Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

How hard is the lot to admonish our neighbours,
When hatred's the fruit we receive for our labours!
For the mind is oft pang'd, when the frame's unresisting,
And, like vipers new bruis'd, frets existence by twisting.
Nay, frown not, sweet Sister, I mean, on my verity,
To give that for truth you receive as severity.
I can see, as your eyes o'er my countenance roam,
That you tacitly bid me for faults look at home;
When I do, lovely spinster, I freely confess,
That the picture enhances my mental distress;
Kath'rine King's my palladium, my pride, and my pleasure,
Who leads my battalions, and—fingers my treasure;
But Kate has antipathies, deep and oppressing,
And ne'er would consent to give Genius her blessing,
Yet the imbecile harlot acts proper by fits,
Tho' the finger of Time's rubb'd the nap from her wits:

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She pats Gossip Forde, on her three-inch thick head,
And lights goody Linley with caution to bed;
Mutters prayers with long muscles, that good may betide her,
And places her crotchets and fiddles beside her;
Then gives the old women some obsolete rules,
And strives to get bread as the wet nurse of fools;
Wipes the breech of her bantlings, night, morning, and noon,
And feeds master Cobb with a shovel-form'd spoon.
If my gloom is increas'd by untenanted benches,
Still the Norfolk Street nymph all that's costly retrenches;
Forms her creed of what's right from Economy's song,
And clips off an ell from each train that's—too long;
Hides the tenth of old candles, as family duty,
And tells gentle Crouch, her best dress is her beauty.

Mrs. PITT.

On the skirts of the Drama, by Habit suspended,
Regard wrinkled Pitt, ere her hours are ended:

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By the cumbrance of full sixty summers opprest,
She toils in expanding her time-narrow'd chest:
Like an old foundered doe, that's hoof-beaten and blind,
And abridg'd in all powers but those of the mind,
She limps o'er that course where she formerly run,
Ere the clouds of Pandora had darken'd her sun:
To renovate health in her faint-ebbing veins,
And preserve an existence that's scarce worth the pains,
She nibbles with care the salubrious sod,
And hails the injunctions prescrib'd by her God.
Tho' condemn'd by Disease to recline in her home,
Yet with bliss she surveys the young fawns as they roam;
Reviews in their transports what once were her own,
And fondly reflects on those joys she has known.—
Her petulant Deborah's mirth's ready source,
And her snip-snap denials have wonderful force;
Acrimoniously hasty her prejudice flows,
Like a virgin whom Winter has chill'd with his snows;
And whose envious mind bids her cease to be gay,
Having pass'd in neglect her meridian day.
Her Quickly, her Dorcas, old Spinsters and Nurse,
Are parts, when she dies, should be laid in her hearse.
In that cast of the Drama her merit's excessive,
For she gives them a colouring high and expressive;
With a peevish acidity sharpens their features,
As Nature declares them legitimate creatures:
Like John of Gaunt's sword, when she rots at her length,
There's none will be able to wield them with strength.

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Mr. WROUGHTON.

Respectable Wroughton was form'd to exist,
Like an elegant bracelet round Dignity's wrist
In Society's circle, where Honour him leads,
As he brightens the beauties of Truth—by his deeds.—
When your vices impell'd you such worth to reject,
I caught him to give my weak household—respect;
Now he breathes 'mid my rulers to combat Disgrace,
Like Confucius haranguing a mob in Duke's place;
Tho' the language of neither can much mend the band,
Yet both of them hallow the spot where they stand.—
In those parts where the moral emblazons the friend,
We scarce can the actor too warmly commend;
The reins of Propriety govern his powers,
Few errors creep in, but no apathy sours.
If the author has fail'd in a portrait of worth,
This player well knows where such virtues have birth;
And using discreetly a laudable art,
Researches his bosom, and draws—from his heart.
His Ford is an instance of wond'rous ability,
And proves his importance, his sense, and utility;
Like Vandyke's exertions, it teems with effect,
And the little extremes are high priz'd and correct;

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Yet sometimes he gives antient judgment a jostle,
By fidgets that speak him too much in a bustle:
Running over his periods with singular haste,
He crucifies oft his own natural taste;
But if in some moments the man is deficient,
In Restless that bustle is apt and efficient;
It gives added charms to the ludicrous knight,
And removes the deceptions of Art from the sight;
Makes us think what we see, not a case that just seems,
Like a shadow that's nought, or the phantoms of dreams.

While genuine worth merits human esteem,
Shall Wroughton's meek claims be the popular theme?
Like Edward the Sixth, Peace bestows him her meeds,
For the godlike display of benevolent deeds;
No vaunting encomiums have hung round his name,
No mean little arts have promoted his fame;
He elbows no youth in the road of renown,
He plays no illiberal tricks with the Town;
He never has once been affectedly ill,
Or, to punish his Chief, drawn his name from the bill;
But pursues the calm duties attach'd to his station,
And lives an example without—ostentation:
As th' associate of Honor he loves his behest,
Whose maxims he treasures with care in his breast;
Thus they lye undefil'd where no vice can misuse 'em,
Till the actions of life call the man to peruse 'em.

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Mrs. LEWIS.

Like a tremulous hare stealing over the stage,
See neat lovely Lewis illumine Anne Page;
Who fills pretty Godfrey with timid alarms,
And gives Lady Percy—proverbial charms;
But her heart welcomes Ease when the business is ended,
As if Habit and Will in the duty contended;—
She looks, when arrang'd in the Drama's gay row,
Like a vale-nourish'd lily brought forward for shew;
And compell'd Admiration's keen gaze to endure,
As the pinks look more gaudy, but none—half so pure;
Or a beautiful yacht, which, to honor the nation,
Is unmoor'd now and then, on some splendid occasion;
Hung round with bright colours, that sport in the breeze,
And seems pleas'd to be happy, and happy to please;
'Mid the vessels of thunder she gracefully glides,
And with sounds next to silence, obeys the rough tides,
Till the service is o'er; then the nymph sleeps inactive,
And is laid up in ord'nary, trim, yet attractive;
Takes her top-gallants down, when forbidden to roam,
And rides with delight—at her anchor at home.

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Mr. BLANCHARD.

From that sportive city where Hygeia dwells,
In dark drizly clouds, and astonishing wells;
Where Physic's grave race, in full regiments resort,
And the pale son of Sin holds his annual court;
Blithe Folly's emporium, where Vice gilds her pills,
And Fancy exterminates—corporal ills:
Where rogue and coquet league as sister and brother,
And diamond cuts diamond, unknown to each other;
Where Faith the high worth of warm water enhances,
And dolts pay the piper, while—Knavery dances;
Where Bladud, so Fame has the tale understood,
Roll'd his schrophulous limbs in salubrious mud;
And crescent on crescent, looks saucily o'er ye,
Like the tip of those fanes rais'd to Mahomet's glory;
Comic Blanchard has rov'd, to set Care at defiance,
And form with the Town a defensive alliance.

Sure the handmaids of Fate and Propriety scolded
With retrograde Nature, when Tom was first moulded;

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As they kneaded the atoms which made up his form,
Where Saturn and Mercury live in a storm;
And each takes his turn, for they ne'er mix together,
Like the man and his wife, by which clocks note the weather:
This moment his heels govern all, then his head,
And now the man's quicksilver, then—merely lead.

In his Hodge, tho' there's merit, and much to commend,
To the rustic endowments he scorns to attend;
Broad Humour the province of Wit is invading,
And his efforts are weaken'd by—harlequinading;
He's a sort of stage Andrew, for evermore skipping,
And turning, and twisting, and laughing, and leaping;
If he means to command adventitious applause,
By touching the edge of her ill-conceiv'd laws;
And awake noisy Mirth, in her echoing cells,
By ringing a change with the dramatic bells;
He is wrong, and had better forego the attempt,
As 'tis slippery ground, where a fall breeds contempt:
Bid him marshall his cloth by the size of his coat,
And discreetly repeat what the author has wrote.
'Tis the toil of a master to sport with the strings
Of the eloquent lyre, when Melody sings;
And to seize, yet not sully, Diversity's Throne,
Is Edwin's department, and—Edwin's alone.

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'Twas bestow'd him by Heaven, to abrogate laws,
Which were modell'd by Woe, in Despondency's cause;
And his arts, like the bow of Ulysses, have tried him,
As they're us'd with effect by no mortal beside him.

But I mean not to wound, by ungenerous lays,
For there are who repine when the feat deserves praise.
E'en the laural-clad Murphy has felt their foul dart,
Tho' supremely adorn'd—in his head and his heart;
With a singular zeal they directed the blow,
Tho' he rose like Antæus, new-brac'd to his foe;
For his wit like the steel, by attraction made strong,
Had gather'd the lightning of Hate round his song;
Tho' all-furious it blaz'd, still his works are untomb'd,
And his name lives untainted, his verse unconsum'd.
When Candour assumes the dominion of men,
And Truth marks those beauties which flow'd from his pen;

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When that muscle is worn, which once smil'd when dismay'd
And the long-hidden fangs by Destruction betray'd;
When the pallid Malevoli sink into dust,
And the heart's serious voice bids the action be just;
When Oblivion secretes the base party-bought rhyme,
And the points of their malice are blunted by Time;
Then Phœbus shall cherish that theme he inspir'd,
And his worth shall be deathless, his numbers admir'd;
Then Fame's best encomium, sweet Bard, shall be thine,
And Memory's offspring embrace thy cold shrine.

Mrs. WELLS.

Come hither, ye sculptors, and catch every grace,
That Fate interwove in a heaven-form'd face;
Come hither, ye pencil-deck'd artists, and seek
Those tints, with which Beauty has soften'd her cheek;

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Come hither, ye minstrels, who charm the wild throng,
And list to the tones which sublime her meek song;
For 'tis Wells, the resistless, who bursts on the sight,
To wed infant Rapture, and strengthen Delight.—
When she smiles, Youth and Valour their trophies resign;
When she laughs, she enslaves, for that laugh is divine.
Those wreaths of fresh myrtle which circle her brows,
Were affix'd there by Wit when he issued his vows;
As omnipotent Love rais'd the theme by his sallies,
And Melody bless'd her from Arno's rich vallies;
How piteous this nymph should quit decency's rule,
And, like Helen, be scoff'd for a Fop and a Fool;
With the mien of an angel she bids tumult cease,
And moves like the halcyon sister of Peace,
As her port by the influence of Fear seems restricted,
And she looks like that Modesty Guido depicted.—
Her moist pulpy lips wear a lovelier hue,
Than cherries new dipp'd in Aurora's bright dew;

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Her Jove-killing charms could call Wrath from his deed,
Re-humanize Timon, and fetter the Swede;
Meet the hope of Spain's Charles, from a diadem driven,
And by opening her bosom—receive him in heaven.

Tho' her mind with no rage of intemperance burns.
And the arts of false blandishment Nature inurns,
Yet her noon-tide of life has been warm'd by fair praise,
And she feels Approbation's meridian rays,
Which thaw her cold dreads by their genial heat,
And impell shrinking worth to a laudable feat:
The village-bred maid by base lovers distress'd,
Or the emblems of thought by its sorrows depress'd,
Suit her pensive capacity, fitted to give
Those traits where the delicate images live.—
When I speak of her Cowslip in terms of probation,
I speak of an act that defies emulation.
All her innocent wonders are touch'd with nice skill,
As she harbours resentment, unconscious of ill;
'Tis nature and knowledge most cunningly blended,
And the author's ideas are brighten'd and mended;
Like Trajan's fam'd column it equals desire,
And the more we behold it, the more we admire.—
In her Maud we survey a delectable union
Of Truth and Simplicity, met in communion;
And the strong combination of meekness and honor,
Seem habitual marks, and sit easy upon her;

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The plaudits of Judgment she's sure to obtain,
As 'tis colour'd with neatness, and play'd—without pain.—
Her Bridget is every thing Sense can request,
'Tis diminutive vanity ably exprest;
Where vulgar Ambition on Decency treads,
Where base Apprehension a consequence dreads;
'Tis a brilliant example of imbecile art,
Where the moral by Folly's expung'd from the heart.
If Envy pursues this applause-listed dame,
The pursuit but implies she's an inmate of Fame;
—How hideous is Obloquy, lame and base-born,
To obscure Desert, like a fog in the morn;
With an indirect vision she looks at men's deeds,
And sows, as she wanders, Contumely's seeds;
Approves the heart's wish, when the heart goes astray,
And journies with Hatred to gladden her way:
To the virtuous she mutters a ruin-stamp'd curse,
And the half-fashion'd vicious she makes ten times worse;
Adheres to no point, but the wish to do ill,
And clings with fierce zeal to the credulous will;
Deprives Honor's martial descendants of life,
And gives hapless Love—to the murdering knife;
Offers Peace to hell's god as a bleeding oblation,
And smiles at the ravings of hot Desparation;
Grows pale and perturbed, when Merit is prais'd,
And pulls down that monument—Gratitude rais'd.

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Mr. LEWIS.

'Tis said that the stars take a peep at our birth,
And give the young bipeds to Bacchus or Mirth,
To Minerva, the Muses, Bellona, or Beauty,
And the predestin'd instrument walks to its duty:
But when Lewis first met this gross world's chequer'd light,
They consign'd the brisk brat to the care of Delight;
Who call'd polish'd Elegance in to assist her,
As the boy met the nymph, and with extacy kiss'd her.—

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The volatile particles strew'd in his brain,
Give a vif to his eye, like the froth of champaigne;
Which delectably bubbles commix'd with the liquor,
And makes the full tide of enjoyment run quicker;
Gives our feelings an edge which before was unknown,
And sublimes and new-regulates Sympathy's tone.

He exists 'mid the motley retainers of Fiction,
As an instance to reconcile all contradiction;
If unlearn'd, yet that want Judgment cannot upbraid,
His deportment's august, yet his limb's not well made;
His face has its charms in the eyes of the fair,
Yet that face is not form'd with peculiar care;
He commands not by height, yet that height always pleases,
His voice is not good, yet that voice never teazes;
In a word, the fond Graces in concert combin'd,
To conceal half the faults of his body and mind.—
Tho' he oft pleases Truth, yet will Truth oft confess,
He would please her much more, did he—shew his teeth less.
Indiscriminate grins, like professions at court,
Turn the Agents of Reason to objects of sport:
The impulse of each, the observant suspect,
And both lose their value in point and effect—
A comedian's face on the audience should pop,
Like the rubric post of a bookseller's shop;
Where Pope, Swift, and Gay, meet the eye in a range,
And the gazer knows what to expect for his change.

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In short, as a herald, our senses to win,
Descriptive of all the best matters within.—

In those amblings of manhood, where Fashion decrees
That God's image erect, is offensive to—Ease;
Makes emphasis hateful to drawing-room sense,
And amputates words as a coiner clips pence;
There Lewis embraces the Muse's intent,
And yields the gay minx most extatic content—
He's dramatic noun, which is held undeclinable,
With a je ne scai quoi, that is quite undefineable;
And a talent to bandy a quaint turn of thought,
Which defies education, and cannot be bought;
An odd fascination he borrow'd from Fate,
Which can't be ingrafted, but must be innate;
Like the zest of a damsin that's pleasantly smart,
And makes the lips smack, after eating the tart:
Hence his Marplot, the rage of the critic has stood,
Hence his flippant Mercutio is quoted as good.—
When rank'd with his rivals, their boasting he martyrs,
For he struts like a Titan in Lilliput quarters;
As his compeers walk round him, look up, and revere;
And Lewis seems noble, for pigmies are near.

If you ask me to name a professional test,
Tho' his Faddle is prais'd, yet his Belcour is best—
It has happened from Bannister up to Kate King,
That their toils, as bucks phrase it, have not been—the thing.
They have wanted that undescrib'd gift half divine,
Which is known to us all, but is hard to define;

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And if in some scenes, by a painful attempt,
They have rose 'bove the level of—common contempt;
Yet in spite we've beheld the low vulgaris'd token,
As the bricks oft appear where the plaister is broken:
For 'tis Lewis alone who is capable found,
To scatter with taste Fashion's roses around.—
In arranging the food of the mind for this age,
As the deputiz'd lord of Antiquity's stage;

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He deserves from the Muses distinguish'd applause,
For preserving their interests, and loving their cause:
He is active, complacent, wise, vigilant, just;
And fulfils, with strong zeal, his ambition-fraught trust.
By a well-manner'd conduct he marshals the throng,
And kindly reproves where the action is wrong;

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Often meliorates errors, deriv'd from his chief,
And alters, by stealth, his false creed of belief;
Supports abject Virtue, depriv'd of her throne,
And feeds the fair nymph in some corner unknown;
Introduces poor Merit, disguis'd, with a sigh,
And calls the youth Folly, suffus'd at the lie;
Binds his principal's brows with Discretion's soft wreath,
And puts gold in his coffers—in spite of his teeth.

Mrs. POPE.

Like Thalestria the Amazon, wise, bold, and strong,
See Pope lift her head 'midst the caballing throng;
Good sense thro' the range of her character flies,
It prevails in her action, and lives in her eyes;

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It prescribes the true bounds to a tragical start,
And tempers the ills of a feebly-wrote part.
She knows the grammatical rules of her duty,
Which aids a comedian, as neatness aids beauty;
Tho' 'tis possible both have made conquests without 'em,
The wiser examples are anxious about 'em.—
In the great points of acting, when Judgment's delighted,
The rays of concordance are aptly united;
The arm, and the voice, and the eye, and the mien,
Must all correspond to give force to the scene;
Abrupt oppositions the sense will confound,
Like a trumpet that's crack'd, or hiatus in sound;
It was qualified thus Pope besieg'd our affection,
And pleas'd the idea, when led by reflection.—
When first Desdemona is smote, as accus'd
By Othello, who raves that his wife has abus'd
The connubial bed; then her passions will rise,
Thro' a climax of grief, and engender surprise;
She attaches electrical force to her art,
And communicates woe to each auditor's heart.—
Her Sylvia's an elegant portrait which charms us,
Whose frankness subdues, and whose loveliness warms us;
A luxuriance of worth plays in Viola's duties,
And she gives Cowley's nonsense extraneous beauties.
If Siddons (who feeds on the fools of the minute,
And whose bosom retains all the furies within it,

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Tho' cold as the hall of a capon-fed vicar,
Whose tongue gives you prayers, but whose bounty no liquor,
Who writes her large name on base Flattery's card,
(Like Daffy's Elixir in Paul's funeral yard;)
All-buskin'd, with insolent stride, stalks before her,
The wise welcome Pope, and step forth to adore her:
Who despising those arts, by which Meanness has risen,
Hid her merits from Rumour, in Modesty's prison.—
Tho' delicate fears have oft sicklied her action,
Those fears ne'er reduc'd her strong force of attraction;
Such retreats made the judgment more keenly admire,
'Tis the something not granted which fans our desire,—
With the wings of an eagle she flew o'er her station,
And explor'd but those objects which grace our creation;
Still gliding content with the fame she had won,
Tho' nerv'd in her vision to flit round the sun;
While lapwings and owls flutter'd after their prey,
Till they lost e'en themselves in the blaze of the day.

Tho' her name always means what it should do—an host.
She often does least where she strives—to do most;
With an eager avidity, asking applause,
Tho' the end is denied by a sight of the cause:
Thus priests over-righteous their wishes defeat,
Thus swordsmen from zeal, have been wond'rously beat.

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'Tis in acting, like love, sometimes Chance plays the game,
And they're oft most successful who scarce ever aim;
Tho' by Science, and all her sweet inmates assisted,
This nymph had play'd better, had Yates ne'er existed.
But let not the children of Envy suppose
That Discernment and Pope have been frequently foes;
As she knows to anatomize purely her text,
And ne'er leaves the audience by Dulness perplext;
For there are, who would damn, by a bestial perception,
The loftiest ideas of human conception;
such animals mouthing that heaven-caught wit,
Which the sweet bard of Avon with energy writ,
Is by far more terrific to rational Fear,
Than Nero, who pour'd boiling lead in the ear.

But, alas! who can hope to be wise as they ought,
When the evils of life taint the progress of thought?
Like a snow-ball, the mind, fraught with peace in its prime,
Moves swiftly adown the steep shelvings of Time;

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Accumulates filth from Society's sons,
And strengthens and hardens its coat as it runs;
Till habit on habit is negligent laid,
And the object appears motley, vile, and ill-made;
At last, when its indirect wanderings are o'er,
And the sated despoiler can gather no more,
The form lies repos'd at the base of the hill,
A globular concrete of good and of ill;
As its worth has been mix'd with the radix of woe,
And the dirt of the valley has sullied the snow.

Mr. DARLEY.

To hear Darley mouthing his tempestuous numbers,
Would burst the strong bandage of Morpheus's slumbers:
When he tears, without Mercy, poor Music to rags,
It resembles stern Boreas untying his bags;
As the hurricanes, foster'd by Wrath, issue round
Humanity's offspring, to scare and confound:
But this minstrel would certainly add to our joys,
Could the dolt be persuaded to chaunt with less noise;
And Phœbus to Harmony sure would consign him,
Could the animal think, or would Arnold refine him.

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When he bellows in Hawthorn, or Sternhold, or Giles,
Sweet Poetry shudders, and Irony smiles;
Then all murd'rous he foams, like John Kemble in Lear,
Or a Goth hacking Wit with his Scythian spear.

By the Succubæ spawn'd, he was knit in an hour,
When some butcher was madden'd by Cynthia's power;
Who did the foul deed in a lunatic rage,
And jointed a monster to roar from the stage;
Who would freeze all the liberal functions of being,
By his iron-wrapt front, which appals while we're seeing:
But some tawny Egyptian was hurried to cure him,
Who touch'd him with spells, that the sense might endure him.
Behold! 'mid the harmonic Congress he stands,
Distress'd by the weight of two ox-knuckle hands;
And is mark'd from his peers, in an over-grown head,
Like the Israelite's food—by a symbol of lead.
But tho' Fate to his savage exterior's unkind,
He has blanch'd ev'ry ill by the worth of his mind;
Thus dainties and dirt mix like pigs in a litter,
And those nuts which are sweetest have husks the most bitter.

Mrs. KENNEDY.

See diffident Kennedy, gliding along,
Who's endear'd to each breast by the force of her song;

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For 'tis her voice alone that so aptly can fit
The Gallery, Boxes, and critic-cramm'd Pit;—
If it sometimes should fail to entrance cognoscenti,
It ravishes Britons—nineteen out of twenty;
'Tis a tenor so sheath'd with all Art can desire,
Cecilia might envy, and Gretry admire.—
She touches the ballads of love-lorn despair,
With accents denoting a mind worn with Care:
But no sick'ning cantabiles clog the essay,
Or mar the intent of her pastoral lay:
When Nature and Knowledge are thus counteracted,
'Tis not Skill ably manag'd, but Science distracted.

Is there one but laments that she e'er would assume
The habit of man, or the masculine plume?
Such an act lays the first corner-stone of Neglect,
And wounds that Attraction which feeds our respect:
If, to vitiate appetites, trash gives delight,
The daughters of Decency shrink from the sight;

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And depend on't that scene, tho' applause it beguiles,
Can ne'er be prais'd long, if not bless'd by their smiles.
Like the Chancellor's seal, which gives value to paper,
They raise that to worth which before was mere vapour;
And her name will be scoff'd if she wants such prudentials,
Like a weak plenipo who's forgot his credentials;
They are passports to Fame, which insure her civility,
E'en if Nature restricts the fair claimant's ability:
Lo! the Sight turns aside, as the Sight ever ought,
And tells what she's mark'd as offensive to Thought;
But tells it with sighs that most eloquent prove,
She arraigns a mild nymph she's accustom'd to love;
And vast must that worth be which thousands can warm,
Yet wanting the aid—of the delicate charm.

How potent that delicate charm moves each sense,
Of the hero created for Beauty's defence!
It steals o'er his manhood, and plays with his peace,
And bids in sweet tones the fierce attributes cease;
Tho' apparent too weak any conquest to claim,
It wounds the heart deep, when it takes the least aim;
It agitates nerves with a rapture-born fear,
Which brac'd the broad target, and brandish'd the spear.

Mr. F. AICKIN.

Where a bold striking contour encircles the part,
Where manhood should make an attack on the heart;

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Where ancient Ferocity stalks unrestricted,
Or the old hardy virtues are ably depicted;
Let Aickin come forward, with confident claim,
And create a glad theme for the clarion of Fame.—
Such excellent force makes him honour'd by those
Who have wounded loud Fustian by rational blows;
It speaks him possess'd of the truth-wrapt sublime,
And wearing a judgment that's mellow'd by Time.—
When Cantwell declaims with an hypocrite zeal,
His gesture, his tones, prove the actor can feel;
He besieges adroitly the family treasure,
And the Muse and Perfection behold him with pleasure.

Yet oft-times a painful anxiety seems
To encumber his art, and defeat his best schemes;
It bears the vile face of a tacit-told thought,
Which implies that the audience are not what they ought,
In the points of Attention to high-finish'd skill;
But obey a relax'd indiscriminate will:

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This hapless conception has frequently made
The sensible Aickin Discretion invade;
Who, by striving to give wond'rous force to his song,
Strides over meek Right to impregnate base Wrong;
Makes Clytus with vulgariz'd impudence strut,
Like a Dutchman who dares a dull boor to play put;
Or old Louis quatorze, in each Parisian street,
Who looks as if treading the world 'neath his feet:
Gives the mien of a bully to Rome's angry peers,
And too copiously weeps when Macduff tells his fears;
Calls the errors of Mossop from forth the cold grave,
By preserving those failings good sense would not save;

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And, by running beyond the original test,
Turns the emphatic tone to a laugh-burthen'd jest;
With his R's and his M's invokes Discord to sing,
Till the Theatre's caves with harsh consonants ring.
Thus his energy mars the heroics he launches,
As rude gusts of wind tear the leaves from the branches.

But whoe'er sees his Pierre, and with-holds his applause,
Must be envious of Merit, or dead to the cause:
'Tis a delicate morsel, high season'd and good,
That to minds well attun'd will prove excellent food.

Mrs. KEMBLE.

To those who feel bless'd in the gentler desires,
And light their enjoyments at Love's hallow'd fires;

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To those adult fancies, where Grief cleaves to live,
And imbibe a delight which her plaints cannot give;
To those who with saint-like compassion survey
The breathing memorial of Beauty's decay;
Let Sympathy's child, pallid Kemble, be brought,
And give mimic sorrow to pliable thought.—
Her face, by soft Pensiveness touch'd and resin'd,
Seems tinted with woe, by the toils of her mind.
So the bust of bright Venus, by Excellence made,
Looks dim and imbrown'd 'neath the willow's sad shade.—
Ah! where is this nymph, who so exquisite play'd?
To what point of the globe has the copyist stray'd,
Who gave rural Stella the heart-wounding moan?
Who made simple Yarico's terrors her own?
That nymph we lament, who could foster the tear,
Whom Honor applauds, and the Virtues revere,
Is now making a circuit thro' half-peopled towns,
And led by harsh Fate 'fore illiterate clowns;

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Where in heavenly accents the Passions she wooes,
With a glance of expression that's dear to the muse;
As the crowds half-observant, with apathy gaze,
Unimpress'd by her force, and unskill'd in her lays.—
Thus sweet flowrets decay, in the wilds' ruthless air,
Thus Pilon was known but to madd'ning Despair;
Thus Cunningham wasted his bay-circled deed,
And charm'd rustic worth with his pastoral reed.—
But to soften her wanderings, and calm her meek will,
And nerve her to bear such an aggregate ill,
Fond radiant Genii her labours shall greet,
And Aurora's blythe Fays wipe the dew from her feet;
Young Zephyrs repel each rude blast with their wings;
And Echo redouble the note when she sings.

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She is sentenc'd to Want, by an Emperor's command,
And lives an example that's shewn round the land;
To affright injur'd Merit, from waging big war,
Like the heads that once wither'd on old Temple-Bar;
Or the mummy that keeps famish'd warblers from pilllage:
Or the law-chissel'd stocks which appal the rude village
To deter from rebellion the Drama's proud peers,
By a loss more important than heads or than ears;
A suppression of salary, rank, food and fame,
With the libel of power affix'd to her name.

As the Ægis once blaz'd with a death-giving ray,
And expell'd mortal Pride 'yond the threshold of Day;
May the shield of her honor extinguish her foes,
And Peace sooth her bosom where-ever she goes.

Mr. BOWDEN.

Lo! favour'd by Fate, see a minstrel advance,
Led on by Absurdity, Joke, Love and Dance;
As the favourite of Fortune, and Sound's brazen son,
The appendage of Opera, and innate of Fun.

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Hark! the rout mad and frantic, their pæans prepare,
And alarm the responsive dependents of air;
As the Fawn with his thyrsus, obtrudes on the day,
And Circe all-hails the deprav'd roundelay.—
With a port meanly awkward, yet tacitly proud,
Like Xerxes he leads human dolts in a crowd;
Who imitate Jacob, and do themselves wrong,
By resigning each sense for a wit-chilling song.—
—That musical mania, which tortures the times,
Provokes my regret, and gives birth to my rhymes:
But Prudence demands, should that Folly disgust us,
Which is nurtur'd by Taste, and upheld by Augustus!!!
—I would probe with the knife of Severity deep,
In this base motley beast, that can sing, laugh, and weep;
But such toil I disdain, as an Opera at best,
Is an error-made monster, and national jest;
Manufactur'd the reason of man to affright,
Insulting our wit, while it flatters the sight;
Like the deity Jos, who absolves China's sins,
And is worship'd by fools, 'cause he's ugly and grins.

In opposing the follies and vice of the stage,
I must stand as a mark for the arrows of Rage;
Proscrib'd from those douceurs enjoy'd by that crowd,
Who are mean without merit, and servile tho' loud;
If I fall by Resentment, effecting my plan,
I hope when I'm martyr'd, to fall—like a man.—
Oh! I'm sick to the soul, to see Music alone,
Stretch her negligent length on the Drama's gay throne;

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Where Muses more honor'd by Wisdom should sit,
To adorn the heart's mirror, and fashion our wit.
Let the Wench have her place, as a Wench worth respecting,
But to wound her old sisters, is base and affecting:
As all the high orders of Science deplore,
That their use is neglected, and influence is o'er.—
Tho' obedient Shields charms the ear by his skill,
He exalts his meek name, by resigning his will.
And Linley pens canzonets Pleasure holds dear,
Tho' Pensiveness dims every note with a tear;
But Arnold steps forward with colossal stride,
To command in the van, and diminish their pride;

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Unabash'd he disports with the Orphean lyre,
As Judgment and Harmony temper his fire;
While the spirit of Handel, with rapture imprest,
Thinks the doomsday is o'er, and it flits mid the bless'd.

Public Taste is a despot which sports with the mind,
As inconstant as chaff that's impell'd by the wind;
It runs o'er the soil, like the serpent of Thebes,
And poisons our splendor, and roots up our glebes;
It exists in despite of the frowns of high Phœbus,
For the land is unbless'd with a letter'd Choræbus.
E'en the points of perfection are hid by its fools,
That Folly may sport with the Stygyrites rules;
But our weaknesses shoot in each progressive season,
As our lives are at best—a reproach to our reason;

216

And we painfully think, at each revolving sun,
Of the little we did, and the much to be done:
Can we feel the quick pulse, run its race o'er and o'er,
And not dream that its warmth may this eve be no more?
Let Thought view the chiefs under Death's sable banners,
Then establish a moral to chasten our manners;
The lyrical Stevens, whose song bless'd the bowl,
And Mossop who knew measur'd thunders to roll;
With the elegant Digges, who could errors refine,
In puerile weakness met Nature's decline;
The ear-piercing rebeck no more shall awake 'em,
Or the terrors of Responsibility shake 'em;
Now Ross claims the tribute of public regard,
And beautiful Hartley from Hope pleads reward.
When Disease loos'd that zone which had brighten'd her day,
She threw Laughter's vizor indignant away;
Shun'd the gaze of that world, which she once met with pride,
Like a care-stricken doe, with the barb in her side.

Miss BRUNTON.

When prodigies peep on the earth, or in air,
Mankind for some great revolution prepare;

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And somewhat like that may young Brunton be nam'd,
Who the meeds of Desert has successfully claim'd.—
Ere fifteen green summers had mellow'd her age,
She rush'd to the van of a profligate stage;
Threw Melpomene's robe o'er her juvenile shoulders,
And, seizing her bowl, shook the faith of beholders.—
Tho' her mind and her powers I gladly admire,
She has much to unlearn, and yet more to acquire;
But greatness is form'd from contracted beginnings,
As Scott made his plum by progressional winnings;
And the order of Corinth, whose value is known,
To embellish the pile, and give beauty to stone,
From a sprig of acanthus Callimachus made,
Which secluced a tomb with its reverend shade;
And Sculpture's in debt, when she noblest succeeds,
For this standard of Grace—to a basket and weeds.

Her voice and her body give birth to my wonder,
'Tis a marvellous instance of pigmy-born thunder;
'Tis a giant's big voice, when a giant's in ire,
Drawn forth from a frame shap'd for love and desire;
As a striking example, the curious may take her,
Where the chain of analogy's broke by our Maker;
Where opposite faculties press on the sense,
To poze and defy philosophic defence.

218

Now her eyes flashing issue a heart-catching beam,
Now she rumbles out notes like a bear in a dream;
'Tis like Rodney's pursuits, or the acts of a jury,
A succession of deeds fraught with sunshine or fury.
As her merits are great, and her will seems obedient,
I'll teach her Propriety's happiest expedient.

Let Nature unshackled fulfil her calm duty,
As the twistings of infants are marshall'd by Beauty.
Let that serpent of Science the Stagyrite stole,
Lick the nerves of your system, and twine round your soul:
As the zig zags of Glory are harder to find,
Than the Lemnian maze or a Frenchwoman's mind.
In some versatile parts you must supplicate Fate,
That your gifts may change places like Vectius estate;
Remember in tragic exertions to blend,
Those acts which the million can feel and commend:
As Melpomene's honors are quaint and precarious,
And oft dwell in tricks that are false and nefarious:
For a cobweb partition but subt'ly divides
That effort an audience respects or derides;
And a sameness of e'en the best action will tire,
As the eye, like the Turk, many forms must admire;
And the sky gaily chequer'd's more pleasing to view
Than one wide expanse of etherial blue.—
Keep the interests of Farce at an unmeasur'd distance,
Nor e'er give that monster your potent assistance;

219

Treat the Prompter the same as old hunks does his treasure,
Keep the man in reserve, to be mov'd at your pleasure,
But let not your faults into action seduce him;
Like hunks praise his virtues, but pray—never use him.
If you lean on his shoulders too oft for the cue,
That Fame which attends you will soon bid adieu!
And recede to give force to your action and fire,
As those who leap farthest must previous retire;
Avoid Snuff, as an instrument sent by Pollution,
To murder your accents, and young constitution;
It gives to vast Siddons her sharp nasal twangs,
And forms all those hooks on which Dissonance hangs;
When Nature on stilts, in heroics expires,
And that nymph gives Absurdity—all she desires.—
Make your voice, like an ally, your gesture befriend,
And arrange its beginning, its middle, and end;

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Preserve all the unities, true as they ought,
For they're full as essential to acting as thought;
And those rules by which Greece chain'd the Drama's decorum,
The play-wright and player should both have before 'em;
Nor e'er let a vulgar demeanour obtrude,
To debase your neat form, by a habit that's rude;
For e'en Venus offends, tho' the child of a Deus,
As she takes up her vest, to survey the glutæus.—
Let your notes touch the ear by nice skill-fraught degrees,
That their bursts may not wound, nor their tameness displease;
For those players exist, whose vile epicæne tones,
Resemble big thunder, or infantine groans;
As the bells of a convent unequal assail,
When Eolus sports with the fugitive gale:
You should meliorate both, and their harshness refine,
As the forge can make obstinate bodies combine:
Thus opposite elements profit by ire,
And the air in a rage oft regenerates fire.—
Study Reason's arpeggio to minister pleasure,
And keep relative notes in their relative measure.
Scorn to borrow from any, 'twill mislead your youth;
If you wish to improve, ope the folios of Truth;
For like Lebanon cedars, those graces you wanted,
Lose their worth, and decay when the root is transplanted.

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Write this rule in your mind, for tho' ideots may scoff it,
If you mean to act well—'tis the law and the prophet.
When Truth takes the helm, as the novitiates guide,
She may ride unappall'd where the rocks break the tide;
By her precepts enlighten'd, the actress explores
The heights and the shelvings of critical shores;
No malevolent Scylla need shake her with fear,
As the danger's far off, tho' the object is near;
Unobtrusively sweet, every cadence runs o'er,
And we hear till the wish craves each sense to have more.
Remember the stage is Morality's school,
Which should give social life both example and rule.
You must husband your pence, for that time may arrive,
When your wealth can alone keep attention alive;
As theatric commanders are apt to forget
That object to whom they're immensely in debt:
As boys use an orange, they deal with their prey,
Who the juice having squeez'd, throw the rind far away:
Thus Merit's destroy'd by each dramatic schemer,
Like Papists who furiously—eat their Redeemer.—

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Put your trust not in Princes, or oaths, or to-morrow;
See Pinto consum'd by the slow worm of Sorrow:
She's chain'd by cold Want and gives Horror a tear,
Who once held in bondage the national ear.—
Be jealous of every competitor guide,
Who would poison your fame, by debauching your pride;
For thus Envy creeps in, with her politic spite,
To hide infant worth, like the mantle of Night;
Even Garrick, like Saturn, by Terror betray'd,
Oft devoured that being his labours had made!—
Lay a curb on your transports, and govern your sighs,
To illustrate the passion which beams in your eyes;
And leave it to Nature to wring from your breast
That pathos which ought to be forceful exprest;
You must re-re-revise your professional errors.
'Till Labour shall fashion a grave for your terrors.

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Thus Florists trim plants that the stem of the flower
May be warm'd by the sun, and refresh'd by the shower.
But copy not Siddons in every start,
As to imitate aught is reducing your art;
Her masculine figure admits of a stride,
Which in you Common Sense would be apt to deride;
And select with much care the false taste from the true,
For what's pleasing in her may disgust us in you;
Be content with calm praise, when by Tragedy lur'd,
For but one is enjoy'd, where nineteen are endur'd.

Melpomene once was a nymph of respect,
Tho' now, like a strumpet, she's scoff'd by Neglect:
Time was when she summon'd her legions about her,
And Fashion was known to be wretched without her;
But, ah me! what a change! Lo, the Siddons is sleeping,
As Comedy triumphs, and Madness is weeping;
For the Sight 'gainst the Judgment has ceas'd to rebel,
And the pale pensive maniac's long been unwell;
As the dagger, the bowl, and the mien, all forlorn,
Unanimity gave to omnipotent Scorn;

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And her Ohs! and her Ahs! and her Starts! and her Stares!
Which so long have affrighed poor Wit from his prayers,
Are all laid in the dust, like mere mortal machines,
Since inquisitive Wisdom pervaded the scenes;
As Philosophy laughs at their comical doom,
And Reason, all-jubilant, sports on their tomb;
While Kemble desponding gives way to his fears,
And Davies is mute, and poor Hull hangs his ears.
Once Brinsley in sport aim'd a desperate blow,
Which shatter'd her influence, and murder'd her woe;
Tho' Fame clapp'd her wings, when she saw him indite it,
He has since curs'd the zeal which impell'd him to write it;
For he now lives in want, tho' his genius forbid it,
And the Muse shews her wound, and tells Richard—he did it.

Mr. WEWITZER.

In those portraitures tinted with Gallic grimace,
Who but Wewitzer's fitted to stand in the place?
But, like Hobson, the oaf is Necessity's debtor,
As the town calls him best, for the want of a better:

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In this dearth of desert, few his claims will examine;
Thus rats become dainties where God sends a famine.
As colloquial wit would embarrass his skill,
All the points must be modell'd to square with his will;
'Tis not equal to manage Thalia's tight rein,
When the jest-loving wench squeezes Laughter's warm brain.
Like a racer, light mounted, he oft wins the plate,
But is distanc'd with ease, if you add to his weight;
Yet his Caius and Clowns we may see and admire,
And his Bellair, like glass, is engender'd by fire.
When he's cast for old men, to elude keen Derision,
He should burn his white wigs, and recede from the vision:
For his character feels all Contempt can impart,
When he confident raves in a substitute part.
If an Edwin by Malady's tied to his chair,
Can a Wewitzer hope to succeed such a play'r?
Would not Truth be offended, and Sense cock her nose,
To view size-stunted Quick in tall Cambray's cloaths?
Tho' the universe Atlas could bear without dread,
A dwarf must be crush'd—with the world on his head.

Mrs. MARTYR.

See Harmony joyant burst wild on the stage,
To give a young sorceress up to the age;

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'Tis all-alive Martyr who claims Beauty's throne,
And marks indirectly each gazer her own.—
Feel the aggregate raptures that live in her sigh,
See the love-darting blaze of her black rolling eye;
Which eloquent speaks all the wish can desire,
And silently whispers—the pulse is on fire!
Mark that killing air-riant exalting her strains,
See Dignity bowing, and Passion in chains;
Not the regal Persephone look'd more divine,
Whom Dis bore triumphant to hell's aweful shrine:
Those rich sable locks, which o'ershadow her brow,
Frigidity warms and provokes the fierce vow;
In irregular ringlets they happily wave,
To hook the blithe hearts of the wise, young, and brave;
In delicious disorder they artlessly break
On those soft snowy mountains which hallow her neck.
Could Ptolemy's relict such witcheries have wore,
Who rul'd the Egyptians on Nile's fruitful shore,

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To have call'd such all-potent enchantments her own,
She'd have given a province, perhaps too—her throne;
For sure gallant Cæsar could never have fled,
Had tresses so lovely but play'd round her head.

While simplicity charms, shall her Phœbe be priz'd;
When she sings, that calm stillness is praise undisguis'd;
Her arch replication's her fame's surest guard,
And her Cherry demands every critic's reward:
But should sentiment fail in conveying its zest,
Her beauty obtrudes, and performs all the rest.—
In her happiest moments, when voice, grace, and ease,
Give the mirth-waking nymph every power to please;
Even Guilt forgets fear, and the sisters of Sin
Hear away all those woes which corroded within;
And her tones stop the rage of intemperate motion,
As oil smooths the swell of the turbulent ocean.
I know not that nymph who can wield Pleasure's dart,
With more skill to transfix the warm core of the heart;
Not the brunettes of Greece, nor those bright peerless maids
Who lay panting by groupes in Circassia's shades:—
Where she treads, bounteous Nature receives her with bliss,
And the sod gladly hails the pedestrian kiss;
The violets emulous blazon more blue,
And the hyacinth breathes with a gaudier hue;
Pomona's best gifts wear a lovelier bloom,
And the valley diffuses a richer perfume;
While the village-bred minstrels, subdu'd by her sound,
Throw their rude oaten pipes in despair on the ground;

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As Cynthia's light fairies, who flit from the day,
Peep from flow'ret buds, to catch bliss from her lay.
It is wond'rous to sing, but those Time-gather'd snows
Which the petrified bosom of Apathy froze,
With rapidity melt 'neath the beam of her eye,
As the Passions o'erleap their cold cell with a sigh,
Range at large thro' those regions to Happiness known,
And drag their old tyrant to Extacy's throne.

Mr. WILSON.

When the grim dart of Death (which was never known neuter)
Touch'd the warm spinal essence of matchless old Shuter;

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Gay Wilson appear'd somewhat aw'd by his dread,
As the droll locum tenens of comical Ned;
(Unfortunate Ned, who lov'd Virtue's behest,
Tho' his wit was a doubt, and his being a jest;
He marr'd those great faculties God had prepar'd him,
And died like a driveller, tho' Excellence rear'd him;
For with Tinkers and Taylors he jok'd and he booz'd,
Till the wine thro' the pores of his cranium ooz'd.)
But long since has been drove to the north of our isle,
To make Caledonia's gaunt family smile.—
When Wilson departed from Truth's rigid rules,
The defection seem'd only enormous to fools;
If he fail'd to adhere to the judicious letter,
Your hearty old men have not since been play'd better;
And the part of Don Jerome remains to be sold,
E'en tho' Edwin bid loud, with high-priz'd sterling gold:
And for want of a Hardcastle, Sense might admire,
Poor Goldsmith's broad pleasantries sleep with their sire:

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Tho' the Manager held not his merits too dearly,
No comedian's loss has been felt more severely.—
A strong zeal to be right made him oft seem untoward,
As some men become rash to avoid the term—coward;
If he bled in his fame for so noble a daring,
Still the folly was blanch'd by a spoil worth the wearing.
He resembled that soldier who mounted the wall,
In despite of the foe, or his general's call,
And tore down the standard, tho' bullets had lam'd him,
While tremb'ling Discretion imperiously blam'd him.
Oh! I love such an ardour that springs unaffected,
I honor the source, tho' the flame's ill directed;
I hate that cold bosom which starts at a leap;
In beings like those, the great attributes sleep;
Such caution makes Fate view his works with a tear,
For the meanest of all mean emotions—is Fear.

Turn your eyes to John Kemble, pert, prim, and erect,
An automaton actor, who's led by Defect;
That stalker who makes the sense doubt e'en reality,
That ill chizell'd stiff eldest son of Formality;
Cut and prun'd like the shrubs in a Dutchman's domain,
Where the beauties of Nature are artfully slain;
See he stumps o'er the stage, as the Twisses adore him,
And Ease and the Graces in fright scud before him.
From his full classic lip the minc'd periods steal,
For that God gave him thought who deny'd him to feel;
On the shelves of his mind, vile hyperboles sleep,
With maxims and indexes, heap over heap:

231

Mark the gallant Lord Gayville compress'd by his hands,
Like a taylor on drill in the yellow train-bands;
'Tis in all points of view so absurd an exertion,
His sister's mad Rosalind caus'd less diversion.
Had Seduction no chief better taught for her uses,
King's Place would want tenants, and Frailty excuses.
See! he moves as if Nature of warmth had bereft him,
And all the strong Passions disgusted had left him
E'en the thunder of Jove, or the element's ire,
Combining their wrath, could not kindle his fire.
If this is a rake, who all-hails Fashion's fiat,
He's been fed with restringments, and curtain-rod diet;
Tho' the scowl of his eye should seem ravenous for Beauty,
His heart and his limbs both rebel 'gainst the duty.
Will the Town permit Truth to be smote by Offence?
Cannot Cunning be drove from the regions of Sense?
Tho' Comedy's sinking like stars from their spheres,
Can we see her declension and govern our tears?

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So Gentleman Smith, whom the Muse lov'd and trusted,
Retreats from her service, annoy'd and disgusted;
Thus meek Montezuma, with horror retir'd,
And left a Banditti that spoil they desir'd.

Mrs. MORTON.

As the sad solemn Eve takes a peep and recedes,
The chaste-nurtur'd Morton for tolerance pleads;
But tho' Destiny narrows her simply-wrought feat,
Her will meets the act which is pleasantly neat;

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If the root won't admit of much ramification,
Those branches which spread bear the fruit of Duration:
'Tis that lunacy only can grandly offend,
When the exploit and capacity strongly contend.—
—To see Queensbury wedded to Marlboro's sweet daughter,
Or the rough Lord of Effingham sprinkling rose water;
The host of Bath Easton correcting dull sonnets,
Or Lady Page Turner new-darning old bonnets;
Would excite honest Rage to some act of hostility,
To drive such things back—to the paths of utility.—
That such wonders have happen'd, each hour brings witness,
And the sense waxeth wrath, when the talent wants fitness.

Mr. LEE LEWES.

Co-equal to Lun, in the pantomime graces,
Lee Lewes the dumb necromancy embraces;

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And the harlequin jerk is to him so attracting,
That it steals thro' his mien in colloquial acting.—
In the smart replication he mostly excels,
When Pertness or Wit in the character dwells;
His Flutter was great, but it dignified trash,
Like the heads of wise monarchs on base metal cash,
As of old in Ierne would currently pass,
When the phiz of black James made a crown of bad brass:
But the uniform traits were not constantly brought,
In the focus of Truth, to accord with the thought;
For his own understanding oft broke down the fence,
And the fop spoke at times like a coxcomb of sense.
His Razor's a copy of palpable mould,
Deriv'd from an origin sharp, true, and bold:
It is Woodward in voice, gesture, feeling, and feature;
And seems like a strange resurrection of Nature.

Mrs. WILSON.

Beneath some vile turf in her kindred clay,
The atoms of Wilson are melting away;

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In some negligent spot, with coarse thistles o'ergrown,
Far remote from her fathers, she moulders unknown:
In the heyday of life this incontment gipsey,
Seiz'd Pleasure's vast goblet, and drank until tipsy;
But Fate saw the deed and to Sickness consign'd it,
Thus the draught, like the Danube, left ruin behind it.
She was mown in the bloom, like a rose in its prime,
Ere her ringlets were thinn'd by the minions of Time.
Who can bring her gay wiles 'fore the Memory's eye,
And with-hold the big tear, or refuse the sad sigh?
Such reciprocal debts we should chearfully give,
As Hopes whispers Love, our remains may receive.—
Her death like those posts by a parish bestow'd,
Should shew her successors the regular road;
As in eloquent language her sepulchre tells,
She had stray'd from that mansion where Innocence dwells.
A bright maid who from ills can more certainly screen us,
Than the ton of flush'd Bacchus, or myrtle of Venus.

When she sung, her awards were the meeds worth imploring.
As the roof of the theatre rung with encoring;

236

Tho' a bankrupt in voice, yet her spirit inspir'd,
And the points of her ditty were heard and admir'd:
In the vice-tinted Edging her powers best blaz'd,
There her artifice charm'd, and her method amaz'd!
For the low vulgar guile she so ably sustain'd,
That Perception had doubt if the cunning was feign'd.

Mr. CAMBRAY.

The chissel of Phidias, when fancy was warm,
Ne'er call'd out of stone a more exquisite form;
Tho' we read of his gods, and Antinous behold,
The figure of Cambray surpasses each mould;
And reduces their value as much in our eye,
As a Farren must feel when an Abington's by:

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Like the taper and sun, tho' they both may be bright,
Weak beams are absorb'd—by superior light,
When he rav'd in young Ammon, his confidence slew him,
And his mental Bucephalus furiously threw him.—
He should stop the approaches of turbulent fire,
When Energy's heat would the passions inspire;
Such force, like a torrent, oppresses the sense,
And breaks down those dams Wit had rais'd for defence;
Spoils the regions of Taste unrestrain'd by command,
And, tho' meant for a blessing, inundates the land.—
His Jaffier, tho' deck'd with much personal grace,
Is a part that's too vast for his skill to embrace;
When he yields up his honor'd associate Pierre,
As the martyr to one weak uxorious tear;
No beam that's divine round his periods play,
No signs of the god lift the man from his clay;
'Tis a mortal exertion to Common Sense due,
That is well, but not great; and tho' pleasant, not true.

The labours of Garrick were labours that fed,
With salubrious sallies, the heart and the head;
A sweet mental diet correcting the bile,
Which it turn'd, by its passing, to excellent chyle;
A sublimate off'ring, just caught from the fire,
When Reason's bless'd heat bid all grossness retire,
That its subtelties then, more prevailing and pure,
Might probe Wisdom's wounds, and establish a cure;

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Raise a warfare 'gainst errors which Weakness prescrib'd,
And exterminate follies the system imbib'd.—

Ere he burst in Othello, to seize tragic spoils,
An over-strain'd policy ruin'd his toils:
Hideous puffs, like base Croats, were plac'd on each post,
To precede the dread march of the regular host;
Affirming the public in duty were bound,
To exalt this astonishing—mouther of sound!
So Kemble each day meets with Lunacy's praise,
Tho' Laughter destroys more than Madness can raise:
For puffs ill-conceiv'd, by such sinister elves,
Drag a ruin along, and recoil on themselves.—
Thus Hannibal felt, when his well-phalanx'd foes,
Led their legions the vow-shackl'd chief to oppose;
Drove his elephants back with unbounded destruction,
And what Pride meant as glory, Death us'd as Seduction.

Mrs. BROWN.

When a strange mawkish miracle crosses our road,
Or peeps unawares in the public abode,
John Bull, like a beast as he is, stares with wonder,
And cuts his rewards and his reason asunder!
Hence the deification of sapient swine,
Hence those dull sonneteers who made Jordan divine;

239

But as Envy is ever Calamity breeding,
Like the Demon who tickled our mother in Eden;
That base wench to oppose this divinity brought
A Brown Angel with every excellence fraught;
Then these petticoat chiefs met in aweful array,
As Momus and Mummery fed the loud fray;
In the Virgin, pert Tomboy, and all those mad misses,
Where Folly the skirts of Outrageousness kisses;
These heroines cuff'd, like your knights in old stories,
Or Ward and Mendoza for—vulgariz'd glories.
Thus each tugg'd the oar in the boat till she fretted,
And doubled, and wrangled, and laugh'd, wept, and sweated;
Till the Parent of Thunder's supreme resolution,
Extinguish'd the limbs of this low prostitution;
Then the issue was dreadful—poor Brown lost her honor,
As Fate, in a rage—threw the Jordan upon her.

Mr. BERNARD.

Agile Bernard, thro' George's three nations well known,
In Archer's disguise made his bow to the town;

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But who gave him that part, prov'd in fact but his foe,
As no bulwark he rais'd—twixt the groom and the beau.
'Tis the actors of France know the use of those arms,
Which were meant by our God anatomical charms;
Tho', if we may judge from our players strange duties,
All believe them incumbrances—none think them beauties!
And to prove how impatient their feelings abide 'em,
In the pocket or bosom with industry hide 'em:—
But that tale would amaze, such a tale could I tell,
That a country-bred actor play'd gentlemen well;
There the grant to do wrong but enervates the will,
And Nature unbridled, oft wanders to Ill.

If high-born example can qualify wrong,
Pleasant Bernard may quote England's historic song;
Warm and wild with his errors, unshackl'd he rov'd,
As the heart strongly urg'd what the mind disapprov'd:
Thus the jest-loving Charles, and his comic adherents,
Assum'd Britain's sceptre, as Laughter's vicegerents;
Having smil'd 'mid the Belgæ, they seiz'd Albion's throne,
When exotic follies corrupted their own.—

'Tis not ludicrous tricks can upraise a strange name,
Or give mask'd Desert to the volumes of Fame;

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For the part and the habit must both be convey'd,
To the critical eye, as the man and his shade.
—But let him not droop at his fate, or regret it;
When the diamond is polish'd, the public will set it;
Tho' the town and the claimant oft growl when they meet,
Yet Custom at length makes their bickerings sweet;
Till enraptur'd his feebleness Charity sees,
And their atoms commix by a chain of degrees.
If an actor for years has repeated a crime,
Still the edge of that error is blunted by Time;
Hence Hull is permitted his post to retain,
And the tones of a Bensley are heard without pain!!!
The audience of London, (thus all know the case is)
Are notoriously fond—of old friends and old faces!
And well must he know all the wiles of Seduction,
Tho' indebted to Wit for a brief introduction;
Who by efforts of dignified worth can remove
The fim harden'd base of their old fashion'd love;
For misled by its whisperings oft Judgment retires,
While Peace warms the bosom with Amity's fires.

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Mrs. PLATT.

As Purity stalks with a taper before her,
See Platt look on heaven, while vestals adore her;
Tho' a mistress by name, still the nymph's a mere miss,
As her lip never met the connubial kiss;
If giggling spinsters by myriads have throng'd to it,
She abhorr'd the enjoyment, and all that belong'd to it.
No vile flaunting roses are seen in her breast,
She laughs not at saucy Indecency's jest;
She ne'er was relax'd by young Love's fierce offences,
Tho' Time's busy handmaids have jaundic'd her senses.
A strong dread of the Incubi cleaves round her soul,
And holds all her passions in trembling controul;
For she suffers no thing, in the shape of a man,
To peep o'er her tucker, or play with—her fan.
When this tulip of maidenhood first saw the light,
Her brows mark'd the infant—a foe to Delight;
The first words that escap'd, in a soul-heaving sigh,
Were Man is a monster! pish! psha! and oh fie!
Like a sensitive plant known by innate debility,
She trembled, and shrunk from—the touch of virility;
On her lack-ruby lip, see 'tis written most clearly,
—Who-e'er ventures here—shall be punish'd severely;
Not the frozen Lucretia, whom Vice put her feet on,
Or the scar'd Britomartis who div'd from the Cretan;

243

Or the cold headless Winifred, dear to North Wales,
Nor Ursula holy, of whom they've wove tales,
With the thousands of virgins she piously led,
And who Claude on the canvas still keeps from the dead,
Were half so precise, lofty, cautious or chaste,
For no masculine finger e'er sullied her—waist;—
That waist which ne'er swell'd by a warm constitution,
Like the conjurer's circle, defies all pollution.
She oft carols sweet, tho' she never sings loud,
And the end of each ditty is—woman be proud.

I ne'er saw her play but nine times in my life,
And each portrait was then—nor maid, widow, or wife;
But like Mecca's fam'd tomb that's suspended on high,
A strange thing unattach'd to the land or the sky;
A ridiculous biped (for Spleen had suborn'd it,)
That just trod the stage, but—to shew how it scorn'd it.

Mr. QUICK.

With his gibes and his quiddities, cranks, and his wiles,
His croak and his halt, and his smirks and his smiles;

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View the smart tiny Quick, giving grace to a joke,
With a laugh-loving eye, or a leer equivoke.—
Madam Spleen shuns that rogue with particular care,
And flies to a palace, to keep from Despair:
She hates the blythe dwarf with immoderate rage,
And for fear of his power ne'er visits the stage;
Or e'en ventures abroad, her fix'd dreads have so won her,
Except with a duchess or stray maid of honour.

Of all the bright parts which he fills with high credit,
His Drugget's the best, and 'tis Judgment has said it:

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There are others more priz'd by a common affection,
But none that so nearly approaches perfection.—
A great part of the audience alone feel delight,
When the heart can be mov'd thro' the medium of sight;
Tho' the sound's as important, when artfully stealing
Thro' the chinks of the ear it alarms all our feeling;
But seeing's the grand and the primary sense,
Thro' which every nerve receives bliss or offence;
Turns the force of the relative four to a jest;
For the sight, like a bawd, prostitutes all the rest.

With an inborn regret, and a sigh that's conceal'd,
He joins Mummery's flag in the dramatic field;
Yet the act's not his own, 'tis swoln Folly demands it,
And he must be obedient, when Fashion commands it:
There's sorcery in nonsense which leads us astray,
Tho' Wisdom attempts to exorcise the way;
We're bewitch'd from ourselves, in an imbecile nick,
And subscribe to the art, tho' we talk 'gainst the trick;

246

As prudes rail at passion, with vehement din,
And profess to chain sense, tho'—they privately sin.—

It is strange to assert, but 'tis Truth tells the story,
That your small individuals are dearest to Glory:
It should seem that the souls of diminutive men,
Are too vast for their brittle corporeal den;
And impel their possessors o'er mountains to leap,
While the big race of mortals half petrified sleep:
Hence Berlin's late lord made the world kiss his rod,
And the victor of India was hail'd as a god;
While chiefs full as valiant are kept from the fray,
As their minds are depress'd—by the weight of their clay.

Mrs. MATTOCKS.

With a sort of a cobweb-like half-tatter'd pride,
That is gay but not good, like a lustring thrice dy'd;

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With the jerk of a Thais, an eye mark'd by Cunning,
And a small mincing step that's nor walking or running,
All-confident Mattocks befeather'd descry,
Who, ere her tongue speaks, her front says—here am I!
In high life or low, in the palace or cot,
Her mind's leading feature is never forgot:
Be the part old or young, witty, flippant, or dull,
A rustic, a countess, a romp, or a fool;
The jig indecorous steps in to confound it,
And like dogs when distracted, runs rapidly round it—
Unappropriate grins, like a fool at confession,
Or the shrugs of a Gaul at the void of expression;
With impertinent titterings, make up that measure,
Which Wit meant an offering for rational Pleasure.—
She was once prais'd by Truth, happy, artless and gay,
But a wish to be more makes her efforts outrè;
Thus old belles patch their wrinkles when vanities mad 'em,
To regenerate charms they mis-us'd when they had 'em.
When she aped Lady Racket (as Phrenzy once tried her)
Her address near effected what Nature denied her;
The bold minx turn'd a thief, in the Muses' abode,
And stole all she could, from bright Abington's code;
She would hide the rich theft, when the credulous praise her,
But Truth draws the curtain, and, angry, betrays her;
Now 'tis seen thro' and thro' by a curious eye,
Like the transparent wing of a summer-dry'd fly;

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Or the unnapp'd remains of—an honest man's coat,
Or the old water-mark of a hacknied bank-note.

Mr. HULL.

Lo! Chearfulness flies from the haunts of poor Hull,
Who's adust, melancholic, somnific and dull;
The flame of his mind lacks additional fuel,
His passions are cold, and his words—water-gruel:
Like a walleted pilgrim, he looks desolation,
As his eye craves from Pity the timely donation!
No tons of impulsive phlogiston were treasur'd
In the stores of his frame, when his vitals were measur'd;

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For th' Almighty design'd him in buskins to tread,
As a tyrant in wood, like the Saracen's head.—
Like a poor knight of Windsor, by royalty drest,
His honours but make him—the but of a jest;
With a sense-goading lisp he pursues his vocation,
And feeds half the fools who profess—Imitation!
Borrows six pounds a-week from the ill-gotten treasure,
And murders the idiom of Britain at pleasure.—

To lacerate acting like his with my pen,
Where charging a cannon, to tear—a poor wren;
Let the man have his broth, and applaud the Creator
That Charity marshals the scenic narrator;
Tho' we all must feel bless'd at the tragical fact,
When the Bard slaughters Hull—in the Drama's first act.
He once sought the Muses conven'd in their bowers,
To claim a reward for his poetic powers;
When he ask'd for his caput some decent apparel,
They gave him a night-cap—instead of a laurel!
To shield Dulness' seat, from the pressure of pains,
And preserve all that fungus his God meant for brains.—
In verbal arrangements he's chief mid the chimers,
And an excellent helpmate to Bell's flying rhymers.
Or to grace his Pantheon, with poppy bound rods,
Be drawn as a Morpheus to honor his Gods.
He may then highly strengthen the interests of Sleep,
Whose toils have too long made our Aristarchs weep.
But minstrels like Hull, fret this Saturn-crush'd age,
And encumber the closet, as well as the stage;

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We have Greatheads and Yearsleys, and Sewards, and Mores,
Who rave with Cimmerian influence by scores;
A Beotian husk, for such faculties fit,
Enfolds their ideas and cases their wit;
Who count their minc'd periods, as misers count pence,
And first think of harmony, then—think of sense;
Who have glean'd fertile Byche of all good he can yield,
As the poor of the hamlet strip Ceres' rich field;
Who coldly correct, have accomplish'd their ends,
By the dull visitation of classical friends;
Tho' no grain of rich ore gives true worth to the mine,
Tho' no feature of Genius illumines a line;
Who fine-draw the delicate theme from the head,
And toil at the texture, and rhime themselves dead;
But such phrase-haberdashers and epithet finders,
Are not poets innate, but mere Poetry-grinders.

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How Dryden would smile, could he rise from the dead,
And behold such refin'd—preparations of lead!—
When the half famish'd Bard gives his Wit-woven lay,
From the jaws of the press, to the broad eye of day;
Who draws on his fancy for viands and raiment,
And sinks into woe, if he fails—in prompt payment.
Uncandid Reviewers, abusing their duties,
Will feed on his errors—but sleep o'er his beauties:
For, alas! he's too poor to suborn one vile name,
To forge a base draught on that prostitute Fame;
Then like villainous watchmen, corrupted by pence,
They'll wink at a thief, but insult Common Sense;
If rich, they'll applaud Hawkins' trash to the skies,
If poor, Otway's labours affect to despise!
—Sure Phœbus in ire will lift up his hand,
And strike, like the Python, such plagues from the land.

Mrs. WEBB.

Like a lusty old Sybil, who rambles elate,
With a raven-ton'd voice, to anticipate Fate;
Mark Webb, like a whale, bear her fatness before her,
As the sprats of the Drama for mercy implore her;

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Her high-garnish'd phiz give young Pleasantries birth,
And her well-fed abdomen's a mountain of mirth:
See the coarse-hewn old Dowager's mix'd with the rest,
Like a piece of brown dowlas near lace from Trieste;
And darts her huge beak for the prizes and pickings,
As an overgrown hen amidst delicate chickens:
Impertinent Doubts run to measure her size,
While Temperance looks at her frame with surprise.
Her airs are as harsh as a Brighthelmstone dipper,
And loosely assum'd like a pantaloon's slipper;
Tho' base without force, like the oath of a harlot,
Or the impudent grin of a shoulder-deck'd varlet.—
This mould of the fair sex is true female stuff,
And warm at the heart, tho' her—manners are rough:
Like Queen Bess she disdains the resistance of man,
And knocks down a peer with the end of her fan;
Old Care knits his brows to coerce and impale her,
And eyes her with hatred, but dare not assail her.
For social contumely cares not a fig,
For if none call her great, all the world swears she's big.
She's a beef-lin'd adherent to thundering Rage,
And a prop of vast import to Wit and the stage;
But Bards have too potently season'd her song,
Which like garlic in soup makes the pottage too strong:
For by playing old furies so apt and so often,
No human device can the habitude soften;
Thus an exotic sapling we frequently see,
When engrafted by Art, become part of the tree.—

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So poignant a mind in a vulgariz'd shell,
Resembles a bucket of gold in a well;
'Tis like Ceylon's best spice in a rude-fashion'd jar,
Or Comedy coop'd in a Dutch man of war.

Mr. RYDER.

When Ryder, with sighs, left that mirth-loving spot
Where the sins of the man in the friend are forgot;

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All-bounteous Ierne, who gives drink and diet,
But when Gratitude speaks—bids the crater be quiet!
With his faults on his forehead he met the fierce eye
Of those critical squadrons who write—but to lie.
As it ne'er was his subtle and illusive lot
To envelope what is, by a shew of what's not;
His performance was bold, if not always correct,
And his mien, like his mind, was august and direct.
But this is a land where Deception embraces
The mean fawning caitiff who Nature disgraces;
And transcendent Ability cannot protect
Its own proper lord from the public neglect;
There's a social sophistry crept into life,
Which keeps modest Merit and Honor at strife;
For the surface contents those averse to much toil,
And but few take the pains to examine the soil;
Such men, like th' Ephemera, should rapid decay,
And be born, blaze, and perish, within the same day;
As their praise puts the kindred of Doubt into motion,
Like a lawyer when caught—at religious devotion.—

Those actors there are, who have touch'd silly hearts,
Impell'd by a congress of pitiful hearts;

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Upheld by those Journals which blaze in the day,
Tho' their numbers and jarrings lead Reason astray;

256

Unknown to example, he acts from his feeling,
And scorns his compeers who get rich by their stealing.
Iv'e seen him play Wolsey with wonderful force,
I've seen him in Zanga draw tears from their source;
His Ironside, Hob, Scrub, Tom, Scapin, and Ben,
Are parts where he equals the dramatists' pen;
And his Miser, like Rigby's blithe board, when he treats,
Is surrounded by richness, and pregnant with sweets;
Propriety smiles in such habits to find him,
As he leaves all his rivals at distance behind him.—
Had the Graces but moulded his visage and figure,
In the censor's stern eye no adept would seem bigger:
He has failings, 'tis true, but where's he who has none?
Yet his faults are like blots in the radiant sun;
Which Envy had dash'd, but she found by Surprise
That the beam of his excellence dazzl'd her eyes.

The FRY.

If such heroes and nymphs are scarce worth critic powder,
In the Drama's vast regiment no bipeds are louder;
And tho' all may be class'd as the Scions of Nature,
There's none deserve rank in my proud nomenclature;
See! they look dim and sculking, like Ivy-lane bards,
Or club's dingy knave on an old pack of cards;
Or Falstaff's recruits, or a limb of the law,
When Loughborough chills the black caitiff with awe;
But these children of Nothingness feed the depravity,
By viewing their size in the mirror's concavity:

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A great part were engender'd, when Nature was tir'd
With chisseling beings the world have admir'd;
As Augustus turns buttons, and Louis seize dances,
When matters of moment have moider'd their fancies:
So Wedgwood, when all the fine clay is destroy'd,
Which in elegant forms he so ably employ'd;
To fulfil and amuse his industrious wishes,
Manufactures and kneads hideous pipkins and dishes.
But the Stage, like a huge caravan, takes in all,
The erect, the infirm, lofty, worthless, and small;
Like Debret's Foundling Hospital, issued each season,
Where dolts rank as wits, who have scarce human reason.—
Yet among them some few have deserv'd Merit's wreath,
As health-giving herbs deck the russet-clad heath;
And Fame says no object more strongly can please her,
Than when men in the ranks own the soul of a Cæsar.
Like Stevens and Rock, who both honor probation,
And in humble attempts seize the Town's estimation;
A few grains of true worth in their characters settle,
As chalybeate waters are freighted with metal;
Which receiv'd in small draughts do the animal good,
But if ta'en in large goblets would sicken the blood.—
Stern Cubit's low life is an excellent test,
For his Gibbet was ne'er better play'd or exprest;
And Gardener's broad firm manly figure contributes
To keep scenic Lords from Derision's high gibbets.—

258

Poor Thompson the modest, first stole on the scene,
Incrusted with baseness, repulsive and mean;
So the bodies of mummies are hid with asphalthum,
For thus Zeal deck'd the breathless, when Zeal would exalt 'em;
But the labours of Habit have made him a new-man,
As she lick'd off his filth, till the oaf appear'd human.
As for Blurton, and Bonville, and Painter, and Helme,
Who're created each muse to oppress and o'erwhelm;
Fame throws them in heaps with contemptuous quickness,
As Turks use the dead in a national sickness.—
Mark the old tabby Davenet, Tweedale, and Brangin,
Who are ever on tags of false rhetoric hanging;
'Tis strange, but these grubs view a town-favour'd sister,
With a scowl that speaks plainly they wish to resist her;
And greedily look with an eye as voracious
As intent, as all-grasping, as fierce and rapacious,
As the nurse views our cash on a baptismal night,
Or a miser the means of terrestial delight;
Or an Africain chieftain his enemy slain,
Or a kite who's long flitted o'er Sarum's wide plain;
Or a virgin who's hopes are decay'd she once built on,
Or the liveried sharks of great Pembroke at Wilton!—
Tho' each minx knows I'm right, yet like villains in grain,
There's not one will confess that there's fact in my strain;

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And if forc'd to speak truth, they as tremblingly tell it,
As the hand which bestows the first-fruits of a prelate;
Or Melpomene's arm over Gower-street dishes,
When she carves fatless joints—for the slaves of her wishes;
Who sit in pale congress, encircling that place,
Where she measures banyan—for her circumscrib'd race.

As the theme is exhausted that first fed its fire,
I'll resign to Repose, both myself and my lyre;
Now Satire is dumb, let the miscreant rejoice
That Indolence fetters the springs of his voice:
Farewel to the buskin, the sock, and the truncheon,
Now Folly may riot, and Vice chew her luncheon;
Gaunt Falsehood and Fraud will mislead Britain's youth,
As the diurnal puff shall eclipse antient Truth:
Be pert, ye base sinners, for who can ye dread,
Now Equity's silenc'd, and Chastisement dead?
Now the mean and malicious may crawl from their dens,
And kick the deserving, and brandish their pens;
Dame Linley may cripple Old Drury at pleasure,
And Sheridan seize—the superfluous treasure!!!
While Kemble, who Joy's roseate family slashes,
Shall dress all the Muses—in sackloth and ashes.

E'en that august Bard must my senses resign,
Imperial Shakespeare, supreme and divine.
As the clay of his frame lay benumb'd in a dream,
On the violet-clad bank of smooth Avon's clear stream,
The Genius of Albion defended his slumbers,
Lest Guilt should obtrude, and disjoint his sweet numbers:

260

The Muses, tho' coy to the rest of mankind,
Ran jocund to light the vast caves of his mind;
Bore his harp to Minerva, who marshall'd its sound,
And hung Fancy's elegant symbols around;
As the sacred minstrel imbib'd in his thought,
All that Destiny will'd, or that Heaven had wrought;
With his keen mental eye Nature's source to discern,
Pass'd o'er the dread fence of Mortality's bourn;
Presum'd thro' the mists of Tartarean gloom,
And hail'd the lean Fates at their ominous loom;
Dash'd the horrors he saw with his spell working pen,
Then awoke with the scroll to raise wonder mid men.—
But should I lament in prophetic despair,
Should my song be replete with the axioms of care;
When a Star in the East, all resplendently rises,
Which Phœbus illumines, and Excellence prizes?
Its appearance proclaims that Offence is suppress'd,
That Candour shall govern, and Talents be bless'd:
So in Bethlem the light 'midst the peasantry shone,
And gave to Hope's bosom sweet transports unknown;
Its radiant beam waken'd Raptures within,
And promis'd Redemption from Sadness and Sin.—
—May no mean narrow maxims oppose its progression,
May no sinister tyrants enchain the profession;
May its influence be broad as the realms of the day,
Where Wit, without insult, may offer his lay;
May its members be brilliant in wish and in action,
May theit deeds give the lie to the page of detraction;

261

May the lovely Pierides temper their fire,
And point out those chords on the Orphean lyre,
By which the young Thracian subdu'd the wild throng,
And forc'd savage Nature to melt at his song.
May its base by the wealthy and wise be supported,
May its firmest adherents be cherish'd and courted;
May the smiles of Morality shield its good name,
And the pen of bright Genius consign it to Fame!

End of the CHILDREN of THESPIS.