 | The poetical works of Samuel Woodworth |  |
ADDRESS,
SPOKEN BY MR. HAMBLIN ON THE OCCASION OF A COMPLIMENTARY BENEFIT TO MR. COOPER THE TRAGEDIAN.
“The king comes here to-night!” He who could wring
Our hearts at will, was “every inch a king!”
For when in life's bright noon, the stage he trod,
In majesty and grace, a demi-god;
With form, and mien, and attitude, and air
Which modern kings might envy in despair;
When his stern brow, and awe-inspiring eye,
Bore sign of an imperial majesty;
Then—in the zenith of his glory—then,
He moved a model for the first of men!
The drama was his empire: and his throne
No rival dared dispute—he reigned alone!
“His feet bestrode the ocean! his waved arm
Crested the world!” His voice possessed a charm,
To love's, to friendship's, and to classic ears,
Like the sweet music of the tuneful spheres:
“But, when he meant to quail, and shake the world,”
His accents were “like rattling thunders” hurled,
Or plead, “like angels, trumpet-tongued,” to prove
The worth of freedom, and the joys of love!
Our hearts at will, was “every inch a king!”
For when in life's bright noon, the stage he trod,
In majesty and grace, a demi-god;
With form, and mien, and attitude, and air
Which modern kings might envy in despair;
When his stern brow, and awe-inspiring eye,
Bore sign of an imperial majesty;
Then—in the zenith of his glory—then,
He moved a model for the first of men!
The drama was his empire: and his throne
No rival dared dispute—he reigned alone!
“His feet bestrode the ocean! his waved arm
Crested the world!” His voice possessed a charm,
260
Like the sweet music of the tuneful spheres:
“But, when he meant to quail, and shake the world,”
His accents were “like rattling thunders” hurled,
Or plead, “like angels, trumpet-tongued,” to prove
The worth of freedom, and the joys of love!
Whether he gave ungentle wives rebuke,
As simple Leon, or Aranza's duke,
Or tamed (as wild Petruchio) the shrew,
Or showed a fiend in the unpitying Jew;
Displayed the wrecks of passion's withering storm,
In stern Penruddock's, or the Stranger's form;
Whether he bid unnumbered victims bleed,
“As Macedonia's madman, or the Swede,”
Moved as Iago, or the generous Moor,
Or gallant Rolla, mid the battle's roar,
Stemming alone, the tide of war and death;
Hamlet, or Damon; Bertram or Macbeth;
Gloster, Young Wilding, Falstaff, Charles de Moor,
The graceful Doricourt, the gay Belcour;
Brutus—aye, both the Brutuses—of Rome;
Mark Antony, lamenting Cæsar's doom;
The proud Coriolanus, or the sire
Of sweet Virginia. Still his soul of fire
With grandeur blazed, to ravish or appal—
He “was the noblest Roman of them all!”
As simple Leon, or Aranza's duke,
Or tamed (as wild Petruchio) the shrew,
Or showed a fiend in the unpitying Jew;
Displayed the wrecks of passion's withering storm,
In stern Penruddock's, or the Stranger's form;
Whether he bid unnumbered victims bleed,
“As Macedonia's madman, or the Swede,”
Moved as Iago, or the generous Moor,
Or gallant Rolla, mid the battle's roar,
Stemming alone, the tide of war and death;
Hamlet, or Damon; Bertram or Macbeth;
Gloster, Young Wilding, Falstaff, Charles de Moor,
The graceful Doricourt, the gay Belcour;
Brutus—aye, both the Brutuses—of Rome;
Mark Antony, lamenting Cæsar's doom;
The proud Coriolanus, or the sire
Of sweet Virginia. Still his soul of fire
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He “was the noblest Roman of them all!”
Whether he wore the reckless mien of Pierre,
Or the time-scathed decrepitude of Lear,
“Fourscore and upwards”—he might justly say,
“Didn't I, fellow! I have seen the day,”
When, with the very lightning of my brow,
“I would have made them skip—I am old now,
And these same crosses spoil me:”—
Or the time-scathed decrepitude of Lear,
“Fourscore and upwards”—he might justly say,
“Didn't I, fellow! I have seen the day,”
When, with the very lightning of my brow,
“I would have made them skip—I am old now,
And these same crosses spoil me:”—
Yes, 'tis true
He once commanded, where he now must sue;
For he's old now—and those unrivalled powers
For you exerted, in his happiest hours,
Like flickering lights, which in their sockets burn,
Are fast departing—never to return!
He once commanded, where he now must sue;
For he's old now—and those unrivalled powers
For you exerted, in his happiest hours,
Like flickering lights, which in their sockets burn,
Are fast departing—never to return!
But shall he now, when silvered o'er with age,
Who never made his exit on the stage
But 'mid the thunders of heartfelt applause,
Unhonored pass when he at last withdraws?
He, who devoted all his noon-day powers
To strew your thorny path with classic flowers—
He, whom with laurels you have richly decked,
Shall he at last be chilled with cold neglect?
Perish the thought!—'Tis Cooper's right to claim—
Besides the glory of a deathless name—
Of your regard, a more substantial proof
Than the loud cheers which shake this vaulted roof—
Protection for his offspring!—dearer far
To his fond heart than earthly glories are;
And you concede this claim—or else to-night,
Here were not seen a galaxy so bright,
Of beauty, taste, and fashion—'tis a blaze
Which so reminds him of his better days,
That fond regrets, with gratitude sincere,
Are mingled in the language of a tear.
And as the worn “war-horse,” at the trumpet shrill,
Leaps o'er each barrier that restrains his will,
Impatient still to claim the hero's right,
The foremost post amid the desperate fight;
So comes our monarch of a former age,
Again to claim his empire o'er the stage,
From tyro potentates this truth to wring,
He was and is “in every inch a king;”
With one bright flash renew th' expiring flame,
And gild the trophies round his honored name.
Who never made his exit on the stage
But 'mid the thunders of heartfelt applause,
Unhonored pass when he at last withdraws?
He, who devoted all his noon-day powers
To strew your thorny path with classic flowers—
He, whom with laurels you have richly decked,
Shall he at last be chilled with cold neglect?
Perish the thought!—'Tis Cooper's right to claim—
Besides the glory of a deathless name—
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Than the loud cheers which shake this vaulted roof—
Protection for his offspring!—dearer far
To his fond heart than earthly glories are;
And you concede this claim—or else to-night,
Here were not seen a galaxy so bright,
Of beauty, taste, and fashion—'tis a blaze
Which so reminds him of his better days,
That fond regrets, with gratitude sincere,
Are mingled in the language of a tear.
And as the worn “war-horse,” at the trumpet shrill,
Leaps o'er each barrier that restrains his will,
Impatient still to claim the hero's right,
The foremost post amid the desperate fight;
So comes our monarch of a former age,
Again to claim his empire o'er the stage,
From tyro potentates this truth to wring,
He was and is “in every inch a king;”
With one bright flash renew th' expiring flame,
And gild the trophies round his honored name.
| The poetical works of Samuel Woodworth | |