 | The poetical works of Samuel Woodworth |  |
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ADDRESS
FOR THE OPENING OF THE NEW PARK THEATRE—SPOKEN BY MRS. BARNES, IN THE CHARACTER OF MELPOMENE.
What glorious vision bursts upon my view!
Does fancy mock me? No, 't is true! 't is true!
No false illusive dream of past delight,
But blest realities, salute my sight:
The ruthless fiend of ruin is displaced,
By beauty, fashion, elegance, and taste.
Thrilled with such rapture as when first I pressed
The infant Shakespeare to this throbbing breast,
I hail the scene, my temple and my home,
While rays of beauty light the vaulted dome.
Despair, avaunt! the storm of grief is past,
And joy's bright sunshine gilds the scene at last!
Does fancy mock me? No, 't is true! 't is true!
No false illusive dream of past delight,
But blest realities, salute my sight:
The ruthless fiend of ruin is displaced,
By beauty, fashion, elegance, and taste.
Thrilled with such rapture as when first I pressed
The infant Shakespeare to this throbbing breast,
I hail the scene, my temple and my home,
While rays of beauty light the vaulted dome.
Despair, avaunt! the storm of grief is past,
And joy's bright sunshine gilds the scene at last!
Here, where the tragic muse has mourned so long
The sleep of passion, and the death of song,
Where o'er the urn of blighted hopes she hung,
With vacant, beamless eye, and silent tongue;
While shapeless heaps of ruins smoked around,
And desolation marked the blackened ground—
Here, from its ashes, see her temple burst,
With grace and splendor that surpass the first.
So from its parent's dust the phœnix springs,
With Eden's richest plumage in his wings;
Thus dazzling soars, unrivalled, and alone,
His age a century, and a world his own.
The sleep of passion, and the death of song,
Where o'er the urn of blighted hopes she hung,
With vacant, beamless eye, and silent tongue;
While shapeless heaps of ruins smoked around,
251
Here, from its ashes, see her temple burst,
With grace and splendor that surpass the first.
So from its parent's dust the phœnix springs,
With Eden's richest plumage in his wings;
Thus dazzling soars, unrivalled, and alone,
His age a century, and a world his own.
Ye generous freemen, who in danger stand
The shield and bulwark of our happy land;
Who, mid the sweeter luxuries of peace,
Behold your greatness with your arts increase;
Whose liberal minds throw lustre on the age,
Oh still protect and patronize the stage;
That bright auxiliar in refinement's cause,
Which raised proud Greece to what at length she was,
Invited forth, and scattered, unconfined,
The boundless treasures of a Shakespeare's mind;
And taught the vulgar barbarous sons of strife,
The gentler courtesies that sweeten life.
The shield and bulwark of our happy land;
Who, mid the sweeter luxuries of peace,
Behold your greatness with your arts increase;
Whose liberal minds throw lustre on the age,
Oh still protect and patronize the stage;
That bright auxiliar in refinement's cause,
Which raised proud Greece to what at length she was,
Invited forth, and scattered, unconfined,
The boundless treasures of a Shakespeare's mind;
And taught the vulgar barbarous sons of strife,
The gentler courtesies that sweeten life.
Ye freeborn fair, who grace Columbia's clime,
Whose bosoms glow with sentiments sublime;
Whose smiles inspire the actions they reward,
Whose tears embalm the virtues they applaud;
Still let those smiles and tears alternate prove
That wit can charm, that sympathy can move.
And while your hearts celestial truth revere,
Still condescend to trace her picture here;
Still let your presence consecrate the art
That holds a mirror to the human heart;
That shows the black and hideous form of vice,
And raises virtue's worth beyond a price;
That culls the fruits of fancy's wide domains,
That calls from poesy her sweetest strains;
That teaches young affection what alone
Can make a virtuous, manly heart, her own;
And shows to art how vain are all its wiles,
That he who wins must first deserve your smiles.
Whose bosoms glow with sentiments sublime;
Whose smiles inspire the actions they reward,
Whose tears embalm the virtues they applaud;
Still let those smiles and tears alternate prove
That wit can charm, that sympathy can move.
252
Still condescend to trace her picture here;
Still let your presence consecrate the art
That holds a mirror to the human heart;
That shows the black and hideous form of vice,
And raises virtue's worth beyond a price;
That culls the fruits of fancy's wide domains,
That calls from poesy her sweetest strains;
That teaches young affection what alone
Can make a virtuous, manly heart, her own;
And shows to art how vain are all its wiles,
That he who wins must first deserve your smiles.
Columbians, all! ye patriots, and ye fair,
Still let the drama claim your generous care;
Cherished by you, it will the champion prove
Of freedom, virtue, and the arts you love;
So shall this city, by refinement blest,
Become the pride and mistress of the West;
So shall your country rise to greater fame,
And endless glory gild Columbia's name.
Still let the drama claim your generous care;
Cherished by you, it will the champion prove
Of freedom, virtue, and the arts you love;
So shall this city, by refinement blest,
Become the pride and mistress of the West;
So shall your country rise to greater fame,
And endless glory gild Columbia's name.
| The poetical works of Samuel Woodworth | |