A collection of poems on various subjects including the theatre, a didactic essay; in the course of which are pointed out, the rocks and shoals to which deluded adventurers are inevitably exposed. Ornamented with cuts and illustrated with notes, original letters and curious incidental anecdotes [by Samuel Whyte] |
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THE THEATRE. |
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 | A collection of poems on various subjects |  |
1
THE THEATRE.
When Pritchard her decisive exit made,
And the last plaudits were to Cibber paid,
The Tragic Muse her comely tresses tore,
That she should look upon their like no more:
Nor vain her fears—now frantic o'er the Stage,
Beyond all temperance, our Heroines rage;
To very tatters every passion rend,
As if they studied only to offend.
'Tis true, 'tis pity they so strut and strain
To tire our patience, and contempt to gain.
And then their action—hold, good censor! there—
'Tis suited well to make the groundlings stare;
Froth and extravagance the herd admire,
Probatum est, and smoke's a proof of fire.
Trick'd in forc'd attitudes and foreign grace,
Foreign indeed to subject, time, and place,
On fluttering pinions of burlesque they rise,
And sacrifice the heart to catch the eyes.
Some, in the opposite extreme, are cool;
Languid by principle, and tame by rule;
Exploding Art, they rest on Nature's laws;
But, partially conceived, betray her cause;
Provoke to laughter where 'twas meant to weep,
Or chaunt with drawling lullabies to sleep.
Twice fifty moons in Lily's labyrinths bred,
Talk not to them of breaking Priscian's head:
Tho' oft the ear uncultur'd idioms grate,
And mangled metre oft disgust create,
Against advice, even at their own request,
They, as a breach of privilege, protest
Your jus et norma,—frivolous! absurd!
Originality is all the word.
Shall genius be confined by servile lore,
And not strike out new paths untrod before?
If from the ancient schools the line you draw,
When Nature to consummate Art gave law,
Their practice and their followers they contemn;
What's Mossop, Garrick, Sheridan to them?
More elegance and grace they set to view
“Than all their pedant discipline e'er knew;”
Or if some grains of merit they allow,
The scene is chang'd, and things are different now;
New lights on all are by the Moderns thrown,
Who act, we grant, by maxims of their own.
Then as to Fops—a despicable race!—
Old King and Woodward must of course give place;
Precedence ours irrefragably prove,
Who like Parnobile draws on a glove?
Wilks, laureate Cibber, or th'arch coxcomb Thé,
Would be mere nothing, nothing at this day:
Egad! to name them with the present school,
The glass of all perfection and the rule,
Strangers to Ton, and ignorant of Style,
Taste and all that—'twould make a Macklin smile;
They in their day might answer well enough,
But now—comparisons are odious, cries Nol Bluff:
And yet, confound those rascal gazetteers!
Not in one paper his great name appears.
With more address our Stagers buy esteem,
And all our prints with their perfections teem.
Where rang'd sedans each morning line the street,
Paddy, a second Stagyrite! you meet,
With news in hand, perch'd on his half-drawn pole,
The seeds of learning pregnant in his soul,
As round him his unletter'd comrades stand,
Spelling the play-puffs to the listening band:
Shoeboys and scavengers their work suspend,
And shrill-voic'd sweeps their rambles, to attend.
Ladies may wait, and angry footmen call,
They see not, hear not, or they curse them all.
Wondrous, O Thespians! must be your renown,
In sweat, soot, dirt, thus bandied thro' the town!
Who can dispute, when oracles so pure
Announce perfection, and success ensure?
But still, should hardy sceptics blots detect,
They swell their crests, and glory in defect;
Nay, tho' a Roscius hold the mirrour forth,
'Tis envy nibbling at superiour worth;
Then, enter wrath, with insult at his side,
The last resort of ignorance and pride.
Even so the moody tyrants they perform,
Come forth in clouds, and exeunt in a storm.
Thus frontless vanity o'ershoots its aim,
And balking censure clips the wings of fame.
And the last plaudits were to Cibber paid,
The Tragic Muse her comely tresses tore,
That she should look upon their like no more:
Nor vain her fears—now frantic o'er the Stage,
Beyond all temperance, our Heroines rage;
To very tatters every passion rend,
As if they studied only to offend.
'Tis true, 'tis pity they so strut and strain
To tire our patience, and contempt to gain.
And then their action—hold, good censor! there—
'Tis suited well to make the groundlings stare;
Froth and extravagance the herd admire,
Probatum est, and smoke's a proof of fire.
Trick'd in forc'd attitudes and foreign grace,
Foreign indeed to subject, time, and place,
2
And sacrifice the heart to catch the eyes.
Some, in the opposite extreme, are cool;
Languid by principle, and tame by rule;
Exploding Art, they rest on Nature's laws;
But, partially conceived, betray her cause;
Provoke to laughter where 'twas meant to weep,
Or chaunt with drawling lullabies to sleep.
Twice fifty moons in Lily's labyrinths bred,
Talk not to them of breaking Priscian's head:
Tho' oft the ear uncultur'd idioms grate,
And mangled metre oft disgust create,
Against advice, even at their own request,
They, as a breach of privilege, protest
Your jus et norma,—frivolous! absurd!
Originality is all the word.
Shall genius be confined by servile lore,
And not strike out new paths untrod before?
If from the ancient schools the line you draw,
When Nature to consummate Art gave law,
Their practice and their followers they contemn;
What's Mossop, Garrick, Sheridan to them?
More elegance and grace they set to view
“Than all their pedant discipline e'er knew;”
Or if some grains of merit they allow,
The scene is chang'd, and things are different now;
3
Who act, we grant, by maxims of their own.
Then as to Fops—a despicable race!—
Old King and Woodward must of course give place;
Precedence ours irrefragably prove,
Who like Parnobile draws on a glove?
Wilks, laureate Cibber, or th'arch coxcomb Thé,
Would be mere nothing, nothing at this day:
Egad! to name them with the present school,
The glass of all perfection and the rule,
Strangers to Ton, and ignorant of Style,
Taste and all that—'twould make a Macklin smile;
They in their day might answer well enough,
But now—comparisons are odious, cries Nol Bluff:
And yet, confound those rascal gazetteers!
Not in one paper his great name appears.
With more address our Stagers buy esteem,
And all our prints with their perfections teem.
Where rang'd sedans each morning line the street,
Paddy, a second Stagyrite! you meet,
With news in hand, perch'd on his half-drawn pole,
The seeds of learning pregnant in his soul,
As round him his unletter'd comrades stand,
Spelling the play-puffs to the listening band:
Shoeboys and scavengers their work suspend,
And shrill-voic'd sweeps their rambles, to attend.
4
They see not, hear not, or they curse them all.
Wondrous, O Thespians! must be your renown,
In sweat, soot, dirt, thus bandied thro' the town!
Who can dispute, when oracles so pure
Announce perfection, and success ensure?
But still, should hardy sceptics blots detect,
They swell their crests, and glory in defect;
Nay, tho' a Roscius hold the mirrour forth,
'Tis envy nibbling at superiour worth;
Then, enter wrath, with insult at his side,
The last resort of ignorance and pride.
Even so the moody tyrants they perform,
Come forth in clouds, and exeunt in a storm.
Thus frontless vanity o'ershoots its aim,
And balking censure clips the wings of fame.
The Stage, thus run to weeds, o'ergrown and wild,
Dishonour'd Nature saw, and pitying smil'd;
But vain is pity and contempt as vain,
Where nonsense charms, and folly holds her reign.
Pathos, that there delighted so of yore,
And Taste and Genius, there delight no more;
But, tho' reluctant, quit their native seat,
And seek in private a secure retreat.
Here once again the feeling soul to warm,
They animate a fair auspicious form,
Such, as we read, from bright Olympus came
To visit earth, and Sheridan her name!
A name, by right hereditary, prov'd
To Science dear, of every Muse belov'd:
Shore's hapless wife, that paragon confess'd,
Free from her stains, in all her beauties dress'd,
She realizes to the ravished view,
As story boasts her, and the Poet drew.
Dishonour'd Nature saw, and pitying smil'd;
But vain is pity and contempt as vain,
Where nonsense charms, and folly holds her reign.
Pathos, that there delighted so of yore,
And Taste and Genius, there delight no more;
But, tho' reluctant, quit their native seat,
And seek in private a secure retreat.
Here once again the feeling soul to warm,
They animate a fair auspicious form,
5
To visit earth, and Sheridan her name!
A name, by right hereditary, prov'd
To Science dear, of every Muse belov'd:
Shore's hapless wife, that paragon confess'd,
Free from her stains, in all her beauties dress'd,
She realizes to the ravished view,
As story boasts her, and the Poet drew.
Poets on different grounds the bays assert,
And few the Actors all in all expert;
Flush'd with pretensions, scorning vulgar reach,
Some cleave the general ear with horrid speech;
Some bustling scenes, and some the trifling suit,
Some whine in Jaffier, others doze in Brute;
Some, strange eccentrics! forfeit all pretence
To character, and even common sense:
And some, too rarely seen, adorn their sphere,
Blaze, comet-like, surprize and disappear!
Some walking cyphers point-devise get drest,
To stop a gap, or to enhance the rest;
What storms soe'er, or passions intervene,
Serene and calm, fix'd to one set routine,
Like school-boys at their tasks, their parts they con,
And daudle off, just as they daudled on:
Beshrew his heart! who could offend their pride;
Dear harmless creatures! they're so satisfied!
And few the Actors all in all expert;
Flush'd with pretensions, scorning vulgar reach,
Some cleave the general ear with horrid speech;
Some bustling scenes, and some the trifling suit,
Some whine in Jaffier, others doze in Brute;
Some, strange eccentrics! forfeit all pretence
To character, and even common sense:
And some, too rarely seen, adorn their sphere,
Blaze, comet-like, surprize and disappear!
Some walking cyphers point-devise get drest,
To stop a gap, or to enhance the rest;
What storms soe'er, or passions intervene,
Serene and calm, fix'd to one set routine,
Like school-boys at their tasks, their parts they con,
And daudle off, just as they daudled on:
Beshrew his heart! who could offend their pride;
Dear harmless creatures! they're so satisfied!
6
Nor all alike are by the audience felt;
Some sit with Cynic phlegm, while others melt;
Some flirt and giggle—you may rave and hoot;
Why, musty sirs! they at the altar do't;
And in the moments sanctified to prayer,
They study fashions, courtesy, bow and stare,
As if for that sole purpose gather'd there.
For admiration and distinction born,
So runs their creed, they're pointed at by scorn;
Yet all her spring-guns, and her traps defy,
To poach for fools, and lure the coxcomb fry.
Have they no feeling of decorum? tush!
They leave it to their grandmothers to blush.
Modern refinement soars above all rules;
Good breeding's only for your vulgar tools,
Who, if they laugh, with cause give laughter birth,
And with discretion always season mirth:
That belles and beaux have either ears or eyes,
Save for themselves, 'twere folly to surmise;
Why think it then to out-talk the players odd?
Dim are their optics who are blind to God.
To them, alas! the genial lamp of day,
The moon and stars, without direction stray;
Years, months and weeks, the morning, noon and night,
Creative wisdom thro' all nature bright,
Unheeded pass; all changes, tide and time,
With less of meaning than a pantomime:
Yet some there are who harlequin admire,
Others his wild vagaries teaze and tire.
Some sit with Cynic phlegm, while others melt;
Some flirt and giggle—you may rave and hoot;
Why, musty sirs! they at the altar do't;
And in the moments sanctified to prayer,
They study fashions, courtesy, bow and stare,
As if for that sole purpose gather'd there.
For admiration and distinction born,
So runs their creed, they're pointed at by scorn;
Yet all her spring-guns, and her traps defy,
To poach for fools, and lure the coxcomb fry.
Have they no feeling of decorum? tush!
They leave it to their grandmothers to blush.
Modern refinement soars above all rules;
Good breeding's only for your vulgar tools,
Who, if they laugh, with cause give laughter birth,
And with discretion always season mirth:
That belles and beaux have either ears or eyes,
Save for themselves, 'twere folly to surmise;
Why think it then to out-talk the players odd?
Dim are their optics who are blind to God.
To them, alas! the genial lamp of day,
The moon and stars, without direction stray;
Years, months and weeks, the morning, noon and night,
Creative wisdom thro' all nature bright,
Unheeded pass; all changes, tide and time,
With less of meaning than a pantomime:
7
Others his wild vagaries teaze and tire.
Some partial to the actor slight the piece;
A few from judgment praise, more from caprice;
With things call'd strokes your novices are caught;
The knowing ones exult in finding fault,
And, fraught with self-conceit, their tongues uncurb;
Retail stale saws and all around disturb:
Ease, life and spirit they ascribe to brass;
A venial slip! there, set me down an ass.
No stone is left unturn'd desert to smother;
One would be well, but he's so like another;
A copyist is a copyist at best;
All servile imitators they detest;
And, cross'd on that tack, if compell'd to strike,
They rake him fore and aft, because not like.
A few from judgment praise, more from caprice;
With things call'd strokes your novices are caught;
The knowing ones exult in finding fault,
And, fraught with self-conceit, their tongues uncurb;
Retail stale saws and all around disturb:
Ease, life and spirit they ascribe to brass;
A venial slip! there, set me down an ass.
No stone is left unturn'd desert to smother;
One would be well, but he's so like another;
A copyist is a copyist at best;
All servile imitators they detest;
And, cross'd on that tack, if compell'd to strike,
They rake him fore and aft, because not like.
Some critics would be thought, and, strange to tell!
They judge of speaking who ne'er learnt to spell;
With borrow'd strictures bundled up by rote,
They rail at veterans of the foremost note;
Arrest their words ere well they give them breath,
And with objections worry you to death.
Pause, accent, emphasis, and parts of speech,
Even to the very lexicon they teach.
Who, classic Sheridan! thy diction blame,
Would swear even Lewis dull and Mossop tame,
And such there are; so petulant is pride!
So prone to carp! so forward to decide!
The itch of cavil, festering to disease,
No art can circumscribe, no genius please;
To beauty's self with elegance combin'd,
The heart grows callous and perception blind.
Why tax Calista's powers?—suspect thy sense,
And do not ape the wit at truth's expence;
The crouded audiences and streaming eyes
Demonstrate clear, thy frigid censure lies.
Monimia treads the stage—Monimia's young,
Too fair a flower to 'scape the wanton tongue;
Foul-mouth'd defamer! easily we see
Which way the wind sits—she's sour grapes to thee:
Misfortune's cruel hand expos'd her there,
Tho' weak her efforts, her misfortunes spare,
The brave in every state respect the fair.
If no untimely frost defeat her spring,
Another Campion future bards may sing:
The oak majestic towering to the skies,
Grew from an acorn to that strength and size.
They judge of speaking who ne'er learnt to spell;
With borrow'd strictures bundled up by rote,
They rail at veterans of the foremost note;
Arrest their words ere well they give them breath,
And with objections worry you to death.
Pause, accent, emphasis, and parts of speech,
Even to the very lexicon they teach.
Who, classic Sheridan! thy diction blame,
Would swear even Lewis dull and Mossop tame,
8
So prone to carp! so forward to decide!
The itch of cavil, festering to disease,
No art can circumscribe, no genius please;
To beauty's self with elegance combin'd,
The heart grows callous and perception blind.
Why tax Calista's powers?—suspect thy sense,
And do not ape the wit at truth's expence;
The crouded audiences and streaming eyes
Demonstrate clear, thy frigid censure lies.
Monimia treads the stage—Monimia's young,
Too fair a flower to 'scape the wanton tongue;
Foul-mouth'd defamer! easily we see
Which way the wind sits—she's sour grapes to thee:
Misfortune's cruel hand expos'd her there,
Tho' weak her efforts, her misfortunes spare,
The brave in every state respect the fair.
If no untimely frost defeat her spring,
Another Campion future bards may sing:
The oak majestic towering to the skies,
Grew from an acorn to that strength and size.
But, oh! what anxious minutes tells the wight,
Who proves ungracious in the Million's sight.
'Tis held the stars that mark the natal hour,
Have o'er the lives of men despotic power;
It staggers faith; yet by what other rule
Are some the theme of constant ridicule?
And, ah! I ween, thrice luckless, who offends
The powers on whom dramatic fame depends;
For aye the sport of the capricious town,
Like blood-hounds on the scent they hunt him down:
Each flaw of gesture, feature, limb or voice,
A mote, the trick of nature, not of choice,
All in full cry with ruthless censure scan,
And in the actor crucify the man.
Cheerly, good Caius! wipe thy brimming eyes;
Humane like thee, with thee I sympathize:—
Conscious of his defects with heart-struck woe,
To meet the ordeal doom'd to undergo,
He enters; and anon his wounded ear
Horse-laughs assail, low gibe and bitter jeer:
Pit, boxes, galleries mingle in the roar,
And why? he does his best and can't do more.
His sketches given with force are touch'd with skill;
He strives to please, and never fails in will:
Some tints of quaintness may obscure his art,
But pass not sentence 'till you read his heart.
To every truth detraction's ears are shut,
And every plea comes lacquied with—a but;
But, such an odious fright! what brought him there?
What might have made a worse, even thee, a play'r,
Necessity—dishonest means he scorns,
Dost thou for that his pallet plant with thorns,
And mix with needless gall his scanty meal?
When? when will ease and plenty learn to feel?
With scarce a hope his cheerless breast to warm,
He bides the pelting of the pitiless storm;
Mute and submissive bowing low his head,
Support him, heaven! to earn his infants bread.
Ill-fated man! he seeks not for applause;
His cause is nature's, hear him for his cause.
The tongue of kindness pleads, and pleads in vain,
Her gentle whispers but provoke disdain;
Yet to his griefs let consolation speak,
The first in favour won't be so a week:
Wears he the buskin? all bombast, cries spleen;
Give wisdom tears; to bucks the comic scene;
And, chuckling in a knot, they're doubly blest,
When sense disclaims and rudeness points the jest.
Who proves ungracious in the Million's sight.
'Tis held the stars that mark the natal hour,
Have o'er the lives of men despotic power;
It staggers faith; yet by what other rule
Are some the theme of constant ridicule?
9
The powers on whom dramatic fame depends;
For aye the sport of the capricious town,
Like blood-hounds on the scent they hunt him down:
Each flaw of gesture, feature, limb or voice,
A mote, the trick of nature, not of choice,
All in full cry with ruthless censure scan,
And in the actor crucify the man.
Cheerly, good Caius! wipe thy brimming eyes;
Humane like thee, with thee I sympathize:—
Conscious of his defects with heart-struck woe,
To meet the ordeal doom'd to undergo,
He enters; and anon his wounded ear
Horse-laughs assail, low gibe and bitter jeer:
Pit, boxes, galleries mingle in the roar,
And why? he does his best and can't do more.
His sketches given with force are touch'd with skill;
He strives to please, and never fails in will:
Some tints of quaintness may obscure his art,
But pass not sentence 'till you read his heart.
To every truth detraction's ears are shut,
And every plea comes lacquied with—a but;
But, such an odious fright! what brought him there?
What might have made a worse, even thee, a play'r,
Necessity—dishonest means he scorns,
Dost thou for that his pallet plant with thorns,
10
When? when will ease and plenty learn to feel?
With scarce a hope his cheerless breast to warm,
He bides the pelting of the pitiless storm;
Mute and submissive bowing low his head,
Support him, heaven! to earn his infants bread.
Ill-fated man! he seeks not for applause;
His cause is nature's, hear him for his cause.
The tongue of kindness pleads, and pleads in vain,
Her gentle whispers but provoke disdain;
Yet to his griefs let consolation speak,
The first in favour won't be so a week:
Wears he the buskin? all bombast, cries spleen;
Give wisdom tears; to bucks the comic scene;
And, chuckling in a knot, they're doubly blest,
When sense disclaims and rudeness points the jest.
Fast by the orchestra Hircus takes his stand,
The spikes appropriate to support his hand;
His stick thrust to his chin, his head to prop,
How like a wig-block in a barber's shop!
With watering gums he on the actress glotes,
To get a peep beneath her petticoats;
A sage behind his shoulder softly tips,
Sir, be so good,—our prospect you eclipse.
Wak'd from his dream, Sir, what do you mean by that?
Your pardon, sir,—just to take off your hat;
But he, as blockheads will not be advis'd,
Stands bolt upright, and, as he ought, despis'd.
The spikes appropriate to support his hand;
His stick thrust to his chin, his head to prop,
How like a wig-block in a barber's shop!
With watering gums he on the actress glotes,
To get a peep beneath her petticoats;
A sage behind his shoulder softly tips,
Sir, be so good,—our prospect you eclipse.
Wak'd from his dream, Sir, what do you mean by that?
Your pardon, sir,—just to take off your hat;
11
Stands bolt upright, and, as he ought, despis'd.
A-breast the ring, another spark entrenches
On decency alike, and mounts the benches;
No doubt, by such rare proof of shining parts,
To burn to cinders all the misses hearts;
But to them all a nuisance perks the clown,—
Is no good fellow near to knock him down?
No valiant knight to trip such brainless elves?
Odds pins and needles! ladies! right yourselves.
But not confin'd alone to the parterre,
Shame to the boxes! savages are there.
How differ, tell us, ye adepts in spunk!
He with champaign, and he with porter drunk?
Form'd to their gust, and for such worthies fit,
A screen is humour and a sopha wit;
The dialogue, however finely penn'd,
Is quite a bore, and written to no end;
Tho' brilliant fancy glow in every line,
The Graces sport and warble all the Nine,
Deaf to the charmer Maudlin still appears,
And, if he hear him, never shows he hears.
On decency alike, and mounts the benches;
No doubt, by such rare proof of shining parts,
To burn to cinders all the misses hearts;
But to them all a nuisance perks the clown,—
Is no good fellow near to knock him down?
No valiant knight to trip such brainless elves?
Odds pins and needles! ladies! right yourselves.
But not confin'd alone to the parterre,
Shame to the boxes! savages are there.
How differ, tell us, ye adepts in spunk!
He with champaign, and he with porter drunk?
Form'd to their gust, and for such worthies fit,
A screen is humour and a sopha wit;
The dialogue, however finely penn'd,
Is quite a bore, and written to no end;
Tho' brilliant fancy glow in every line,
The Graces sport and warble all the Nine,
Deaf to the charmer Maudlin still appears,
And, if he hear him, never shows he hears.
Birds of a feather! Puppies, bears and hogs,
Love learned pigs, monkies, and dancing dogs.
Some by the quantum estimate the stuff,
And for their money think they've ne'er enough;
What's plot, situation, character or style?
Suffice it them, the bill extends a mile!
A farce to a good play was once a crime,
Now drolls and farces swallow all the time;
And, cramm'd up to the throat, we still deplore
Our wants, like babies, and bawl out for more.
Love learned pigs, monkies, and dancing dogs.
Some by the quantum estimate the stuff,
And for their money think they've ne'er enough;
12
Suffice it them, the bill extends a mile!
A farce to a good play was once a crime,
Now drolls and farces swallow all the time;
And, cramm'd up to the throat, we still deplore
Our wants, like babies, and bawl out for more.
Hard is his task for public taste who carves!
For where one glutton feasts another starves.
Your skilful cook consults the appetite;
But, damn the manager! he's never right:
He gives them tragedy, they mouthe at that;
He gives them comedy—'tis poor and flat;
With fire and frolic seeks he their content,
They grow discreet, and doat on sentiment.
Those the unfetter'd, nervous ancients please;
The moderns tied to rule and compass these;
He veers with each; but still he gets no thanks;
They must have whistlers, tumblers, mountebanks!
Are whistlers, tumblers, mountebanks procur'd?
What, in a playhouse? not to be endur'd!
For where one glutton feasts another starves.
Your skilful cook consults the appetite;
But, damn the manager! he's never right:
He gives them tragedy, they mouthe at that;
He gives them comedy—'tis poor and flat;
With fire and frolic seeks he their content,
They grow discreet, and doat on sentiment.
Those the unfetter'd, nervous ancients please;
The moderns tied to rule and compass these;
He veers with each; but still he gets no thanks;
They must have whistlers, tumblers, mountebanks!
Are whistlers, tumblers, mountebanks procur'd?
What, in a playhouse? not to be endur'd!
Then the performers! what a wretched crew!
Just Falstaff's corps! why doesn't he look for new?
Whom better could he bring, sir, in their stead?
Bring Dodd, bring Quick, bring—Garrick from the dead!
And if old barebones he contriv'd to chouse,
Ere laps'd a month, he would not bring a house.
Just Falstaff's corps! why doesn't he look for new?
Whom better could he bring, sir, in their stead?
Bring Dodd, bring Quick, bring—Garrick from the dead!
And if old barebones he contriv'd to chouse,
Ere laps'd a month, he would not bring a house.
13
Of all amusements, both the grave and gay
The one most rational confess a play;
Yet night succeeding night, in spite of sense,
What shoals devote to pam their time and pence!
Yawning at Shakespeare, some to operas fly,
Adore Trillini, and in cadence die;
Then rous'd encore from their chromatic trance,
Their spirits caper to the bounding dance,
The dupes of Italy, and slaves of France!
All have their whimsies, great as well as small,
And he his claims who strives to humour all.
Tho' calumny may tent him to the quick,
And daring calumnies will sometimes stick,
Back on herself revert her deadly stings,
Oppos'd by facts; for facts are stubborn things.
Envy the harvest of his toil may grudge,
Ill-nature snarl, and ignorance misjudge,
Those on whose brows the beam of candour plays,
Will blame with temper, and with reason praise.
A generous dealing animates the heart,
And life and vigour gives to every part;
The manager with due support requites,
And with the laurel blesses him that writes;
To the performer just acclaim ensures,—
The fear of pleasing his, the pleasure yours.
Each should consider, ere he reprimands,
In what predicament the culprit stands;
For oft, heaven knows! fast to the oar tied,
He must drudge on howe'er disqualified,
And every option of his soul contract,
To drag frail being thro' life's lingering act.
Before you to asperity give place,
If any power can prejudice erase,
Try in your own the merits of his case.
Scout as you may presumption and conceit,
One leading point's agreed on—all must eat;
And better here industrious means to cherish,
Than live a villain, or in prison perish:
Than live a villain! Yes, sir, 'twas my word;
He is a villain, commoner or lord,
Who, revelling in affluence and delight,
Defrauds the needy creditor of right;
And they no less who in collusion draw,
Or aid such rascals to evade the law.
The one most rational confess a play;
Yet night succeeding night, in spite of sense,
What shoals devote to pam their time and pence!
Yawning at Shakespeare, some to operas fly,
Adore Trillini, and in cadence die;
Then rous'd encore from their chromatic trance,
Their spirits caper to the bounding dance,
The dupes of Italy, and slaves of France!
All have their whimsies, great as well as small,
And he his claims who strives to humour all.
Tho' calumny may tent him to the quick,
And daring calumnies will sometimes stick,
Back on herself revert her deadly stings,
Oppos'd by facts; for facts are stubborn things.
Envy the harvest of his toil may grudge,
Ill-nature snarl, and ignorance misjudge,
Those on whose brows the beam of candour plays,
Will blame with temper, and with reason praise.
A generous dealing animates the heart,
And life and vigour gives to every part;
The manager with due support requites,
And with the laurel blesses him that writes;
To the performer just acclaim ensures,—
The fear of pleasing his, the pleasure yours.
Each should consider, ere he reprimands,
In what predicament the culprit stands;
14
He must drudge on howe'er disqualified,
And every option of his soul contract,
To drag frail being thro' life's lingering act.
Before you to asperity give place,
If any power can prejudice erase,
Try in your own the merits of his case.
Scout as you may presumption and conceit,
One leading point's agreed on—all must eat;
And better here industrious means to cherish,
Than live a villain, or in prison perish:
Than live a villain! Yes, sir, 'twas my word;
He is a villain, commoner or lord,
Who, revelling in affluence and delight,
Defrauds the needy creditor of right;
And they no less who in collusion draw,
Or aid such rascals to evade the law.
Oh, there be peers, howe'er they got the name!
Whom fainted patience recreants would proclaim;
Whose deeds aloud for castigation ask,
And whose vile arts 'tis virtue to unmask;
Sharpers in grain, a pest one often meets,
With penury and filth that charge the streets;
That in distress the painful artist steep,
And make the widow and the orphan weep;
Nip hope's fair buds, put commerce to a stand,
And with oppression desolate the land.
Against the times declaimers may inveigh,
The evil trac'd lies in a word—bad-pay:
Plans may be form'd, and regulations made,
Bad-pay contracts, bad-pay subverts our trade;
That every inlet of advantage dams,
And chains resource to indolence and drams;
To that reformers should direct their care,
There bend their forces, point their thunders there;
Not, while on justice wealth and state infringe,
Coop'd in their halls, to grooms and porters cringe;
Or stand arraign'd, which less admits excuse,
For cheats, beslav'd with arrogant abuse.
We boast our laws! laws are of little force,
When those who should maintain pervert their course;
Or, brought to ruin's verge, who gains his suit
Can find no officer to execute;
Or venal reptiles who enhance expence,
Connive at knaves and aggravate offence;
The very laws thus making grievance worse,
Encourage wrongs, and prove themselves a curse.
O you, whom Bailiffs, or Police they call,
Who sweep the beggars from the dripping stall!
Let ruin'd citizens in peace depart,
And clap the powder'd swindler in the cart.
Shall hemp and dungeons be the poor man's fate,
And justice not o'ertake the guilty great?
Thank heav'n! the press our grand palladium's free,
And brands the rogue as sure as Tyburn-tree,
So speed the verse, to all eternity.
Whom fainted patience recreants would proclaim;
Whose deeds aloud for castigation ask,
And whose vile arts 'tis virtue to unmask;
Sharpers in grain, a pest one often meets,
With penury and filth that charge the streets;
That in distress the painful artist steep,
And make the widow and the orphan weep;
Nip hope's fair buds, put commerce to a stand,
And with oppression desolate the land.
15
The evil trac'd lies in a word—bad-pay:
Plans may be form'd, and regulations made,
Bad-pay contracts, bad-pay subverts our trade;
That every inlet of advantage dams,
And chains resource to indolence and drams;
To that reformers should direct their care,
There bend their forces, point their thunders there;
Not, while on justice wealth and state infringe,
Coop'd in their halls, to grooms and porters cringe;
Or stand arraign'd, which less admits excuse,
For cheats, beslav'd with arrogant abuse.
We boast our laws! laws are of little force,
When those who should maintain pervert their course;
Or, brought to ruin's verge, who gains his suit
Can find no officer to execute;
Or venal reptiles who enhance expence,
Connive at knaves and aggravate offence;
The very laws thus making grievance worse,
Encourage wrongs, and prove themselves a curse.
O you, whom Bailiffs, or Police they call,
Who sweep the beggars from the dripping stall!
Let ruin'd citizens in peace depart,
And clap the powder'd swindler in the cart.
Shall hemp and dungeons be the poor man's fate,
And justice not o'ertake the guilty great?
16
And brands the rogue as sure as Tyburn-tree,
So speed the verse, to all eternity.
Yes, tho' I deal not in flagitious rhymes,
The day of reckoning may o'ertake their crimes;
The gibbet's now preparing large and high,
With scare-crows pendant to the passers by:
The truly noble always claim respect,
The caitiff, noble call'd, I will dissect,
And on the canvas of derision hatch,
A living portrait of the felon Scratch;
That the loud gods whene'er he meets their view,
With groans and hisses shall his steps pursue.
Rogues of inferior breed, by no means rare,
May gain a niche, that, to broad day light bare,
The world may see, and of their schemes beware.
The day of reckoning may o'ertake their crimes;
The gibbet's now preparing large and high,
With scare-crows pendant to the passers by:
The truly noble always claim respect,
The caitiff, noble call'd, I will dissect,
And on the canvas of derision hatch,
A living portrait of the felon Scratch;
That the loud gods whene'er he meets their view,
With groans and hisses shall his steps pursue.
Rogues of inferior breed, by no means rare,
May gain a niche, that, to broad day light bare,
The world may see, and of their schemes beware.
The Drama, by fanatic zeal despis'd,
Shews us the heart of man anatomiz'd;
Hypocrisy strips of her dark disguise,
Exposes vice, with virtue charms our eyes;
And where a pulpit lecture could not reach,
Will moral truths and sound instruction teach.
Let actors well or ill their tasks discharge,
Types of the actors in the world at large,
We see the pert, the ignorant, the vain,
And at the least expence experience gain,
Secure from peril, and exempt from pain;
And, in their animated pictures shewn,
Learn from their errors to correct our own.
The evils justly censur'd all lament,
Some cure admit, and most we might prevent:
So, look at home, in spite of every care,
Defects prevail, and gross abuses there;
Yet, 'twere a doctrine, strange and ill employ'd,
That for a limb the whole should be destroy'd.
Shews us the heart of man anatomiz'd;
Hypocrisy strips of her dark disguise,
Exposes vice, with virtue charms our eyes;
And where a pulpit lecture could not reach,
Will moral truths and sound instruction teach.
Let actors well or ill their tasks discharge,
Types of the actors in the world at large,
We see the pert, the ignorant, the vain,
And at the least expence experience gain,
Secure from peril, and exempt from pain;
17
Learn from their errors to correct our own.
The evils justly censur'd all lament,
Some cure admit, and most we might prevent:
So, look at home, in spite of every care,
Defects prevail, and gross abuses there;
Yet, 'twere a doctrine, strange and ill employ'd,
That for a limb the whole should be destroy'd.
'Tis in life's theatre as on the stage;
Various pursuits do various minds engage:
Some buoyant ride on faction's turbid stream,
Some, lost to glory, in oblivion dream;
Some their career without obstruction run;
Some toil and fret, and are at last undone,
And knaves and fools whom fortune dignifies,
Are, vile abuse of terms! dubb'd great and wise!
While thousands disappointed, curse their state,
And what they owe to Pride, ascribe to Fate.
Through each department studious artists look,
And colour their designs from Nature's book.
Let pedants with their rules keep e'er such stir,
All's mere dead letter, not deriv'd from her;
And those who from her genuine dictates start,
Howe'er applauded, never gain the heart.
Performers who to eminence ascend,
Begin with nature and with nature end;
On duty's ladder firmly place their feet,
And wary move till fame and merit meet:
Nor in deportment only shun excess,
But, though a trifle, prove their sense in dress;
Vain fools alone propriety resign
To the impertinence of being fine;
Or in the lap of false ambition nurs'd,
For parts unsuited to their talents thirst;
With low manœuvres fostering discontent,
A brother's claims how base to circumvent!
Each has his forte, and well his forte should know,
And to what lengths he may with credit go;
In various casts tho' many bustle on,
Not mean his genius who excels in one.
Various pursuits do various minds engage:
Some buoyant ride on faction's turbid stream,
Some, lost to glory, in oblivion dream;
Some their career without obstruction run;
Some toil and fret, and are at last undone,
And knaves and fools whom fortune dignifies,
Are, vile abuse of terms! dubb'd great and wise!
While thousands disappointed, curse their state,
And what they owe to Pride, ascribe to Fate.
Through each department studious artists look,
And colour their designs from Nature's book.
Let pedants with their rules keep e'er such stir,
All's mere dead letter, not deriv'd from her;
And those who from her genuine dictates start,
Howe'er applauded, never gain the heart.
Performers who to eminence ascend,
Begin with nature and with nature end;
18
And wary move till fame and merit meet:
Nor in deportment only shun excess,
But, though a trifle, prove their sense in dress;
Vain fools alone propriety resign
To the impertinence of being fine;
Or in the lap of false ambition nurs'd,
For parts unsuited to their talents thirst;
With low manœuvres fostering discontent,
A brother's claims how base to circumvent!
Each has his forte, and well his forte should know,
And to what lengths he may with credit go;
In various casts tho' many bustle on,
Not mean his genius who excels in one.
To different powers we different walks assign,
But judgment often wanes where talents shine;
And where the powers of execution fail,
The mind's superiour faculties prevail;
To give complete and permanent delight
Both must concur and happily unite;
And those who at perfection's laurel aim,
On no contracted base must found their claim.
Nor do the subjects represented, less
Their separate modes and signatures possess.
Within the complicated list of parts,
Some, too insipid e'er to reach our hearts,
In one cold uniform dull tenour creep,
And scarce awake the heedless audience keep;
Those, like a mill-stone round the Actor's neck,
A dead load hang, and all his efforts check.
Others a latent excellence conceal,
Which spirited exertion may reveal,
And half the merit is of some effac'd,
If not with personal endowments grac'd.
Some boldly mark'd, instinct with native force,
Performance aid, and interest of course.
Thus with congenial flame, the Muse of Fire
The dullest actor will sometimes inspire;
Conflicting passions, loud, impetuous, strong,
Wrapt in their vortex, hurry him along;
And luckily one striking feature caught,
A semblance stamps, tho' charg'd with many a fault.
Hence with the magic of a Garrick's art,
He wrests incontinent the yielding heart;
Clap, clap all hands; he catches at the prize;
But soon, ah! soon the abortive ferment dies.
Great unawares, but impotently great,
Blown in his speed, and foundered in conceit,
He sinks encumber'd with his author's weight.
So dangerous is it wantonly to rise,
And range improvident forbidden skies.
But judgment often wanes where talents shine;
And where the powers of execution fail,
The mind's superiour faculties prevail;
To give complete and permanent delight
Both must concur and happily unite;
And those who at perfection's laurel aim,
On no contracted base must found their claim.
Nor do the subjects represented, less
Their separate modes and signatures possess.
Within the complicated list of parts,
Some, too insipid e'er to reach our hearts,
19
And scarce awake the heedless audience keep;
Those, like a mill-stone round the Actor's neck,
A dead load hang, and all his efforts check.
Others a latent excellence conceal,
Which spirited exertion may reveal,
And half the merit is of some effac'd,
If not with personal endowments grac'd.
Some boldly mark'd, instinct with native force,
Performance aid, and interest of course.
Thus with congenial flame, the Muse of Fire
The dullest actor will sometimes inspire;
Conflicting passions, loud, impetuous, strong,
Wrapt in their vortex, hurry him along;
And luckily one striking feature caught,
A semblance stamps, tho' charg'd with many a fault.
Hence with the magic of a Garrick's art,
He wrests incontinent the yielding heart;
Clap, clap all hands; he catches at the prize;
But soon, ah! soon the abortive ferment dies.
Great unawares, but impotently great,
Blown in his speed, and foundered in conceit,
He sinks encumber'd with his author's weight.
So dangerous is it wantonly to rise,
And range improvident forbidden skies.
20
What evil genius in more evil hour,
Could prompt thee, fool! beyond thy strength to tow'r?
Yet ere the curtain of thy miseries drop,
Retreat in time, and cultivate thy shop;
There may thy talents, usefully display'd,
Raise thee a name and consequence in trade;
Each smiling day will some new charms unfold,
And industry convert thy dross to gold;
And, to the generous mind worth all the rest,
Bless thee with means of making thousands bless'd:
Scoff as thou wilt, to that my words propose,
Her greatness Britain, George his glory owes;
And more true pleasure one such day affords,
Than a whole life sunk on the play-house boards.
Could prompt thee, fool! beyond thy strength to tow'r?
Yet ere the curtain of thy miseries drop,
Retreat in time, and cultivate thy shop;
There may thy talents, usefully display'd,
Raise thee a name and consequence in trade;
Each smiling day will some new charms unfold,
And industry convert thy dross to gold;
And, to the generous mind worth all the rest,
Bless thee with means of making thousands bless'd:
Scoff as thou wilt, to that my words propose,
Her greatness Britain, George his glory owes;
And more true pleasure one such day affords,
Than a whole life sunk on the play-house boards.
Full many a sad example could I name,
Lost to his friends, to fortune and to fame;
And many a youth, whose woes I might detail,
Has made his final exit in a jail.
Lost to his friends, to fortune and to fame;
And many a youth, whose woes I might detail,
Has made his final exit in a jail.
Mossop! in manhood's prime, the Stage's pride,
A martyr to his evil genius died,
And tho' applause his strong exertions crown'd,
No sterling proofs were in his pockets found.
A martyr to his evil genius died,
And tho' applause his strong exertions crown'd,
No sterling proofs were in his pockets found.
The thrifty Woodward, at a later day,
A bankrupt pining on his death-bed lay,
Convinc'd he had perform'd an idle part,
And the last call releas'd a broken heart:
A fellow sufferer, known in Comus' court,
Even now solicits needy life's support.
A bankrupt pining on his death-bed lay,
Convinc'd he had perform'd an idle part,
And the last call releas'd a broken heart:
21
Even now solicits needy life's support.
Digges! highly born, train'd up and qualified,
With rank acquainted and to rank allied,
Fallen from his state, met the cold stroke of death,
With scarce a friend to catch his lingering breath;
One, and but one, in life's dark ever procur'd,
The balm of comfort on his miseries pour'd:
May the kind hands thus ready to extend,
Ne'er feel distress, nor ever want a friend.
With rank acquainted and to rank allied,
Fallen from his state, met the cold stroke of death,
With scarce a friend to catch his lingering breath;
One, and but one, in life's dark ever procur'd,
The balm of comfort on his miseries pour'd:
May the kind hands thus ready to extend,
Ne'er feel distress, nor ever want a friend.
Wilder! an honest soul, cordial and true
As e'er the vital air in hardship drew,
Not Barry, in her zenith, followed more,
When forty winters he had scuffl'd o'er,
Public neglect with manly reason spurn'd,
And to his pencil and his paints return'd;
Grown wise at last, he with his virtuous wife
Now tastes the comforts of domestic life.
As e'er the vital air in hardship drew,
Not Barry, in her zenith, followed more,
When forty winters he had scuffl'd o'er,
Public neglect with manly reason spurn'd,
And to his pencil and his paints return'd;
Grown wise at last, he with his virtuous wife
Now tastes the comforts of domestic life.
The gallant Spranger—how did Spranger speed?
A combination and a form indeed,
To thousands living might the muse appeal,
Where every god seem'd to have set his seal,
Spent, spent, quite spent, broke down, and harrass'd out,
Bending with years, and tortur'd with the gout,
These pitying eyes beheld, a mere machine,
Borne to the side and hobbling thro' the scene:
Such undertakings men are prompted to,
When life's at stake, and hunger is the cue.
A combination and a form indeed,
To thousands living might the muse appeal,
Where every god seem'd to have set his seal,
Spent, spent, quite spent, broke down, and harrass'd out,
Bending with years, and tortur'd with the gout,
These pitying eyes beheld, a mere machine,
Borne to the side and hobbling thro' the scene:
22
When life's at stake, and hunger is the cue.
Another yet—an Actor and a Sage,
The great restorer of the Irish Stage,
In spite of envy, malice, faction, spleen,
He rais'd and scour'd the Augean stable clean,
Twelve tedious winters closely, hardly toil'd,
In all his schemes of independance foil'd,
At one dire blast saw his fair harvest spoil'd;
Sent with his helpless family adrift,
A fugitive, in foreign climes to shift,
The herse his wife's respected corse that bore
Left him possess'd of not one louis-d'or;
Yet to the last, 'tis true, he ne'er resign'd
The vigorous workings of his ardent mind;
Pregnant with deeds he his quietus made,
And smil'd on death with whom he oft had play'd.
The great restorer of the Irish Stage,
In spite of envy, malice, faction, spleen,
He rais'd and scour'd the Augean stable clean,
Twelve tedious winters closely, hardly toil'd,
In all his schemes of independance foil'd,
At one dire blast saw his fair harvest spoil'd;
Sent with his helpless family adrift,
A fugitive, in foreign climes to shift,
The herse his wife's respected corse that bore
Left him possess'd of not one louis-d'or;
Yet to the last, 'tis true, he ne'er resign'd
The vigorous workings of his ardent mind;
Pregnant with deeds he his quietus made,
And smil'd on death with whom he oft had play'd.
'Gainst these, rash boy, thou may'st retort with scorn
Some casual fact—by miracle a thorn,
And possibly the rose of June may blow
In the chill bosom of December's snow;
But, not detracting from thy force and weight,
What claims are thine to hope a better fate?
Some casual fact—by miracle a thorn,
And possibly the rose of June may blow
In the chill bosom of December's snow;
But, not detracting from thy force and weight,
What claims are thine to hope a better fate?
Domestic ties I would not press too far,
Nor with fond notions generous efforts bar;
I mention not a mother raving wild,
Thus, thus to leave me! poor devoted child!
Nor yet a father's heart corroding grief,
Silent and sad, forbidding all relief;
Wasted his care and pains, his measures broke,
And vanished all his promised joys in smoke;
Haply a brother, to destruction brought,
By the contagion of example caught.
These, and a train of consequences more,
I leave untouch'd and pass unnotic'd o'er;
Dark tho' the prospect, candour must confess,
Misconduct sometimes stumbles on success;
Friendly precaution borne on fancy's wings
May make erroneous estimates of things:
Haply no brother, to destruction brought,
By the contagion of example's caught,
And, tho' but rarely, ancient records tell,
The Prodigal reclaim'd has ended well.—
Nor with fond notions generous efforts bar;
I mention not a mother raving wild,
Thus, thus to leave me! poor devoted child!
23
Silent and sad, forbidding all relief;
Wasted his care and pains, his measures broke,
And vanished all his promised joys in smoke;
Haply a brother, to destruction brought,
By the contagion of example caught.
These, and a train of consequences more,
I leave untouch'd and pass unnotic'd o'er;
Dark tho' the prospect, candour must confess,
Misconduct sometimes stumbles on success;
Friendly precaution borne on fancy's wings
May make erroneous estimates of things:
Haply no brother, to destruction brought,
By the contagion of example's caught,
And, tho' but rarely, ancient records tell,
The Prodigal reclaim'd has ended well.—
But should a daughter, or a sister dear,
Start, stage-attracted, madly from her sphere,
Affliction's cup in bitterness runs o'er,
And wounded nature bleeds at every pore;
Imagination giving anguish scope,
Immers'd in disappointment loses hope.
Slander, that strikes where merit most prevails,
Notes every look, at every turn assails;
The very charms that should protection claim,
Betrayers prove and undermine her fame:
Her own sex piously the work begin,
Who seldom think detraction is a sin,
And many a fop, with falsehood's spirit curs'd,
Biographies her from the lap that nurs'd;
Citing in proof, when, where and how, a list
Of well-known facts that never could exist.
The close seducer, following up the sport,
Inveterates malice and abets report;
Hovering aloof, he keeps awhile at bay,
Watches the unguarded hour and swoops his prey.
A month or two, unconscious of her fate,
Perhaps she flaunts it criminally great;
Pleasures illusive her acceptance stay,
Her minions guard her, and her slaves obey;
Obsequious chieftains for supreme command,
And grave divines for mitres kiss her hand;
Soft adulation lives but in her smiles,
And glare and influence sense of shame beguiles.
Mark the reverse—in early life's decline,
O Bellamy! the dire reverse was thine.
In the brief whirl of her exuberant reign
Assistance sought was never sought in vain;
Too careless of events, stripp'd of her all,
Those, whom her affluence fed, deride her fall.
Desponding on the margin of the flood,
Wild with her griefs the child of folly stood;
No grateful friend, from Thames' insurgent wave,
Prelate nor chieftain, stretch'd a hand to save.—
Intemperate youth! could youth, alas! reflect?
Here's ample cause thy frenzy to correct:
On what presumption, by what just decree,
Must honour, kindred, peace, succumb to thee?
Start, stage-attracted, madly from her sphere,
Affliction's cup in bitterness runs o'er,
And wounded nature bleeds at every pore;
Imagination giving anguish scope,
Immers'd in disappointment loses hope.
Slander, that strikes where merit most prevails,
Notes every look, at every turn assails;
The very charms that should protection claim,
Betrayers prove and undermine her fame:
24
Who seldom think detraction is a sin,
And many a fop, with falsehood's spirit curs'd,
Biographies her from the lap that nurs'd;
Citing in proof, when, where and how, a list
Of well-known facts that never could exist.
The close seducer, following up the sport,
Inveterates malice and abets report;
Hovering aloof, he keeps awhile at bay,
Watches the unguarded hour and swoops his prey.
A month or two, unconscious of her fate,
Perhaps she flaunts it criminally great;
Pleasures illusive her acceptance stay,
Her minions guard her, and her slaves obey;
Obsequious chieftains for supreme command,
And grave divines for mitres kiss her hand;
Soft adulation lives but in her smiles,
And glare and influence sense of shame beguiles.
Mark the reverse—in early life's decline,
O Bellamy! the dire reverse was thine.
In the brief whirl of her exuberant reign
Assistance sought was never sought in vain;
Too careless of events, stripp'd of her all,
Those, whom her affluence fed, deride her fall.
Desponding on the margin of the flood,
Wild with her griefs the child of folly stood;
25
Prelate nor chieftain, stretch'd a hand to save.—
Intemperate youth! could youth, alas! reflect?
Here's ample cause thy frenzy to correct:
On what presumption, by what just decree,
Must honour, kindred, peace, succumb to thee?
The pictures here exhibited to view
Are fairly drawn; the originals I knew.
To this late period, from my boyish age,
I have trac'd the specious warfare of the stage,
And, scrutiniz'd in every point of light,
Decided truths to inexperience write;
For as a man, man's sufferings doom'd to share,
That, no slight province, challenges my care.
Here giddy youth may learn those rocks to shun,
On which such numbers split and are undone;
Here learn the fate of overweening pride,
Of time mispent and talents misapplied.—
On Green-room history were it meet to dwell,
The page of grievance would to folios swell.
But why forestal resistless sorrow's date?
Evil, untutor'd, never comes too late;
Gladly the painful office I forego,
And leave to time the blazonry of woe.
Forbid it, justice, to reproach or scorn,
Worth native there and to the manner born,
Or one illiberal stricture to express,
When genius seeks that refuge from distress.
To fools and knaves are fortune's favours given,
Genius, a ray electric, comes from heaven;
Eluding the dull ken of vulgar sight,
It ranges free, and deviates into right;
But vanity will find, by sorrow school'd,
Will is not power, nor all that glitters, gold.
Are fairly drawn; the originals I knew.
To this late period, from my boyish age,
I have trac'd the specious warfare of the stage,
And, scrutiniz'd in every point of light,
Decided truths to inexperience write;
For as a man, man's sufferings doom'd to share,
That, no slight province, challenges my care.
Here giddy youth may learn those rocks to shun,
On which such numbers split and are undone;
Here learn the fate of overweening pride,
Of time mispent and talents misapplied.—
On Green-room history were it meet to dwell,
The page of grievance would to folios swell.
But why forestal resistless sorrow's date?
Evil, untutor'd, never comes too late;
Gladly the painful office I forego,
And leave to time the blazonry of woe.
Forbid it, justice, to reproach or scorn,
Worth native there and to the manner born,
26
When genius seeks that refuge from distress.
To fools and knaves are fortune's favours given,
Genius, a ray electric, comes from heaven;
Eluding the dull ken of vulgar sight,
It ranges free, and deviates into right;
But vanity will find, by sorrow school'd,
Will is not power, nor all that glitters, gold.
With cold remonstrance passion to oppose,
Perhaps small knowlege of its nature shews;
But tho' the films of passion reason blind,
Some lucky moment truth may entrance find.
If but a single proselyte I gain,
Say, happy parent! have I writ in vain?
And many a wandering mind for virtue fram'd,
By friendly treatment might have been reclaim'd.
Of such perverse materials some are made,
They move, like crabs, by nature retrogade,
Wilfully blind and listlessly secure,
Whom they distress or what they may endure;
Devoted to the chace where ruin lies,
They mock restraint, precaution they despise;
Low-minded craft for wisdom's lore mistake,
And vice and folly their associates make.
Their doom is seal'd—to those who merit praise,
Warm from the heart, my pen due tribute pays.
Perhaps small knowlege of its nature shews;
But tho' the films of passion reason blind,
Some lucky moment truth may entrance find.
If but a single proselyte I gain,
Say, happy parent! have I writ in vain?
And many a wandering mind for virtue fram'd,
By friendly treatment might have been reclaim'd.
Of such perverse materials some are made,
They move, like crabs, by nature retrogade,
Wilfully blind and listlessly secure,
Whom they distress or what they may endure;
Devoted to the chace where ruin lies,
They mock restraint, precaution they despise;
Low-minded craft for wisdom's lore mistake,
And vice and folly their associates make.
Their doom is seal'd—to those who merit praise,
Warm from the heart, my pen due tribute pays.
27
Not warp'd by spleen, or causeless prone to blame,
What muse, Fitz-Henry, could forget thy name,
By virtue dignified and dear to fame?
A tender mother and a faithful wife,
She grac'd the scene and trod the stage of life;
Taught her lov'd offspring, as a parent should,
The noblest lesson, that of being good;
Their guide and pattern, in the paths of truth
She train'd their childhood and confirm'd their youth;
And, oh! that many such the stage supplied,
She lived like Pritchard, and like Pritchard died.
Rest, gentle pair! a pair so well approv'd,
In death lamented as in life belov'd,
How rare to meet!—yet humble was their state,
'Till genius and their virtues prov'd them great.
No silken robes around their footsteps flow'd,
No gems seductive on their bosoms glow'd;
Dormant their hopes, as well as talents lay,
Till adverse trials forc'd them into day;
Success far seated on a mountain's brow
They saw, but dimly, from the shade below:
And now with hope, half kindling, half repress'd,
To gain the summit they their steps address'd;
Rough was the way, and steep was the ascent,
Yet on, scarce dreaming to what end, they went;
Great was the toil, and greatly they endur'd;
On those sole terms is eminence procur'd.
That empty pastime for an empty king
Aptly devis'd, beneath their roofs could bring
No formal parties, wont to reimburse
The claims of fashion from their neighbour's purse.
With Matadores, Pont, Basto and Spadille,
Their precious hours let poring dotards kill;
Heedless how trumps were play'd or honours dealt,
The tragic page they tasted and they felt,
And as around the friendly hearth they read,
Oft sent their hearers weeping to their bed.
In time's due course, reveal'd in all her charms,
Melpomene received them to her arms,
And tho' of friends and kindred aid depriv'd,
At wealth and fame with honour they arriv'd.
No father's hopes, no mother's peace destroy'd,
Left free to choose that freedom they employ'd;
And what in thousands candour must condemn,
So differ things, was rectitude in them.
'Tis not the station that contempt deserves;
But who from reason and from duty swerves.
What muse, Fitz-Henry, could forget thy name,
By virtue dignified and dear to fame?
A tender mother and a faithful wife,
She grac'd the scene and trod the stage of life;
Taught her lov'd offspring, as a parent should,
The noblest lesson, that of being good;
Their guide and pattern, in the paths of truth
She train'd their childhood and confirm'd their youth;
And, oh! that many such the stage supplied,
She lived like Pritchard, and like Pritchard died.
Rest, gentle pair! a pair so well approv'd,
In death lamented as in life belov'd,
How rare to meet!—yet humble was their state,
'Till genius and their virtues prov'd them great.
No silken robes around their footsteps flow'd,
No gems seductive on their bosoms glow'd;
Dormant their hopes, as well as talents lay,
Till adverse trials forc'd them into day;
Success far seated on a mountain's brow
They saw, but dimly, from the shade below:
And now with hope, half kindling, half repress'd,
To gain the summit they their steps address'd;
Rough was the way, and steep was the ascent,
Yet on, scarce dreaming to what end, they went;
Great was the toil, and greatly they endur'd;
On those sole terms is eminence procur'd.
28
Aptly devis'd, beneath their roofs could bring
No formal parties, wont to reimburse
The claims of fashion from their neighbour's purse.
With Matadores, Pont, Basto and Spadille,
Their precious hours let poring dotards kill;
Heedless how trumps were play'd or honours dealt,
The tragic page they tasted and they felt,
And as around the friendly hearth they read,
Oft sent their hearers weeping to their bed.
In time's due course, reveal'd in all her charms,
Melpomene received them to her arms,
And tho' of friends and kindred aid depriv'd,
At wealth and fame with honour they arriv'd.
No father's hopes, no mother's peace destroy'd,
Left free to choose that freedom they employ'd;
And what in thousands candour must condemn,
So differ things, was rectitude in them.
'Tis not the station that contempt deserves;
But who from reason and from duty swerves.
O thou! whose stars a kindlier aspect wear,
Spare thy connections, thy own blushes spare!
Short are the triumphs of impertinence,
And shame the meed of prostituted sense;
Then learn betimes what ills misprision wait;
When howls the storm, reflection comes too late.
By futile brains are futile schemes imbib'd,
Discretion trimly steers the course prescrib'd;
To no false lights her steady views incline,
Her pilot, Reason;—make that pilot thine;
Nor by the glare of tinsel'd shew misled,
While with disgrace thou earn'st precarious bread,
Heap fresh anathemas on Shakspeare's head.
Spare thy connections, thy own blushes spare!
Short are the triumphs of impertinence,
And shame the meed of prostituted sense;
Then learn betimes what ills misprision wait;
When howls the storm, reflection comes too late.
29
Discretion trimly steers the course prescrib'd;
To no false lights her steady views incline,
Her pilot, Reason;—make that pilot thine;
Nor by the glare of tinsel'd shew misled,
While with disgrace thou earn'st precarious bread,
Heap fresh anathemas on Shakspeare's head.
Immortal Bard! whose heaven-illumin'd mind,
Compriz'd the volume of all human kind;
Pierc'd at a glance extended nature thro',
Her worlds exhausted, and develop'd new;
Bade viewless Nothing into Being start,
And rul'd at will the captivated heart;
Unlike the lordlings of succeeding days,
Who ravage nations, or who pilfer bays;
Despis'd while living, and in death their name
Damn'd to oblivion, or more damn'd in fame;
How have thy sacred pages been defac'd!
Tortur'd at Press, and on the Stage disgrac'd!
Shall I once more, a loss I have long deplor'd,
Behold thee, Shakspeare! to thy rights restor'd?
Shall I, O Fashion! Fashion! e'er again
See thee, sweet Bard! in wonted splendour reign?
Ah! no, sweet Bard! I never shall see more,
What I have seen, and ever shall deplore.
Farewel the mystic song, the potent spell,
Ye more than mortal agencies, farewel!
Strive ridicule and reason as they may,
Witlings will rise, and dunces have their day.
Thrown on the shelf poor banish'd Romeo lies,
And in the tomb forgotten Juliet dies;
Macbeth no more his air-form'd dagger draws,
While bloodier tyrants plunder with applause.
Compriz'd the volume of all human kind;
Pierc'd at a glance extended nature thro',
Her worlds exhausted, and develop'd new;
Bade viewless Nothing into Being start,
And rul'd at will the captivated heart;
Unlike the lordlings of succeeding days,
Who ravage nations, or who pilfer bays;
Despis'd while living, and in death their name
Damn'd to oblivion, or more damn'd in fame;
How have thy sacred pages been defac'd!
Tortur'd at Press, and on the Stage disgrac'd!
Shall I once more, a loss I have long deplor'd,
Behold thee, Shakspeare! to thy rights restor'd?
Shall I, O Fashion! Fashion! e'er again
See thee, sweet Bard! in wonted splendour reign?
Ah! no, sweet Bard! I never shall see more,
What I have seen, and ever shall deplore.
Farewel the mystic song, the potent spell,
Ye more than mortal agencies, farewel!
30
Witlings will rise, and dunces have their day.
Thrown on the shelf poor banish'd Romeo lies,
And in the tomb forgotten Juliet dies;
Macbeth no more his air-form'd dagger draws,
While bloodier tyrants plunder with applause.
Turn o'er the annals of the present age,
Such fell destroyers ne'er disgrac'd the Stage:
Shylock the Jew was merciful to these,
He thirsts but for his bond, they for rupees;
A pound of Christian flesh, penurious feast!
Nabobs entire are swallowed in the East;
Not for the purposes of peculation,
All's for the good and honour of the nation.
But what's the honour, what the nation's good,
By fraud atchiev'd, and seal'd with human blood?
Reproach abroad, domestic virtue stain'd,
To hostile force and tyrant pleas constrain'd;
Crowns got with blood must be with blood maintain'd.
The inundation of a golden tide
Obliterates all, save luxury and pride;
And ostentation vaunting in their train,
Intemperance and indolence and pain,
And arrogance the pander of disdain.
With the same lust of power was Rome possess'd,
With the same predatory views impress'd,
With the same hopes on foreign wars resolv'd,
With the same climes in martial strife involv'd,
With the same fortunes were here Eagles crown'd,
With the same influx of corruption drown'd;
And, as a document to States unborn,
Rome, mistress of the world, became its scorn.
Such goodly fruits from depredation springs!
Such glorious laurels impious conquest brings!!
Such fell destroyers ne'er disgrac'd the Stage:
Shylock the Jew was merciful to these,
He thirsts but for his bond, they for rupees;
A pound of Christian flesh, penurious feast!
Nabobs entire are swallowed in the East;
Not for the purposes of peculation,
All's for the good and honour of the nation.
But what's the honour, what the nation's good,
By fraud atchiev'd, and seal'd with human blood?
Reproach abroad, domestic virtue stain'd,
To hostile force and tyrant pleas constrain'd;
Crowns got with blood must be with blood maintain'd.
The inundation of a golden tide
Obliterates all, save luxury and pride;
And ostentation vaunting in their train,
Intemperance and indolence and pain,
And arrogance the pander of disdain.
With the same lust of power was Rome possess'd,
With the same predatory views impress'd,
31
With the same climes in martial strife involv'd,
With the same fortunes were here Eagles crown'd,
With the same influx of corruption drown'd;
And, as a document to States unborn,
Rome, mistress of the world, became its scorn.
Such goodly fruits from depredation springs!
Such glorious laurels impious conquest brings!!
And then our Sensibility's so nice,
To mark the argument is deem'd a vice.
But here the real and mimic scene agree,
No Daniel comes to judgment till you see;
Bribe deep, and fearless accusation meet,
The perquisite makes every thing smell sweet;
Yet, tho' all India's diamonds tempt the breach,
The foe of virtue, virtue will impeach,
And little will the subterfuge avail,
When character'd in death he reads the tale.
Not mine the task his punishment to urge,
Not mine the office to apply the scourge;
Not mine the bosom that must feel the shock,
To see the cart, the halter, or the block.
But should corruption stretch her gilded hand,
And screen her minion when the laws demand,
To Heaven lies the appeal; to Heaven belongs,
To avenge a Prince's and a People's wrongs;
The solemn ties infring'd, the blood he spilt,
Shall rise in judgment, and confront his guilt;
The shades of mothers and their babes destroy'd,
While he his good things and his ease enjoy'd;
Of free-born maids to loath'd embraces led,
Torn from their sires, and perishing for bread;
Shall all his soul enormities retrace,
And ceaseless horrors stare him in the face;
Their barbed stings in his gor'd breast implant,
And rack his peace, who peace refus'd to grant.
Vain the proud glare of Asiatic state,
His costly vases and his piles of plate,
Nor opiate, 'sleep or waking, shall he find
To 'swage the hell in his perturbed mind.
What needs the farce of calling to the bar,
The cloak of trial and the wordy war?
Will it dispeopled provinces excuse,
That not a man was left to bear the news;
Or tomes of crimes and misdemeanors need,
When tortur'd conscience pleads—I have done the deed!
Self-condemnation needs no other proof,
Ye ministers of vengeance! stand aloof,
Despair itself shall do the hangman's part,
Or drench the poignard in his ruthless heart.
Thus curs'd the wretch, and blasted be his fame,
If any such e'er bore a Briton's name.
To mark the argument is deem'd a vice.
But here the real and mimic scene agree,
No Daniel comes to judgment till you see;
Bribe deep, and fearless accusation meet,
The perquisite makes every thing smell sweet;
Yet, tho' all India's diamonds tempt the breach,
The foe of virtue, virtue will impeach,
And little will the subterfuge avail,
When character'd in death he reads the tale.
Not mine the task his punishment to urge,
Not mine the office to apply the scourge;
Not mine the bosom that must feel the shock,
To see the cart, the halter, or the block.
But should corruption stretch her gilded hand,
And screen her minion when the laws demand,
To Heaven lies the appeal; to Heaven belongs,
To avenge a Prince's and a People's wrongs;
32
Shall rise in judgment, and confront his guilt;
The shades of mothers and their babes destroy'd,
While he his good things and his ease enjoy'd;
Of free-born maids to loath'd embraces led,
Torn from their sires, and perishing for bread;
Shall all his soul enormities retrace,
And ceaseless horrors stare him in the face;
Their barbed stings in his gor'd breast implant,
And rack his peace, who peace refus'd to grant.
Vain the proud glare of Asiatic state,
His costly vases and his piles of plate,
Nor opiate, 'sleep or waking, shall he find
To 'swage the hell in his perturbed mind.
What needs the farce of calling to the bar,
The cloak of trial and the wordy war?
Will it dispeopled provinces excuse,
That not a man was left to bear the news;
Or tomes of crimes and misdemeanors need,
When tortur'd conscience pleads—I have done the deed!
Self-condemnation needs no other proof,
Ye ministers of vengeance! stand aloof,
Despair itself shall do the hangman's part,
Or drench the poignard in his ruthless heart.
Thus curs'd the wretch, and blasted be his fame,
If any such e'er bore a Briton's name.
33
But scenes of fraud and rapine have too long
Engross'd attention, and prophan'd the song;
Whom such delight on system may advance,
Enough for me to take a passing glance.
The evils done no remedy admit,
No tongue can mitigate, no language fit;
And since we nearer home may be supplied,
Turn we from those disgustful themes aside.
Not lur'd by wealth, nor caught by dazzling shows,
Which in possession wound, not give repose,
Me other prospects, other objects charm,
My labours sweeten, my affections warm;
Solace my griefs, if any griefs intrude,
My joys enhance, and brighten solitude.
Content with competence, and hating strife,
Let me pass quiet thro' the vale of life;
The good I can without parade dispense,
Nor tread my neighbour's grounds, nor break his fence,
That honest hearts, who the same journey take,
May bless my children for their father's sake.
If in my walks the excursive truant stray,
Abuses rise, or folly cross my way,
Reprove I must, correct them if I can,
But show in all humanity to man:
Convinc'd of this, howe'er I miss my ends,
The friend of mankind cannot want for friends.
Engross'd attention, and prophan'd the song;
Whom such delight on system may advance,
Enough for me to take a passing glance.
The evils done no remedy admit,
No tongue can mitigate, no language fit;
And since we nearer home may be supplied,
Turn we from those disgustful themes aside.
Not lur'd by wealth, nor caught by dazzling shows,
Which in possession wound, not give repose,
Me other prospects, other objects charm,
My labours sweeten, my affections warm;
Solace my griefs, if any griefs intrude,
My joys enhance, and brighten solitude.
Content with competence, and hating strife,
Let me pass quiet thro' the vale of life;
The good I can without parade dispense,
Nor tread my neighbour's grounds, nor break his fence,
That honest hearts, who the same journey take,
May bless my children for their father's sake.
If in my walks the excursive truant stray,
Abuses rise, or folly cross my way,
Reprove I must, correct them if I can,
But show in all humanity to man:
Convinc'd of this, howe'er I miss my ends,
The friend of mankind cannot want for friends.
34
Such was the poet whose instructive page,
Gives us the form and pressure of the age,
And, as you will, ye Prynnes and Colliers! rave,
Rake up the filth, and stocks, and pillory brave,
The Stage might furnish, on a just review,
A school of morals and of virtue too.
Even in decline, perverted and disgrac'd,
It forms a touchstone of our sense and taste;
And, subject to each skyish influence, proves
That man caprice more than discretion moves.
See thro' the world the little and the great,
Kings, Lords, and Coblers, all bow down to fate:
So on the Stage, as Fate the die shall fling,
Last night a cobler, and to-day a king.
The case of our disfranchis'd bard pursue,
Proofs rise on proofs, and wisdom may accrue.
Gives us the form and pressure of the age,
And, as you will, ye Prynnes and Colliers! rave,
Rake up the filth, and stocks, and pillory brave,
The Stage might furnish, on a just review,
A school of morals and of virtue too.
Even in decline, perverted and disgrac'd,
It forms a touchstone of our sense and taste;
And, subject to each skyish influence, proves
That man caprice more than discretion moves.
See thro' the world the little and the great,
Kings, Lords, and Coblers, all bow down to fate:
So on the Stage, as Fate the die shall fling,
Last night a cobler, and to-day a king.
The case of our disfranchis'd bard pursue,
Proofs rise on proofs, and wisdom may accrue.
If in disgust a Statesman quit his place,
So does the player, tho' with better grace;
The grave-diggers, caviare to ears refin'd,
As patriots should, unpension'd, have resign'd,
And now the motley race no audience bear;
Tho' look around, motley's your only wear;
Nor can the alluring charms of Rosalind,
Equip'd en cavalier, her doom rescind;
And Claudio's fate did virtue's self oppugn,
Her advocation is not now in tune.
Timon deserted may his follies curse,
Rats smell a wreck, and friends an empty purse.
The Winter's Tale, and Taming of the Shrew,
All's Well that Ends Well, are discarded too;
But, at the name tho' all appear in terrors,
Thro' life we play the Comedy of Errors.
Hamlet, new vamp'd, such is the time's caprice,
With Guido's aid, may serve an after-piece;
And cap-a-pee a macaroni grown,
In Lingua Franca may be yet the ton.
Thus while those crafty minstrels we caress,
Wrongs heap'd on wrongs poor Imogen oppress,
And native talents languish in distress.
John, 'tis the foible of the day, retires,
And Benedick in wedlock's snare expires;
Wolsey his state, Lear abdicates his throne,
And Jack, tho' last not least, old Jack survives alone.
'Tis true, albeit in the vale of years,
Barry erewhile beguiled us of our tears;
His light put out, the Moor is quite unmoor'd,
And now each puny whipster gets his sword.
Even Richard's sun is set, or sans remorse,
Some hoarse, crude murderer brawls, a horse! a horse!
So does the player, tho' with better grace;
The grave-diggers, caviare to ears refin'd,
As patriots should, unpension'd, have resign'd,
And now the motley race no audience bear;
Tho' look around, motley's your only wear;
Nor can the alluring charms of Rosalind,
Equip'd en cavalier, her doom rescind;
And Claudio's fate did virtue's self oppugn,
Her advocation is not now in tune.
35
Rats smell a wreck, and friends an empty purse.
The Winter's Tale, and Taming of the Shrew,
All's Well that Ends Well, are discarded too;
But, at the name tho' all appear in terrors,
Thro' life we play the Comedy of Errors.
Hamlet, new vamp'd, such is the time's caprice,
With Guido's aid, may serve an after-piece;
And cap-a-pee a macaroni grown,
In Lingua Franca may be yet the ton.
Thus while those crafty minstrels we caress,
Wrongs heap'd on wrongs poor Imogen oppress,
And native talents languish in distress.
John, 'tis the foible of the day, retires,
And Benedick in wedlock's snare expires;
Wolsey his state, Lear abdicates his throne,
And Jack, tho' last not least, old Jack survives alone.
'Tis true, albeit in the vale of years,
Barry erewhile beguiled us of our tears;
His light put out, the Moor is quite unmoor'd,
And now each puny whipster gets his sword.
Even Richard's sun is set, or sans remorse,
Some hoarse, crude murderer brawls, a horse! a horse!
O you! whom genius, or the fates impel,
Who not unweeting purpose to excel,
In situations less exposed to shame,
First prove your strength, and meditate your aim;
There imp your wings, and short excursions try,
And all defects with diligence supply.
Tho' fair and open lie the realms of day,
And luring prospects all around display,
The giddy heights let raw adventurers shun,
Nor rashly tempt the Chariot of the Sun.
Yet blind to peril, confident and vain,
If you, presumptuous, must assume the rein,
'Till with experience and with judgment bless'd,
Keep a tight hand; the middle way's the best.
Who not unweeting purpose to excel,
In situations less exposed to shame,
First prove your strength, and meditate your aim;
36
And all defects with diligence supply.
Tho' fair and open lie the realms of day,
And luring prospects all around display,
The giddy heights let raw adventurers shun,
Nor rashly tempt the Chariot of the Sun.
Yet blind to peril, confident and vain,
If you, presumptuous, must assume the rein,
'Till with experience and with judgment bless'd,
Keep a tight hand; the middle way's the best.
But humbler scenes, and more familiar strife,
Come home to feeling, and are drawn from life;
With every charm of composition grac'd,
Order, decorum, elegance and taste;
These to support and suitably express,
Precision claim, skill, aptitude, address;
Ingredients, indispensable to all,
Rarely combin'd, more rarely at a call.
The harmonizing tints and softer traits,
Illusive shun the crude observer's gaze;
And justly to discriminate, demand
A practised pencil, and a master hand,
Which, happy in the fine effect, reveal
The most perfection where they most conceal.
'Twas in this arduous field Horatio shone,
Array'd in peerless merit, ‘all his own.’
So Syrian Zara's highly finish'd role,
By soft approaches stealing on the soul,
And this of Shore, touch'd with consummate skill,
Were drawn for thee, for thee reserv'd to fill.
Come home to feeling, and are drawn from life;
With every charm of composition grac'd,
Order, decorum, elegance and taste;
These to support and suitably express,
Precision claim, skill, aptitude, address;
Ingredients, indispensable to all,
Rarely combin'd, more rarely at a call.
The harmonizing tints and softer traits,
Illusive shun the crude observer's gaze;
And justly to discriminate, demand
A practised pencil, and a master hand,
Which, happy in the fine effect, reveal
The most perfection where they most conceal.
'Twas in this arduous field Horatio shone,
Array'd in peerless merit, ‘all his own.’
37
By soft approaches stealing on the soul,
And this of Shore, touch'd with consummate skill,
Were drawn for thee, for thee reserv'd to fill.
Your buskin'd dames, whom thirst of pomp inspires,
Whom dress enchants, and ostentation fires;
Divinities of that illustrious class,
Whose occupation is the looking-glass;
Whose love of fame, and stronger love of pelf,
Are merely abigails to love of self;
Who see no excellence, conceive no grace,
But what pertains to person and to face;
Who shine conspicuous in coquettish arts,
And play themselves when they should play their parts,
Tho' from the pen of Rowe, they brook with pain,
A part that doffs their rouge and gaudy train.
How have I seen the dainty things distress'd,
Of some the wonder, and of some the jest,
Stop in mid-rant, or hurry to the close,
To adjust the tucker, or a curl compose;
Then with a silly self-approving leer,
Consult the beaux, and bless some Strephon near.
Whom dress enchants, and ostentation fires;
Divinities of that illustrious class,
Whose occupation is the looking-glass;
Whose love of fame, and stronger love of pelf,
Are merely abigails to love of self;
Who see no excellence, conceive no grace,
But what pertains to person and to face;
Who shine conspicuous in coquettish arts,
And play themselves when they should play their parts,
Tho' from the pen of Rowe, they brook with pain,
A part that doffs their rouge and gaudy train.
How have I seen the dainty things distress'd,
Of some the wonder, and of some the jest,
Stop in mid-rant, or hurry to the close,
To adjust the tucker, or a curl compose;
Then with a silly self-approving leer,
Consult the beaux, and bless some Strephon near.
Oh! how unlike the vain unfeeling throng,
Shines the fair subject of my votive song!
With sober step and low dejected mien,
Suited with just conception to the scene,
Like a sad votarist, beautiful in tears,
Child of unfeign'd contrition she appears.
Thro' her fine form, adorn'd with every grace,
In each according feature of her face,
The anguish of a soul oppress'd we trace.
She speaks, and with the tongue of eloquence,
Speaking her author's, proves her own good sense;
Each word, each action, even her silence moves,
Extends our feelings, and the sense improves.
Critics! throughout her varying powers attend,
And approbation will in wonder end.
Shines the fair subject of my votive song!
With sober step and low dejected mien,
Suited with just conception to the scene,
38
Child of unfeign'd contrition she appears.
Thro' her fine form, adorn'd with every grace,
In each according feature of her face,
The anguish of a soul oppress'd we trace.
She speaks, and with the tongue of eloquence,
Speaking her author's, proves her own good sense;
Each word, each action, even her silence moves,
Extends our feelings, and the sense improves.
Critics! throughout her varying powers attend,
And approbation will in wonder end.
Lo! for the Royal Innocents she pleads,
With kindred sympathy the audience bleeds;
Alas! for pity! she forboding cries,
Alas! for pity! every bosom sighs.
Rapt with the theme, and glowing with her part,
She wings each word directly to the heart,
With every power and every grace of speech,
Which feeling can suggest, and art can teach:
She sooths, excites, she deprecates, she burns
With generous zeal, with keen reflection mourns,
That could the Drama from prescription err,
Stern Gloucester's self might well be mov'd by her.
Then, when, all-judging Heav'n! she bows to thee,
And owns thy justice in the hard decree,
With what simplicity her accents flow,
In all the melting energy of woe!
With kindred sympathy the audience bleeds;
Alas! for pity! she forboding cries,
Alas! for pity! every bosom sighs.
Rapt with the theme, and glowing with her part,
She wings each word directly to the heart,
With every power and every grace of speech,
Which feeling can suggest, and art can teach:
She sooths, excites, she deprecates, she burns
With generous zeal, with keen reflection mourns,
That could the Drama from prescription err,
Stern Gloucester's self might well be mov'd by her.
Then, when, all-judging Heav'n! she bows to thee,
And owns thy justice in the hard decree,
With what simplicity her accents flow,
In all the melting energy of woe!
39
Now 'scap'd, feeble and spent, the rabble roar
Behold her suppliant at Alicia's door!
Ingratitude, fell monster! thrusts between;
How few to take the wretched in are seen!
Pale monument of want! forlorn she stands—
Bursts not the thunder of applauding hands?
No; in mute wonder fix'd attention reigns,
And every sense absorpt partakes her pains.
At intervals some stilly murmurs rise,
But checkt, evaporate in smother'd sighs:
Aw'd by the genuine majesty of grief,
We fear to give our struggling pangs relief.
Intent on her, quite of ourselves bereft,
With agony our very souls are cleft;
From every eye the ardent spirit flies,
And trembles every nerve where pity lies;
Down each pale cheek the copious tributes flow,
And throbs each breast responsive to her woe.
Rudely repuls'd from those once-friendly walls,
Her last resource, the famish'd victim falls.
“It was not always thus!”—resign'd and weak,—
The rest her looks unutterably speak.
“Where are thy friends?”—“Ah! Belmour, where indeed?”—
How much in those few simple words she said!
Nature exerted pierc'd each bounding heart,
And caught a wreath beyond the reach of art.
Behold her suppliant at Alicia's door!
Ingratitude, fell monster! thrusts between;
How few to take the wretched in are seen!
Pale monument of want! forlorn she stands—
Bursts not the thunder of applauding hands?
No; in mute wonder fix'd attention reigns,
And every sense absorpt partakes her pains.
At intervals some stilly murmurs rise,
But checkt, evaporate in smother'd sighs:
Aw'd by the genuine majesty of grief,
We fear to give our struggling pangs relief.
Intent on her, quite of ourselves bereft,
With agony our very souls are cleft;
From every eye the ardent spirit flies,
And trembles every nerve where pity lies;
Down each pale cheek the copious tributes flow,
And throbs each breast responsive to her woe.
Rudely repuls'd from those once-friendly walls,
Her last resource, the famish'd victim falls.
“It was not always thus!”—resign'd and weak,—
The rest her looks unutterably speak.
“Where are thy friends?”—“Ah! Belmour, where indeed?”—
How much in those few simple words she said!
Nature exerted pierc'd each bounding heart,
And caught a wreath beyond the reach of art.
40
But when on the cold ground she prostrate lies,
Fainting, exhausted, never more to rise!
“Forgive me! but forgive me!”—not an ear
Her thrilling tones could deaf to mercy hear.
Our swelling bosoms spurn despotic laws,
Curse the crook'd tyrant, and assert her cause.
Fiction's no more—'tis, 'tis too much to bear;
Inhuman slaves! your persecution spare;
“Not eat these three days!”—her deservings plead,
Like angels trumpet tongued, against the deed.
Vile stretch of savage power!—tumultuous pants
Each breast to succour the poor sufferer's wants,
And proud oppression crush; a glorious strife!
And cheap the conquest at the expence of life.
Fainting, exhausted, never more to rise!
“Forgive me! but forgive me!”—not an ear
Her thrilling tones could deaf to mercy hear.
Our swelling bosoms spurn despotic laws,
Curse the crook'd tyrant, and assert her cause.
Fiction's no more—'tis, 'tis too much to bear;
Inhuman slaves! your persecution spare;
“Not eat these three days!”—her deservings plead,
Like angels trumpet tongued, against the deed.
Vile stretch of savage power!—tumultuous pants
Each breast to succour the poor sufferer's wants,
And proud oppression crush; a glorious strife!
And cheap the conquest at the expence of life.
Dear to our hearts, as charming to our eyes!
How amiably, sweet maid! thy merits rise!
Never, save in such mimic scenes express'd,
May one unquiet thought affect thy breast;
Thy breast, of elegance the chosen seat,
Where taste and judgment, wit and candour meet,
And genius with humility unites,
Knowlege abounds, and modesty delights,
And all the kindly charities are found,
With honour, virtue, and good humour crown'd.
While thus in character, you doubly shine,
Perhaps the Drama yields some traits of mine.
Alike in kind, nor differing in degree,
So ceaseless beats my anxious heart for thee.
On the rich basis of a parent's worth
Affection grew, and at thy birth took birth.
When deepening clouds obscur'd my helpless years,
She sooth'd my drooping heart; dispell'd my fears;
Sustain'd the steps of my unfriended youth,
And brought me erring to the paths of truth.
She lov'd to bless, and blessings so conferr'd,
That not the nicest string of sufferance stirr'd;
Her memory dear, with sighs I cherish yet,
And, grateful, would repay the pious debt
To thee, in happy hour thy earliest guide;
My glory her esteem; thy fame my pride;
Thy sorrows too, for sorrows thou hast known,
I more than thought, I felt them all my own:
Then cast thy cares on me, on me depend,
Thy other father, thy indulgent friend,
And while my fates have one fair hour in store,
To dry thy tears thou shalt not want a Shore.
How amiably, sweet maid! thy merits rise!
Never, save in such mimic scenes express'd,
May one unquiet thought affect thy breast;
Thy breast, of elegance the chosen seat,
Where taste and judgment, wit and candour meet,
And genius with humility unites,
Knowlege abounds, and modesty delights,
And all the kindly charities are found,
With honour, virtue, and good humour crown'd.
While thus in character, you doubly shine,
Perhaps the Drama yields some traits of mine.
41
So ceaseless beats my anxious heart for thee.
On the rich basis of a parent's worth
Affection grew, and at thy birth took birth.
When deepening clouds obscur'd my helpless years,
She sooth'd my drooping heart; dispell'd my fears;
Sustain'd the steps of my unfriended youth,
And brought me erring to the paths of truth.
She lov'd to bless, and blessings so conferr'd,
That not the nicest string of sufferance stirr'd;
Her memory dear, with sighs I cherish yet,
And, grateful, would repay the pious debt
To thee, in happy hour thy earliest guide;
My glory her esteem; thy fame my pride;
Thy sorrows too, for sorrows thou hast known,
I more than thought, I felt them all my own:
Then cast thy cares on me, on me depend,
Thy other father, thy indulgent friend,
And while my fates have one fair hour in store,
To dry thy tears thou shalt not want a Shore.
Nor blush, dear maid! that with thy worth impress'd,
I on the fruitful theme with pleasure rest.
Let greater bards, I envy not their claim,
On wealth and titles build their hopes of fame;
Let rigid Satire with vindictive rage,
Impale the guilt of a corrupted age;
Perhaps erroneous, dragging crimes to light,
Better consign'd to everlasting night.
What boots it that a tyrant's minion writ,
With all the loose festivity of wit?
Or he whose gross polluted pages show
How miscreants liv'd two thousand years ago?
Who thus exhibit with empiric skill
Details of vice, and precedents of ill,
Conspiring with the foe that lurks within,
On Virtue's altars sacrifice to Sin;
And while against depravity they preach,
Confess her influence, and her mysteries teach.
But worse, if worse can be, the motley band
Of ribbald rhymers, wits at second hand,
Whose foul travesties reprobate their zeal,
And, couch'd beneath, the cloven foot reveal.
Vice should be scourg'd, delinquents brought to shame,
And public characters are lawful game;
'Tis Satire's province, and 'tis often true,
There wit abounds, and wholsome precepts too;
But who Corruption's rapid foot can tether,
Or stem the mountain torrent—with a feather?
Beyond the power, beyond the scope of verse,
Scenes may occur too flagrant to rehearse;
But on the garbage of offence to feast,
Speaks not the wit, but rather shews the beast.
Necessity's a poor, a vain excuse,
To palliate slander, or defend abuse;
And ill deserve they credit or applause,
Who marshal vice in virtue's sacred cause.
Admitting all their advocates assert,
For one reclaim'd, ten thousand they pervert,
And under colour of correcting evil,
Promote the holy empire of the devil.
I on the fruitful theme with pleasure rest.
Let greater bards, I envy not their claim,
On wealth and titles build their hopes of fame;
Let rigid Satire with vindictive rage,
Impale the guilt of a corrupted age;
42
Better consign'd to everlasting night.
What boots it that a tyrant's minion writ,
With all the loose festivity of wit?
Or he whose gross polluted pages show
How miscreants liv'd two thousand years ago?
Who thus exhibit with empiric skill
Details of vice, and precedents of ill,
Conspiring with the foe that lurks within,
On Virtue's altars sacrifice to Sin;
And while against depravity they preach,
Confess her influence, and her mysteries teach.
But worse, if worse can be, the motley band
Of ribbald rhymers, wits at second hand,
Whose foul travesties reprobate their zeal,
And, couch'd beneath, the cloven foot reveal.
Vice should be scourg'd, delinquents brought to shame,
And public characters are lawful game;
'Tis Satire's province, and 'tis often true,
There wit abounds, and wholsome precepts too;
But who Corruption's rapid foot can tether,
Or stem the mountain torrent—with a feather?
Beyond the power, beyond the scope of verse,
Scenes may occur too flagrant to rehearse;
But on the garbage of offence to feast,
Speaks not the wit, but rather shews the beast.
43
To palliate slander, or defend abuse;
And ill deserve they credit or applause,
Who marshal vice in virtue's sacred cause.
Admitting all their advocates assert,
For one reclaim'd, ten thousand they pervert,
And under colour of correcting evil,
Promote the holy empire of the devil.
Thus in the glebe the deadly night-shade grows,
Flaunts in the sun, and mingles with the rose;
The specious bane the prowling urchin spies;
Touch! touch it not!—he gorges it and dies!
Even so the Aretins of modern rhymes,
With pens immers'd in gall pourtray the times;
But with licentious images inflame,
And spread contagion as they spread the shame;
Quick to the brain the noxious vapours rise,
The good depress'd, a caput mortuum lies.
Howe'er on classic grounds they take defence;
Howe'er adroit their nostrums they dispense;
Impartially let loss and gain be tried,
And soon the balance Reason will decide.
Flaunts in the sun, and mingles with the rose;
The specious bane the prowling urchin spies;
Touch! touch it not!—he gorges it and dies!
Even so the Aretins of modern rhymes,
With pens immers'd in gall pourtray the times;
But with licentious images inflame,
And spread contagion as they spread the shame;
Quick to the brain the noxious vapours rise,
The good depress'd, a caput mortuum lies.
Howe'er on classic grounds they take defence;
Howe'er adroit their nostrums they dispense;
Impartially let loss and gain be tried,
And soon the balance Reason will decide.
Be it my boast to praise where praise is due,
And bring retiring virtue forth to view;
Be it my boast, tho' studious to commend,
I never yet one venal couplet penn'd;
O! be it still my boast, whate'er my lot,
The friend my heart approv'd I ne'er forgot.
And bring retiring virtue forth to view;
Be it my boast, tho' studious to commend,
I never yet one venal couplet penn'd;
44
The friend my heart approv'd I ne'er forgot.
Accept the lay, from adulation free,
To Merit sacred, and inscrib'd to thee.
To Merit sacred, and inscrib'd to thee.
| A collection of poems on various subjects | |