 | The Last Poems of Philip Freneau |  |
25
The Re-opening of the Park Theatre
Though lost awhile to this, the Muses' seat,
Once more, kind patrons, here once more we meet:
To wasting flames you saw this dome consigned
Where Reason's feast gave pleasure to the mind.
If wasting flames deprived you of the PLAY,
This night restores what Fortune snatched away,
Improved in all the Drama's votaries prize
Nor rigid reason would, itself, despise.
Once more, kind patrons, here once more we meet:
To wasting flames you saw this dome consigned
Where Reason's feast gave pleasure to the mind.
If wasting flames deprived you of the PLAY,
This night restores what Fortune snatched away,
Improved in all the Drama's votaries prize
Nor rigid reason would, itself, despise.
Be it your's no longer to regret the past,
And our's to find amusement to your taste;
Our's is the hope to merit all you give,
And gain your favor, as by you we live;
Our's be the task, unmoved by smiles or spleen,
To grace each act, and live through every scene.
And our's to find amusement to your taste;
Our's is the hope to merit all you give,
And gain your favor, as by you we live;
Our's be the task, unmoved by smiles or spleen,
To grace each act, and live through every scene.
What changes pass on Time's unsettled stage,
Events how various mark each following age!
Perhaps this spot, where Thespis takes her stand,
Once held a wigwam in a savage land;
Its surly chief an angry visage bore,
And war and slaughter stained his path with gore;
His boiling veins with poisonous rancor swelled,
Or, where compassion touched, the hand rebelled.
Events how various mark each following age!
Perhaps this spot, where Thespis takes her stand,
Once held a wigwam in a savage land;
Its surly chief an angry visage bore,
And war and slaughter stained his path with gore;
His boiling veins with poisonous rancor swelled,
Or, where compassion touched, the hand rebelled.
Here, once, perhaps, with dart or bended bow,
The savage prowled three centuries ago,
Where painted tribes their swarthy mates possessed,
With love's fine flame a stranger to the breast—
Here strolled the native, and his hideous squaw,
And ruled the female with despotic law;—
No right she claimed that guardian Nature gave,
By tyrant custom dwindled to a slave.
The savage prowled three centuries ago,
Where painted tribes their swarthy mates possessed,
With love's fine flame a stranger to the breast—
Here strolled the native, and his hideous squaw,
And ruled the female with despotic law;—
No right she claimed that guardian Nature gave,
By tyrant custom dwindled to a slave.
26
Such was their doom!—To chace the timorous deer,
Dislodge the Elk or circumvient the Bear
Belonged to Men—to craft and warfare bred,
Through gloomy groves their vagrant tribes they led,
Ere HUDSON'S Galley passed Manhattan's isle,
Or England's sceptre swayed the Indian soil.
Dislodge the Elk or circumvient the Bear
Belonged to Men—to craft and warfare bred,
Through gloomy groves their vagrant tribes they led,
Ere HUDSON'S Galley passed Manhattan's isle,
Or England's sceptre swayed the Indian soil.
Behold the change! where grew the shaded wild,
And simple Nature, solitary, smiled,
New social manners, peace, and commerce reign,
And pleasures meet, with plenty in their train;
Now spires ascend, and splendid streets appear,
And beauty, female beauty, charms us here;
With every art that human skill designed
To grace the person or exalt the mind.
And simple Nature, solitary, smiled,
New social manners, peace, and commerce reign,
And pleasures meet, with plenty in their train;
Now spires ascend, and splendid streets appear,
And beauty, female beauty, charms us here;
With every art that human skill designed
To grace the person or exalt the mind.
To pass the amusing hours, that all desire,
New Plays, new subjects, justly you require;
For these, on Europe, still our Stage relies,
And Europe, Europe every want supplies,
Why sleeps COLUMBIA'S genius for the stage—
Can not one Bard arise, to glad the age,
Not one be found to abandon flimsey rhymes,
And rise the Shakespeare of our modern times?
New Plays, new subjects, justly you require;
For these, on Europe, still our Stage relies,
And Europe, Europe every want supplies,
Why sleeps COLUMBIA'S genius for the stage—
Can not one Bard arise, to glad the age,
Not one be found to abandon flimsey rhymes,
And rise the Shakespeare of our modern times?
'Tis from the Stage in every land we trace
A polished people or a barbarous race
With Greece enslaved the Thespian spirit failed,
And Rome's great Drama fell when Goths prevailed.
No more the scene a crowded audience drew,
The wild barbarian spurned the splendid SHEW!
No more the tragic Muse bade nations weep,
No more the comic act lulled care to sleep;
No living scene displayed the painter's art,
No music, with its chorus, thrilled the heart;
No long oblivion seized the enfeebled mind,
And, as the Nation sunk, the Stage declined!
A polished people or a barbarous race
With Greece enslaved the Thespian spirit failed,
And Rome's great Drama fell when Goths prevailed.
27
The wild barbarian spurned the splendid SHEW!
No more the tragic Muse bade nations weep,
No more the comic act lulled care to sleep;
No living scene displayed the painter's art,
No music, with its chorus, thrilled the heart;
No long oblivion seized the enfeebled mind,
And, as the Nation sunk, the Stage declined!
Ye friends and patrons of the Thespian Muse,
Our failings pardon, and our faults excuse,
Still to improve, shall be our dearest aim,
Since full perfection few may dare to claim—
Arise, young Authors, on COLUMBIA'S soil,
And give us SOMETHING NEW, to cheer our toil,
Thus shall the Muse reanimate the Stage,
And more than Shakespeare glow through every page!
Our failings pardon, and our faults excuse,
Still to improve, shall be our dearest aim,
Since full perfection few may dare to claim—
Arise, young Authors, on COLUMBIA'S soil,
And give us SOMETHING NEW, to cheer our toil,
Thus shall the Muse reanimate the Stage,
And more than Shakespeare glow through every page!
Ancient Rome had many vast amphitheatres and circuses.—These were, for the most part, demolished or dismantled by an immense army of Barbarians, under Alaric, the Gothic General, about the year of Christ 850. One of these was still standing, at least the walls, about a century ago, or which Addison says,
“An Amphitheatre's amazing heightHere strikes the eye with wonder and delight;
Which, on its public days, unpeopled Rome,
And held uncrowded nations in its womb.”
| The Last Poems of Philip Freneau | |