The Shamrock or, Hibernian Cresses. A Collection of Poems, Songs, Epigrams, &c. Latin as well as English, The Original Production of Ireland. To which are subjoined thoughts on the prevailing system of school education, respecting young ladies as well as gentlemen: with practical proposals for a reformation [by Samuel Whyte] |
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On seeing Mrs. WOFFINGTON, in the Character of Phædra. |
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 | The Shamrock |  |
18
On seeing Mrs. WOFFINGTON, in the Character of Phædra.
Inscribed to Mrs. ROCHFORT.
Oft has the Poet sweetly sung in vain,
When tasteless Actors chaunt the heav'nly Strain;
In vain to sounding Lays has tun'd his Lyre,
When languid Elocution damps his Fire:
The Words indeed, the Sentiments we hear,
As Wine distill'd thro' filtering Stones is clear;
But then the Flavour, Spirit, Taste, are fled,
And leave a Caput Mortuum in their Stead.
Such was the Fate of Smith, whose sacred Page
Is rich with Beauties of the Attic Age:
His Phædra glowing with celestial Flame,
Dazzled and overwhelm'd each Tragic Dame:
In vain they toil'd and labour'd in their Art,
When no Promethean Fire had warm'd the Heart;
In vain with Lips unhallow'd try'd to sing
(Those Lips ne'er dew'd with the Pierian Spring)
Such Strains, as falling from Apollo's Lyre,
Had fill'd with Rapture the celestial Choir.
Confess'd their Weakness, and abash'd their Pride,
At length, in meer Despair, 'twas thrown aside.
Like the Dulychian Bow, this glorious Play,
Useless thro' Size and Strength, neglected lay:
That Bow, whose thick tough Texture try'd in vain,
Baffled each Effort of the Courtier Train;
That Bow its Master's Hand obey'd alone,
As Phædra was reserv'd for Woffington.
When tasteless Actors chaunt the heav'nly Strain;
In vain to sounding Lays has tun'd his Lyre,
When languid Elocution damps his Fire:
The Words indeed, the Sentiments we hear,
As Wine distill'd thro' filtering Stones is clear;
But then the Flavour, Spirit, Taste, are fled,
And leave a Caput Mortuum in their Stead.
Such was the Fate of Smith, whose sacred Page
Is rich with Beauties of the Attic Age:
His Phædra glowing with celestial Flame,
Dazzled and overwhelm'd each Tragic Dame:
In vain they toil'd and labour'd in their Art,
When no Promethean Fire had warm'd the Heart;
In vain with Lips unhallow'd try'd to sing
(Those Lips ne'er dew'd with the Pierian Spring)
Such Strains, as falling from Apollo's Lyre,
Had fill'd with Rapture the celestial Choir.
Confess'd their Weakness, and abash'd their Pride,
At length, in meer Despair, 'twas thrown aside.
Like the Dulychian Bow, this glorious Play,
Useless thro' Size and Strength, neglected lay:
That Bow, whose thick tough Texture try'd in vain,
Baffled each Effort of the Courtier Train;
19
As Phædra was reserv'd for Woffington.
Heavens! with what Ease, what Majesty! what Fire!
Her Words, Looks, Gesture, to the Poet's Lyre,
Strike perfect Unison! Now sunk with Woe,
Her sad Tongue falters, and her Words move slow;
Now sudden with extatic Frenzy fir'd,
She seems with more than mortal Strength inspir'd!
Headlong she leads you in the dangerous Chace,
Or instant whirls you thro' the rapid Race:
You see the Champions mount, the Chariots bound,
And the swift Coursers swallow up the Ground!
You hear the Horn, the jolly Huntsman's Cries,
And tremble at the Monster as he dies!
With more than magic Quickness, to your View,
She shifts the Scenes which Fancy's Pencil drew.
Her Words, Looks, Gesture, to the Poet's Lyre,
Strike perfect Unison! Now sunk with Woe,
Her sad Tongue falters, and her Words move slow;
Now sudden with extatic Frenzy fir'd,
She seems with more than mortal Strength inspir'd!
Headlong she leads you in the dangerous Chace,
Or instant whirls you thro' the rapid Race:
You see the Champions mount, the Chariots bound,
And the swift Coursers swallow up the Ground!
You hear the Horn, the jolly Huntsman's Cries,
And tremble at the Monster as he dies!
With more than magic Quickness, to your View,
She shifts the Scenes which Fancy's Pencil drew.
But when contending Passions tear her Breast,
By Guilt, Love, Rage, and Jealousy oppress'd;
When, from the Fetters freed of Female Shame,
Revenge, and Fury shake her labouring Frame;
She looks the wrathful Messenger of Jove,
Scattering his fatal Terrors from above.
Yet in the very Tempest of her Soul,
Unseen, a temper'd Judgment guides the whole.
No strange Distortions shock the loathing Sight,
No Rants, no screaming Tones, the Ear affright;
But like the angry Angel in her Form,
She guides the Whirlwind, and directs the Storm:
The Audience now with Reverence on the Stage,
Admire the awful Dignity of Rage.
By Guilt, Love, Rage, and Jealousy oppress'd;
When, from the Fetters freed of Female Shame,
Revenge, and Fury shake her labouring Frame;
She looks the wrathful Messenger of Jove,
Scattering his fatal Terrors from above.
Yet in the very Tempest of her Soul,
Unseen, a temper'd Judgment guides the whole.
No strange Distortions shock the loathing Sight,
No Rants, no screaming Tones, the Ear affright;
But like the angry Angel in her Form,
She guides the Whirlwind, and directs the Storm:
The Audience now with Reverence on the Stage,
Admire the awful Dignity of Rage.
Sudden the Scene is chan'gd, the Sky's serene,
Reflection comes, with Virtue in her Train;
Virtue returns, but ah! a chearless Guest,
Yok'd with Despair, in a Love-laden Breast.
Pity my Pains, ah! lovely Youth! she cries,
Pity her Pains! each feeling Bosom sighs!
Hopeless she pleads, nor wishes to succeed,
When conscious Virtue bars the guilty Deed.
Her last Resource is Death—She rears on high
The fatal Ponyard—Hark! a sudden Cry!
Theseus is come! stiff rooted, and aghast,
She heard the fatal Sound! as at the Blast
Of the last general Trumpet, fix'd she stood,
Her Limbs to Marble turn'd, congeal'd her Blood!
Whilst all her Soul had flown into her Face,
Where every Eye might every Passion trace.
Hither ye Artists, Painters, Sculptors come!
Leave your Antiques of Greece, and boasted Rome;
Take warm from Life the Semblance of your Kind,
Learn to paint Passion, and embody'd Mind;
Shew in the Figure of a modern Fair,
At once, Guilt, Shame, Distraction, and Despair!
Reflection comes, with Virtue in her Train;
20
Yok'd with Despair, in a Love-laden Breast.
Pity my Pains, ah! lovely Youth! she cries,
Pity her Pains! each feeling Bosom sighs!
Hopeless she pleads, nor wishes to succeed,
When conscious Virtue bars the guilty Deed.
Her last Resource is Death—She rears on high
The fatal Ponyard—Hark! a sudden Cry!
Theseus is come! stiff rooted, and aghast,
She heard the fatal Sound! as at the Blast
Of the last general Trumpet, fix'd she stood,
Her Limbs to Marble turn'd, congeal'd her Blood!
Whilst all her Soul had flown into her Face,
Where every Eye might every Passion trace.
Hither ye Artists, Painters, Sculptors come!
Leave your Antiques of Greece, and boasted Rome;
Take warm from Life the Semblance of your Kind,
Learn to paint Passion, and embody'd Mind;
Shew in the Figure of a modern Fair,
At once, Guilt, Shame, Distraction, and Despair!
But oh! what Muse can paint her racking Pains,
When the slow Poison working in her Veins,
She hears the Fate of the consummate Youth,
Who fell by her, a Victim to his Truth?
To Heaven her self-accusing Eyes she rais'd,
When, to crown all, she heard her Virtue prais'd!
One conscious Spark, which almost smother'd lay,
From her torn Breast indignant forc'd its Way,
Swift as the nitrous Powder touch'd with Flame,
Burst thro the Mounds of Guilt, and weightier Shame,
Bore all before it with resistless Sway,
And on the guilty Scene flash'd sudden Day.
Perjury, Murder, Incest start to Sight!
Ghastly they look'd, and anger'd at the Light;
Then on their Parent's Bosom vent their Rage;
She calls on Hell her Torments to assuage!
Hell heard her Voice, cleft is the labouring Ground,
She sees the vengeful Furies stalk around!
Nor singly sees, the trembling Audience too,
Behold Hell's Powers collected to their View:
Thro' the whole House th'electric Frenzy flies,
And each Spectator sees with Phædra's Eyes
When the slow Poison working in her Veins,
She hears the Fate of the consummate Youth,
Who fell by her, a Victim to his Truth?
To Heaven her self-accusing Eyes she rais'd,
When, to crown all, she heard her Virtue prais'd!
One conscious Spark, which almost smother'd lay,
From her torn Breast indignant forc'd its Way,
Swift as the nitrous Powder touch'd with Flame,
Burst thro the Mounds of Guilt, and weightier Shame,
Bore all before it with resistless Sway,
And on the guilty Scene flash'd sudden Day.
Perjury, Murder, Incest start to Sight!
Ghastly they look'd, and anger'd at the Light;
21
She calls on Hell her Torments to assuage!
Hell heard her Voice, cleft is the labouring Ground,
She sees the vengeful Furies stalk around!
Nor singly sees, the trembling Audience too,
Behold Hell's Powers collected to their View:
Thro' the whole House th'electric Frenzy flies,
And each Spectator sees with Phædra's Eyes
So when the God inspir'd the Pythian Dame,
And fill'd her 'raptur'd Breast with heavenly Flame;
Each Hearer of the Deity partook,
Swell'd as she swell'd, and as she trembled shook;
With the celestial Fire each Bosom glow'd,
And all acknowledg'd, for they felt the God.
And fill'd her 'raptur'd Breast with heavenly Flame;
Each Hearer of the Deity partook,
Swell'd as she swell'd, and as she trembled shook;
With the celestial Fire each Bosom glow'd,
And all acknowledg'd, for they felt the God.
| The Shamrock | |