 | Brutus ; or, the fall of Tarquin |  |
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PROLOGUE,
Written by a FRIEND, Spoken by Mr. H. KEMBLE.
Time rushes o'er us; thick as evening clouds
Ages roll back:—what calls them from their shrouds?
What in full vision brings their good and great,
The men whose virtues make the nations' fate,
The far, forgotten stars of humankind?
The STAGE,—the mighty telescope of mind!
Ages roll back:—what calls them from their shrouds?
What in full vision brings their good and great,
The men whose virtues make the nations' fate,
The far, forgotten stars of humankind?
The STAGE,—the mighty telescope of mind!
If later, luckless arts that stage profane,
The actor pleads—not guilty of the stain:
He, but the shadow flung on fashion's tide—
Yours, the high will that all its waves must guide:
Your voice alone, the great reform secures,
His, but the passing hour—the age is yours.
The actor pleads—not guilty of the stain:
He, but the shadow flung on fashion's tide—
Yours, the high will that all its waves must guide:
Your voice alone, the great reform secures,
His, but the passing hour—the age is yours.
Our pledge is kept. Here, yet, no chargers wheel,
No foreign slaves on ropes or scaffolds reel,
No gallic amazons, half naked, climb
From pit to gallery,—the low sublime!
In Shakspeare's halls, shall dogs and bears engage?
Where brutes are actors, be a booth the stage!
And we shall triumph yet. The cloud has hung
Darkly above—but day shall spring—has sprung—
The tempest has but swept, not shook the shrine;
No lamp that genius lit has ceased to shine!
Still lives its sanctity, Around the spot
Hover high spirits—shapes of burning thought—
Viewless—but call them, on the dazzled eye
Descends their pomp of immortality:
Here, at your voice, Rowe, Otway, Southern come,
Flashing like meteors thro' the age's gloom.
Perpetual here—king of th' immortal band,
Sits Shakspeare crown'd. He lifts the golden wand,
And all obey;—the visions of the past
Rise as they lived,—soft, splendid, regal, vast.
Then Ariel harps along the enchanted wave,
Then the Wierd sisters thunder in their cave,—
The spell is wound. Then shows his mightier art,
The Moor's lost soul; the hell of Richard's heart,
And stamps, in fiery warning to all time,
The deep damnation of a tyrant's crime.
No foreign slaves on ropes or scaffolds reel,
No gallic amazons, half naked, climb
From pit to gallery,—the low sublime!
In Shakspeare's halls, shall dogs and bears engage?
Where brutes are actors, be a booth the stage!
And we shall triumph yet. The cloud has hung
Darkly above—but day shall spring—has sprung—
The tempest has but swept, not shook the shrine;
No lamp that genius lit has ceased to shine!
Still lives its sanctity, Around the spot
Hover high spirits—shapes of burning thought—
Viewless—but call them, on the dazzled eye
Descends their pomp of immortality:
Here, at your voice, Rowe, Otway, Southern come,
Flashing like meteors thro' the age's gloom.
Perpetual here—king of th' immortal band,
Sits Shakspeare crown'd. He lifts the golden wand,
And all obey;—the visions of the past
Rise as they lived,—soft, splendid, regal, vast.
Then Ariel harps along the enchanted wave,
Then the Wierd sisters thunder in their cave,—
The spell is wound. Then shows his mightier art,
The Moor's lost soul; the hell of Richard's heart,
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The deep damnation of a tyrant's crime.
To night we take our lesson from the tomb:
'Tis thy sad cenotaph, colossal Rome!
How is thy helmet cleft, thy banner low,
Ashes and dust are all thy glory now!
While o'er thy wreck, a host of monks and slaves,
Totter to “seek dishonourable graves.”
'Tis thy sad cenotaph, colossal Rome!
How is thy helmet cleft, thy banner low,
Ashes and dust are all thy glory now!
While o'er thy wreck, a host of monks and slaves,
Totter to “seek dishonourable graves.”
The story is of Brutus: In that name
Tower'd to the sun her eagle's wing of flame!
When sank her liberty, that name of power,
Pour'd hallow'd splendours round its dying hour.
The lesson lived for man—that heavenward blaze
Fixed on the pile the world's eternal gaze.
Tower'd to the sun her eagle's wing of flame!
When sank her liberty, that name of power,
Pour'd hallow'd splendours round its dying hour.
The lesson lived for man—that heavenward blaze
Fixed on the pile the world's eternal gaze.
Unrivall'd England! to such memories thou,
This hour dost owe the laurel on thy brow:
Those, fixed, when earth was like a grave, thy tread,
Prophet and warrior! 'twixt the quick and dead,
Those bade thee war for man,—those won the name
That crowns thee—famed above all Romon fame.
This hour dost owe the laurel on thy brow:
Those, fixed, when earth was like a grave, thy tread,
Prophet and warrior! 'twixt the quick and dead,
Those bade thee war for man,—those won the name
That crowns thee—famed above all Romon fame.
Now, to our scene,—we feel no idle fear,
Sure, of the hearts, the British justice here;
If we deserve it, sure of your applause—
Then, hear for Rome, for England, for “our cause!”
Sure, of the hearts, the British justice here;
If we deserve it, sure of your applause—
Then, hear for Rome, for England, for “our cause!”
| Brutus ; or, the fall of Tarquin | |