The Histrionade Or, Theatric Tribunal; A Poem, Descriptive of the Principal Performers at Both Houses. In Two Parts. By Marmaduke Myrtle [i.e. Thomas Dermody] |
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 | The Histrionade |  |
Now that gaunt War, in pity to our Isle,
Sleeks his grim features to a sullen smile,
Sweet Peace, unscar'd by his terrific crest,
Clasps the dread Dæmon to her turtle-breast,
Hangs his dark helmet on the myrtle-bough,
And binds with olive-wreath his blood-stain'd brow;
While barren Peter pries abroad in vain,
For heroes, worthy his Pindaric strain,
Stoop'd from a lofty Lousiad, and a King,
To Rumford, and Receipts for Rotten Ling;
Or, fatal to each fond, uxorious Peer,
Thunders Crim. Con. in Auckland's frighted ear;
Cloy'd with the beauties of Dramatic Art,
That poorly feed the eye, but feast the heart,
When a vain Age seems emulous to raise
The dry Moralities of former days;
When o'er Instruction chaste, and Thought sublime,
Flits the gay Sprite of airy Pantomime;
Nay, basely exil'd from their native shore,
Strong Sense, and pow'rful Shakespeare please no more;
Stung by such madness into tenfold rage,
I rise to lash the mongrels of the Stage;
With scale impartial, to decide the plea
Of plaintiff Wit, and set the Suff'rer free.
Nor yet to Actors is the fault confin'd,
It clings more closely to the scribbling kind;
Dull fops! damnation-proof, whom duns compel,
To forge stale farces, ere they learn to spell;
Blockheads! with brandy and assurance warm,
Who “'bide the pelting of the pitiless storm,”
Resolv'd to cram their nauseous doses down,
And bully into praise, the crop-sick Town.
Tho' Dramatists we boast, inspir'd by spleen,
Who pick the vilest gleanings of the Scene,
Or sketch the eccentric fashions as they rise:
They never vaunt the plaudit of the wise.
Who gives to Comedy's high-favor'd birth
“Right stately moral, and full honest mirth!”
Who holds such finish'd Characters to view,
As surly Ben, or sprightly Beaumont drew?
Since, with the German tragic-fever fir'd,
Chaste Humour from her Sheridan retir'd.
Mistaken bard! ungratefully, to scorn
The dimpled bride, for thy embraces born;
Unfeelingly, to slight her genuine flame,
And court the coyness of the tearful dame.
Ev'n He, who from Panama's rocky height,
Brav'd the wild tempest, and the flaming fight;
Ev'n He—Pizarro!—shall no more surprize,
Nor Rolla's thund'ring rant, or savage size,
When Scandal's School, with fadeless conquest crown'd,
Shall eccho Joy's eternal laugh around.
Sleeks his grim features to a sullen smile,
Sweet Peace, unscar'd by his terrific crest,
Clasps the dread Dæmon to her turtle-breast,
Hangs his dark helmet on the myrtle-bough,
And binds with olive-wreath his blood-stain'd brow;
While barren Peter pries abroad in vain,
For heroes, worthy his Pindaric strain,
Stoop'd from a lofty Lousiad, and a King,
To Rumford, and Receipts for Rotten Ling;
Or, fatal to each fond, uxorious Peer,
Thunders Crim. Con. in Auckland's frighted ear;
10
That poorly feed the eye, but feast the heart,
When a vain Age seems emulous to raise
The dry Moralities of former days;
When o'er Instruction chaste, and Thought sublime,
Flits the gay Sprite of airy Pantomime;
Nay, basely exil'd from their native shore,
Strong Sense, and pow'rful Shakespeare please no more;
Stung by such madness into tenfold rage,
I rise to lash the mongrels of the Stage;
With scale impartial, to decide the plea
Of plaintiff Wit, and set the Suff'rer free.
Nor yet to Actors is the fault confin'd,
It clings more closely to the scribbling kind;
Dull fops! damnation-proof, whom duns compel,
To forge stale farces, ere they learn to spell;
Blockheads! with brandy and assurance warm,
Who “'bide the pelting of the pitiless storm,”
Resolv'd to cram their nauseous doses down,
And bully into praise, the crop-sick Town.
Tho' Dramatists we boast, inspir'd by spleen,
Who pick the vilest gleanings of the Scene,
Or sketch the eccentric fashions as they rise:
They never vaunt the plaudit of the wise.
11
“Right stately moral, and full honest mirth!”
Who holds such finish'd Characters to view,
As surly Ben, or sprightly Beaumont drew?
Since, with the German tragic-fever fir'd,
Chaste Humour from her Sheridan retir'd.
Mistaken bard! ungratefully, to scorn
The dimpled bride, for thy embraces born;
Unfeelingly, to slight her genuine flame,
And court the coyness of the tearful dame.
Ev'n He, who from Panama's rocky height,
Brav'd the wild tempest, and the flaming fight;
Ev'n He—Pizarro!—shall no more surprize,
Nor Rolla's thund'ring rant, or savage size,
When Scandal's School, with fadeless conquest crown'd,
Shall eccho Joy's eternal laugh around.
Ye Thespian tribes! where-ever you resort,
Sunk in a Cellar, cringing at a Court;
Whether, thro' garret-roofs, your nostrils wooe
The pleasurable breeze soft murm'ring thro';
Or, more delighted with a meaner state,
The smoaking Chop adorn your genial plate;
Tho' Juliet thro' the Park may, ogling, stray,
With “fond, reluctant, amorous delay;”
While fair Ophelia, what a monstrous sin!
Soothes her sad heart with solitary Gin;
Tho' Desdemona's wine, the cunning punk!
Instead of Cassio, made Iago drunk;
Tho' Pierre, whom prowling Creditors enclose,
“Fine, bold-fac'd villain!” durst not shew his nose;
Tho' mad Macbeth the furly watchmen keep,
To answer at Queen's Square for “murd'ring sleep;”
Tho' Brutus can't a pair of breeches boast;
And Gertrude grills a griskin for the Ghost;
Nay, tho' a Writ Young Ammon may detain,
And four stout Bailiffs seize the pensive Dane;
By this well-feather'd talisman of mine,
Pluck'd from the pinion of a Goose divine;
By the dread Weekly Censor, name of fear!
Ye Thespian tribes! I charge you to appear!
And, as your forms in quick succession pass,
Let Fancy catch each shadow in her Glass.
Sunk in a Cellar, cringing at a Court;
Whether, thro' garret-roofs, your nostrils wooe
The pleasurable breeze soft murm'ring thro';
Or, more delighted with a meaner state,
The smoaking Chop adorn your genial plate;
12
With “fond, reluctant, amorous delay;”
While fair Ophelia, what a monstrous sin!
Soothes her sad heart with solitary Gin;
Tho' Desdemona's wine, the cunning punk!
Instead of Cassio, made Iago drunk;
Tho' Pierre, whom prowling Creditors enclose,
“Fine, bold-fac'd villain!” durst not shew his nose;
Tho' mad Macbeth the furly watchmen keep,
To answer at Queen's Square for “murd'ring sleep;”
Tho' Brutus can't a pair of breeches boast;
And Gertrude grills a griskin for the Ghost;
Nay, tho' a Writ Young Ammon may detain,
And four stout Bailiffs seize the pensive Dane;
By this well-feather'd talisman of mine,
Pluck'd from the pinion of a Goose divine;
By the dread Weekly Censor, name of fear!
Ye Thespian tribes! I charge you to appear!
And, as your forms in quick succession pass,
Let Fancy catch each shadow in her Glass.
First of the band, applauded Kemble moves,
Whom Judgment regulates, and taste approves;
While at respectful distance rivals bow,
Deep meditation marks his serious brow,
Till firm intent, and resolution high,
Anon, relume his awe-commanding eye.
On ev'ry step of his superior state,
The sober triumphs of Conception wait;
And partial Nature lends each lib'ral grace
Of manly form, and mind-illumin'd face.
Ah! had she, too, these pow'rful tones supplied,
That pierce the heart, and o'er the ear preside,
Attune the plaint of Love, or swell the burst of Pride;
Nor, niggard in this mighty gift alone,
Spar'd but a hollow, hoarse, sepulchral groan;
By art unmellow'd, and by trick untam'd,
Pitied by Candour, tho' by Envy blam'd:
Well might this later Time expect to view
Roscius, reviving, witch the world anew;
Nor ask a Dancer, or an Eunuch's aid,
By the sweet sorcery of Action sway'd.
Who that has seen his Hamlet's well-feign'd woe,
Disclosing “that within which passeth shew;”
Who that has caught his agonizing stare,
Of dread uncertainty, on Banquo's chair;
Or ev'n Penruddock's undetermin'd hate,
Touch'd by his villain-friend's too piteous fate,
But owns, all puny prejudice aside,
Impartial Justice, only, is my guide?
Whom Judgment regulates, and taste approves;
While at respectful distance rivals bow,
Deep meditation marks his serious brow,
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Anon, relume his awe-commanding eye.
On ev'ry step of his superior state,
The sober triumphs of Conception wait;
And partial Nature lends each lib'ral grace
Of manly form, and mind-illumin'd face.
Ah! had she, too, these pow'rful tones supplied,
That pierce the heart, and o'er the ear preside,
Attune the plaint of Love, or swell the burst of Pride;
Nor, niggard in this mighty gift alone,
Spar'd but a hollow, hoarse, sepulchral groan;
By art unmellow'd, and by trick untam'd,
Pitied by Candour, tho' by Envy blam'd:
Well might this later Time expect to view
Roscius, reviving, witch the world anew;
Nor ask a Dancer, or an Eunuch's aid,
By the sweet sorcery of Action sway'd.
Who that has seen his Hamlet's well-feign'd woe,
Disclosing “that within which passeth shew;”
Who that has caught his agonizing stare,
Of dread uncertainty, on Banquo's chair;
Or ev'n Penruddock's undetermin'd hate,
Touch'd by his villain-friend's too piteous fate,
But owns, all puny prejudice aside,
Impartial Justice, only, is my guide?
| The Histrionade | |