The writings of Robert C. Sands in prose and verse with a memoir of the author |
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PROLOGUE TO WALDIMAR, A TRAGEDY. |
 | The writings of Robert C. Sands |  |
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PROLOGUE TO WALDIMAR, A TRAGEDY.
The Tragic Muse, since first her power began,
To rouse to generous warmth the soul of man,
Her scenes and actors everywhere has found,—
In savage wilds, or fable-haunted ground.
For Art may tame or mould, but cannot change
The master-passions in their varying range.
Wonder and Awe awoke, when first the eyes
Of the first patriarch saw the earth and skies;
Love, next in power and order, lit his flame,
And Fear and Grief, as Guilt's companions, came;
Hate and Revenge, as Murder's heralds scowled,
Remorse and mad Despair behind him howled;
While Pity bent above the wreck deplored,
And Hope, with rapturous wing, triumphant soared.
These, the mind's taskers with their kindred train,
In every age and clime hold equal reign.
To rouse to generous warmth the soul of man,
Her scenes and actors everywhere has found,—
In savage wilds, or fable-haunted ground.
For Art may tame or mould, but cannot change
The master-passions in their varying range.
Wonder and Awe awoke, when first the eyes
Of the first patriarch saw the earth and skies;
Love, next in power and order, lit his flame,
And Fear and Grief, as Guilt's companions, came;
Hate and Revenge, as Murder's heralds scowled,
Remorse and mad Despair behind him howled;
While Pity bent above the wreck deplored,
And Hope, with rapturous wing, triumphant soared.
These, the mind's taskers with their kindred train,
In every age and clime hold equal reign.
Our author's scene is in an ancient day,
When stormy passions had their wildest play;
When Rome's enormous mass of power, o'ergrown,
Crumbled and quaked beneath a severed throne:
Each giant fragment, parting from the pile,
Shook all the world, and left an empire's spoil:
Each soldier-chieftain, with a monarch's power,
Usurped the transient homage of the hour;
And oft, insane with delegated might,
Perished, like him whose fate we show to-night.
When stormy passions had their wildest play;
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Crumbled and quaked beneath a severed throne:
Each giant fragment, parting from the pile,
Shook all the world, and left an empire's spoil:
Each soldier-chieftain, with a monarch's power,
Usurped the transient homage of the hour;
And oft, insane with delegated might,
Perished, like him whose fate we show to-night.
Bold is each effort now to please the age
With dramas worthy of the classic stage,
In Fame's high dome the masters sit enthroned,
Whose spells resistless every passion owned;
Who gave to each conception prosperous birth,
And with immortal music filled the earth.
While vivid still their images appear,
While still their numbers linger on the ear,
But cold attention waits the modern bard,
Who risks the crowded theatre's award.
With dramas worthy of the classic stage,
In Fame's high dome the masters sit enthroned,
Whose spells resistless every passion owned;
Who gave to each conception prosperous birth,
And with immortal music filled the earth.
While vivid still their images appear,
While still their numbers linger on the ear,
But cold attention waits the modern bard,
Who risks the crowded theatre's award.
Yet, our New World the muse's pencil needs!
What wild adventures, what heroic deeds,
Remain unsung! what forms, that in the gloom
Of the long Past magnificently loom,
Might re-enact the stories of their time,
Arouse to virtue, or affright from crime!
What wild adventures, what heroic deeds,
Remain unsung! what forms, that in the gloom
Of the long Past magnificently loom,
Might re-enact the stories of their time,
Arouse to virtue, or affright from crime!
Would ye behold the native drama rise?
To kill the pioneers were most unwise!
All is not gained at once. The Genoese,
Who first explored our now familiar seas,
Bursting all barriers in his firm intent,
Found but the isles, and not the continent!
A hundred stars had shed prophetic rays,
Ere Shakspeare's sun obscured them in its blaze!
To kill the pioneers were most unwise!
All is not gained at once. The Genoese,
Who first explored our now familiar seas,
Bursting all barriers in his firm intent,
Found but the isles, and not the continent!
A hundred stars had shed prophetic rays,
Ere Shakspeare's sun obscured them in its blaze!
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Try, then, our Author's argument and cause,
By patriot feeling, not by tyrant laws;
And let not Justice hold the balance, blind,
But poise the scales, determined—TO BE KIND!
By patriot feeling, not by tyrant laws;
And let not Justice hold the balance, blind,
But poise the scales, determined—TO BE KIND!
| The writings of Robert C. Sands | |