grateful acknowledgments (to those about him) upon hearing of it:—But on the day before it was to be represented he died, in the very minute of the earthquake, February the eighth, 1749, which he seemed sensible of, though then deprived of utterance. Had he lived two days longer, he had been sixty-five years old.—He endur'd a twelve-month's torment of the body with a calmness that confess'd a superiority of soul! He was interred in the same grave with her the most dear to him when living, in the great cloister of Westminster-Abbey; near the lord Godolphin's tomb.
It may be truly said of Mr. Hill, he was a great and general writer; and had he been possest of the estate he was intitled to, his liberality had been no less extensive than his genius. But often do we see misfortune's clouds obscure the brightest sunshine.
Besides his works which here have been enumerated, there are several other; particularly two poems, intitled the Creation, and the Judgment-Day; which were published many years ago.—Another in blank verse he published in the time of his retreat into Essex; it was called, Cleon to Lycidas, a Time Piece; the date not marked by the printer.
Some years before his death, he talked of making a collection of his works for publication; but postponed it for the finishing some pieces, which he did not live to effect.
Since his death, four volumes of them have been published by subscription, for his family. He left one Tragedy, never yet acted; which was wrote originally about 1737, and intitled Cæsar; but since, he has named it the Roman Revenge:—But as the author was avowedly a great admirer of Cæsar's character, not in the light he is generally understood (that of a tyrant) but in one much more favourable, he was advised by several of the first distinction, both in rank and judgment, to make such alterations in it as should adapt it more to the general opinion; and upon that advice he in a manner new wrote the play: But as most first opinions are not easily eradicated, it has been never able to make a public trial of the success; which many of the greatest understanding have pronounced it highly worthy of.—The late lord Bolingbroke (in a letter wrote to the author) has called it one of the noblest drama's, that our language, or any age can boast.
These few little speeches are taken from the part of Cæsar.
'Tis the great mind's expected pain, Calphurnia,
To labour for the thankless.—He who seeks
Reward in ruling, makes ambition guilt;
And living for himself disclaims mankind.