 | Albina, Countess Raimond |  |
PROLOGUE.
[Prompter, speaking without.]Pray, Sir, come back—come back—The Author swears,
That, if you speak—
Hang Authors, and their airs!
I say I will speak, though she burst with rage:
What right has She upon our Summer Stage?—
—With dismal Stories, and long Acts in verse,
Solemn, and slow-paced, as a midnight herse?
Hey-dey! from floor to roof, display'd in rows,
As though we shiver'd in December snows!
'Tis dev'lish odd!—Beneath a burning sky
Who'd crowd it here, to pant, and sob, and cry,
Whilst Madmen swagger, or their Madams die?
'Twas my advice to keep these Doors close shut
Against that ranting, bloody-minded Slut,
Melpomene.
I never yet could see
Those charms of hers—I'm sure she's none for me.
My Mistress—little Thal—you know I mean,
The laughing Princess of the Comic Scene—
—She sent me here, and dubb'd me Plenipo.
“Dear Parsons! Quick!” she cry'd, “this instant go!
“Fly to yon Audience, who in judgement sit,
“And plead our cause before the Jury Pit.
“Tell 'em this Authorling abjures my reign,
“To fill my haughty Sister's sanguine train;
“A lawless Rebel, from my Banner flown—
“—I call for justice—justice from the Town!”
My wrongs I'll usher to their Worships' view.
Me she forsakes; her little Doily slights,
He who hath toil'd so many weary nights,
And talk'd of Algebra, and Greek, and Latin,
Till larned Scholards could no word squeeze pat-in.
Down with her Tragedy! down, down, ye Wits!
For me, and Thal, the fickle Baggage quits.
Spoil her Heroics! her new buskins doff!
And then—
Monster! [Enter Mrs. Massey.
You there! oh, oh, I'm off, I'm off!
[Exit.
Not write in Tragic stile!—Pray tell me why?
Sure those who made you laugh, may make you cry.
Sure those who made you laugh, may make you cry.
WHEN the light Scenes, our Author's pencil drew,
Extorted—all she ask'd—a smile from You;
Her grateful mind a new-born ardor caught.
A loftier fancy, and sublimer thought:
To her rapt eye the Martial Ages rose;
And, as her Muse impell'd, her Story flows.
'Tis true, she calls you from the tempting shade,
The zephyr'd meadow, and the leafy glade;
And not to cheer with Satire's poignant hit,
Ironic Humour, or the flash of Wit.
Her wand she waves; and, instant to your eyes
Tempestuous passions, guilty deeds, arise!
For these our Author's magic line was drawn;
For these she bids you from the fragrant lawn:—
To rend with fear, to melt with tender woe,
And bid the graceful drops of pity flow.
Majestic Nature's plan she follows there,
Who, when thick vapours clog the sultry air,
When glowing Sirius, from his fervid eye,
Sends noxious languors through the sick'ning sky,
Arous'd—amidst her THUNDERS she appears,
And in terrific grandeur strikes our ears!
The wide-stretch'd concave blackens with her ire;
Through lab'ring æther darts the living fire;
The heav'ns, the earth, all aid her mighty rage,
And elements with wrathful elements engage!
Then—whilst the trembling world is lost in fears—
She melts the lurid clouds in healthful tears.
Your tears we mean to prompt, whilst You, secure
Amidst the coming storm, the wreck endure:
Harmless our tempest roars within this pale,
Whilst ventilators catch the cooling gale.
But, should a tempest in your quarter rise,
'Twould scare us more than thunder in the skies:
Guiltless to You the storm within these doors;
Do You then save us harmless, Sirs! from yours.
Extorted—all she ask'd—a smile from You;
Her grateful mind a new-born ardor caught.
A loftier fancy, and sublimer thought:
To her rapt eye the Martial Ages rose;
And, as her Muse impell'd, her Story flows.
'Tis true, she calls you from the tempting shade,
The zephyr'd meadow, and the leafy glade;
And not to cheer with Satire's poignant hit,
Ironic Humour, or the flash of Wit.
Her wand she waves; and, instant to your eyes
Tempestuous passions, guilty deeds, arise!
For these our Author's magic line was drawn;
For these she bids you from the fragrant lawn:—
To rend with fear, to melt with tender woe,
And bid the graceful drops of pity flow.
Majestic Nature's plan she follows there,
Who, when thick vapours clog the sultry air,
Sends noxious languors through the sick'ning sky,
Arous'd—amidst her THUNDERS she appears,
And in terrific grandeur strikes our ears!
The wide-stretch'd concave blackens with her ire;
Through lab'ring æther darts the living fire;
The heav'ns, the earth, all aid her mighty rage,
And elements with wrathful elements engage!
Then—whilst the trembling world is lost in fears—
She melts the lurid clouds in healthful tears.
Your tears we mean to prompt, whilst You, secure
Amidst the coming storm, the wreck endure:
Harmless our tempest roars within this pale,
Whilst ventilators catch the cooling gale.
But, should a tempest in your quarter rise,
'Twould scare us more than thunder in the skies:
Guiltless to You the storm within these doors;
Do You then save us harmless, Sirs! from yours.
| Albina, Countess Raimond | |