 | Poems |  |
Mr. PALMER.
Of Palmer the elder, I'll give my opinion,
No man on the stage holds so wide a dominion;
Come Tragedy, Comedy, Farce, or what will,
He still gives a manifest proof of his skill;
From the Bastard of Shakespeare, and Face of old Ben,
To the dry namby-pamby of—Cumberland's pen.
He's the Muse's great hackney, on which both together
Oft pace thro' the Commons, in damn'd dirty weather.
Yet he still claims applause, tho' like Proteus he changes;
For, equal to all, thro' the drama he ranges;
And bears with much ease its vast weight on his shoulders,
'Till, like Atlas, his powers surprize all beholders.
No man on the stage holds so wide a dominion;
Come Tragedy, Comedy, Farce, or what will,
He still gives a manifest proof of his skill;
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To the dry namby-pamby of—Cumberland's pen.
He's the Muse's great hackney, on which both together
Oft pace thro' the Commons, in damn'd dirty weather.
Yet he still claims applause, tho' like Proteus he changes;
For, equal to all, thro' the drama he ranges;
And bears with much ease its vast weight on his shoulders,
'Till, like Atlas, his powers surprize all beholders.
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So graceful his step, so majestic his nod,
He looks the descendant from Belvedere's god!
Yet he has his faults; and, who is there without 'em?
But his pride should take fire and instantly rout 'em;
Nor heed, tho' the effort should cost him some pain,
But puff them away like the chaff from the grain.
He looks the descendant from Belvedere's god!
Yet he has his faults; and, who is there without 'em?
But his pride should take fire and instantly rout 'em;
Nor heed, tho' the effort should cost him some pain,
But puff them away like the chaff from the grain.
In stern Dionysius his acting offends,
For Nature and Palmer in that are not friends:
Like the Rhodian Colossus he stalks round the stage,
Or arm'd gladiator intent to engage;
For his zeal damns his aims in this tragic employment,
As rakes from excess lose the edge of enjoyment:
He out-herods Herod—and tears his poor throat,
'Till Harmony trembles at every note.
Tho' twelve-penny gods may with this be delighted,
Common Sense is alarm'd, and meek Reason affrighted!
—He shines in his Joseph, but more in his Lyar;
In that human Nature can never go higher.
One would think, could a thought so deform'd be supported,
That the man from his cradle with Candour had sported.
For Nature and Palmer in that are not friends:
Like the Rhodian Colossus he stalks round the stage,
Or arm'd gladiator intent to engage;
For his zeal damns his aims in this tragic employment,
As rakes from excess lose the edge of enjoyment:
He out-herods Herod—and tears his poor throat,
'Till Harmony trembles at every note.
Tho' twelve-penny gods may with this be delighted,
Common Sense is alarm'd, and meek Reason affrighted!
—He shines in his Joseph, but more in his Lyar;
In that human Nature can never go higher.
One would think, could a thought so deform'd be supported,
That the man from his cradle with Candour had sported.
Tho' fond of the sex, yet he's fonder of porter;
And Fame, tho' a woman, ne'er labour'd to court her,
But careless to please her, right onward he bustles,
And charms the frail nymph with Herculean muscles;
Who seizes the clarion, subdu'd by her wonder,
As the tones from its womb rend the ceiling asunder;
And frights the wild air with the sonorous clatter,
'Till Reason peeps forward—to ask what's the matter?
And Fame, tho' a woman, ne'er labour'd to court her,
But careless to please her, right onward he bustles,
And charms the frail nymph with Herculean muscles;
Who seizes the clarion, subdu'd by her wonder,
As the tones from its womb rend the ceiling asunder;
And frights the wild air with the sonorous clatter,
'Till Reason peeps forward—to ask what's the matter?
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Ere Love's gentle passion he'll deign to disclose,
His handkerchief ten times must visit his nose.—
The proud sons of Gallia aver to our faces,
The actors of Britain are foes to the Graces:
Be Palmer the champion to mend the defection,
And boldly assert his high claim to perfection;
Permit them no longer to taunt and rebuke us,
And his handkerchief use—but to wipe off the mucus.
His handkerchief ten times must visit his nose.—
The proud sons of Gallia aver to our faces,
The actors of Britain are foes to the Graces:
Be Palmer the champion to mend the defection,
And boldly assert his high claim to perfection;
Permit them no longer to taunt and rebuke us,
And his handkerchief use—but to wipe off the mucus.
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