The works, in verse and prose, of the late Robert Treat Paine, Jun. Esq ::

Once more, kind patrons of the Thespian art,
Friends, to the science of the human heart,
Behold the temple of the Muse aspire,
A Phœnix stage, which propagates by fire!

Each fault rescinded, and each grace renewed,
By magick reared, and with enchantment viewed,
Our dome, new mantled, 'mid its ravaged wall,
Stands, like Antæus, stronger by its fall;
And like Creusa's ghost, in Trojan strife,
Its spectre rises larger than its life!

Ye, who have oft with pleased observance traced
Each latent charm our mimick life has graced;
Whose hearts yet ache, when Retrospection views
The woes and wanderings of the scenick Muse;
Since from the cradle of her young renown,
Her infant warblings lured the listening town,
To that dark era, when one luckless hour
Her empire ravaged, and dethroned her power,

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Till proudly towering o'er the Gothick waste
Through chaos smiled this paradise of taste.
The mystick maids, who here unite their reign,
Whom bards and actors oft implore in vain,
With Truth's warm rapture, bid you welcome all,
Gents, belles, and godships, to their fairy hall;
Where Shakespeare's spirit, who delights to flit
O'er criticks' noses, snoring in the pit,
Like Hamlet's father, armed from casque to sandals,
Shall “visit oft the glimpses of” our candles!

If blest by those kind smiles, whose beams impart
Pulse to the brain, and vigour to the heart,
The Drama now her languid powers will rear,
The laugh awaken, and exhale the tear;
Correct, yet animate, she aims to join
Salvator's clouds with Hogarth's waving line,
And hopes, aspiring, by your favour warmed,
Again to charm you, as she once has charmed.

Nor need her friends, with Fear's retorted glance,
Recall the horrors of her late mischance,
When wrapt in bursting flames, and awful gloom,
She saw her temple mouldering to her tomb!
No more shall Nero's ravished eye behold
The usurping element these walls enfold;
Nor shall one tear from houseless Genius start,
To glut the savage pleasure of his heart!

To guard our fane, Apollo tuned his lyre,
And leagued the gods of water and of fire;

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Crumped Vulcan deigned his Cyclop den to quit,
And clothe in Panoply the Dome of Wit;
While Neptune gave an urn, of such vast use,
'Tis always filling, like the widow's cruse!

Now, (heaven forbid!) by hidden ways and means,
Should whelming fire again invest our scenes,
Lest on your heads the blazing roof should fall,
We'll spring the Aqueduct, and drown you all!
“I'll burn first, smoke me,” cries a spruce young bobby,
“Splash me, I shan't be fit to walk the lobby!
“If roast or drown's the word, your fire commence, Sir,
“That clownish water always spots my spencer!”

How wise men differ! Water, some would think,
Would wash away the stain of taylor's ink!
But don't swoon, beaus! another mode we'll try,
To save our lives, and keep your ruffles dry.
From fire and water your escape is certain;
Your shield of safety is—our Iron Curtain!

Ladies and gentlemen, my duty claims
To tell you, that our Stage is all in flames!
The fire, though strange to you the sight might be,
First caught Mont Blanc, and then burnt up the sea;
The actors, like Octavian from his cave,
Rush from the Green-room, not to help, but rave;
While each one scampers in the other's way,
Like fops' umbrellas in a rainy day!
But let no belle in sweet hystericks fall;
Our Iron Curtain will protect you all!

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In elder time, when first the Stage was reared,
'Twas nursed by patriots, and by traitors feared;
Its glowing scenes, the fire of States supplied,
For Valour's praises waked Ambition's pride;
And still the Drama, with corrected zeal,
Exists an engine of the publick weal.
Smeared with sedition, should the hand profane
Of plotting knaves, our nation's Chief arraign,
The indignant Stage would glory in the task,
From lurking demagogues to strip the mask;
Drag the dark traitor into publick shame,
And nail him to the pillory of Fame!
In such a cause, the powers of verse would rise,
'Till seared, and headless, Faction's hydra dies;
And the stern eagle would suspend his wing,
To listen, while the federal Muses sing.

No scite of clime can long protect a race,
Whose souls are reckless of their realm's disgrace.
Bid stormy oceans roll, and mountains rise,
Faction will cross them, and pollute your skies;
Her cursed miasma speeds its fatal way,
The gale impregnates, and attaints the day;
Her subtle root with equal vigour strikes,
In Gallia's hotbed, or in Holland's dykes.
On coldest shores, her rank luxuriance grows,
As Hecla flames 'mid Thule's endless snows.

Where laws are fashioned by the publick will,
The helm of state demands a master's skill.
The social compact is a bond so weak,
The feuds of party can the cement break;

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When cracked, like Rupert's drop, it mocks controul,
Snap but the point, and you destroy the whole.

In such mild climes, if true to Freedom's cause,
The people's virtue will support the laws;
And Publick Spirit crush, with arm elate,
The fiend, who dares “to clog the wheels of state.”

In France, whose motley breed extremes delight,
Who grin like monkeys, or like tygers fight,
Autun's meek priest, whose conscience knows no qualm,
Except the cravings of an itching palm;
Who, born a miser, and a prelate reared,
His flock deserted, when their fleece was sheared.
The ancient patriots from their niches jostles,
And calls French pirates, Liberty's apostles!
This, though the bishop spoke it, is no brag,
For he's the Judas, and still bears the bag!

But, thanks to heaven, who propped our wavering state,
And saved its glory from Venetian fate,
This silk-worm knave in vain has wound his maze,
In vain his basilisk eye has fixed its gaze;
In vain the holy pimp his toils has spread,
And smoothed Delilah's lap for Sampson's head.

Led to the altar, by his wiles ensnared,
Columbia stood, for sacrifice prepared;
High flamed the pyre; her struggling arms were bound;
The steel was lifted for the fatal wound;
When, like the angel, who, by God's command,
The filial off'ring saved from Abraham's hand,

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Our guardian, Adams, robed in light divine,
Burst through the clouds which veiled the impious shrine;
The dagger seized, the felon chords released,
And snatched the victim from the apostate priest!

France stood aghast; the palsying wonder ran;
The five kings trembled in their dark divan!
Compelled new schemes of vengeance to devise,
They changed the lion's for the hyæna's cries.
No more their menanced wrath assailed our ears;
In sooth they seemed, “like Niobe, all tears!”

As some old Bawd, who all her life hath been
A fungus, sprouting from the filth of sin;
Whose dry trunk seasons in the frost of Vice,
Like radish, saved from rotting by the ice;
When threatening bailiffs first her conscience awe,
Not with the fear of shame, but fear of law,
Sets out at sixty, in contrition's search,
Rubs garlick on her eyes, and goes to church!

Thus Europe's courtezan, well versed in wiles,
Whose kisses poison, while the harlot smiles,
With pious sorrow hears our cannon roar,
And swears devoutly, that she'll sin no more!

Our rescued nation long will bless the day,
Which hailed their Adams cloathed in civick sway;
Which saw again our eagle's pinions reared,
His olive courted, and his arrows feared.

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Long shall the fame of our illustrious Sage,
The peerless statesman of a peerless age,
With quenchless splendour beam through many a clime,
And light the darkling avenues of Time.
His deeds, on Glory's marble page engraved,
Shall live coeval with the realm, he saved;
And when, in Heaven beloved, as honoured here,
He shines the regent of some brighter sphere,
Nations shall mark the epoch of his birth,
With festal gratitude, and sainted mirth;
And ages, yet unborn, with grateful breast,
Shall rise, and call the shade of Adams blest!

University of Virginia Library

DEDICATORY ADDRESS;

SPOKEN BY MR. HODGKINSON, OCTOBER 29, 1798, AT THE OPENING OF THE NEW FEDERAL THEATRE, IN BOSTON.