Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Poems

By Anthony Pasquin [i.e. John Williams]. Second Edition

Pasquin, Anthony (1761-1818)

[epigraph]

[dedication]

COMMENDATORY POEMS.

VOL. I

VOL. II

THE CHILDREN OF THESPIS.

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VOL. II

iii

Plus apud me ratio valebit, quam vulgi opinio.

THE CHILDREN OF THESPIS.

A POEM.

1. FIRST PART.

[_]

[FIRST PUBLISHED IN 1786.]

vii

TO SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS, PRESIDENT OF THE ROYAL ACADEMY, AND FELLOW OF THE ROYAL SOCIETY.

Tho' legends inform us that walls have oft spoke,
This vile faithless age treat the tale as a joke:
But in that they are wrong, as hereafter you'll see:
For e'en houses converse, when their minds disagree.
To evince what I say, I will give a relation
Of a speech, by the way, of a kind exhortation.
The Nymph of the Garden, with feeling and pain,
Thus warn'd the grey strumpet of old Drury-Lane.

To give good advice, is not always well taken,
Tho' it tends in its spirit, to save a friend's bacon:
Half aw'd by a maxim, so wise and so weighty,
I thrice had resolv'd to forego this intreaty;
But Nature impels me, I cannot resist her,
To snatch from perdition a weak minded sister;
Whose honor is sullied by counsellors scurvy,
Who've turn'd her poor cranium almost topsy-turvy.

Like the cloak of Saint Martin, they've cut her in pieces,
For self-preservation's their favourite thesis:
No evils more serious have sicklied her uses,
Since pliable Fleetwood smil'd Lord of the Muses:
By the fatal effects of mal-administration,
In the last fell campaign they half undid their nation;

Then Folly and Madness rose up to confound 'em,
And the props of their happiness fell all around 'em;
A woe-begone queen call'd for gin to support her,
And chiefs mourn'd the fall of the state—over porter;
And Linley the pensive, Calliope's hero,
Oft fiddled on ruins, like Rome's bloody Nero.

Poor Drury, 'tis piteous that Reason e'er left her,
See Ford damns the forceps, to catch a mock sceptre:

In vain lovely Dian implores from the skies,
Become not, my varlet, the tyrant of flies;
I know the vile Helicon hussies have stung ye,
But I'll send the demon of discord among ye;
To people the world is a more honor'd part.
Then forsake not, my son, the obstetric art;
Get your brains wash'd by Hawkins, and stop up its crannies,
And give to mankind Lady Gigs and Lord Fannies.
But deaf to her plaints, the egregious king
Quits the medical paths to become—a great thing;
Ambition has grappled the hooks of his soul,
And bent all his talents, to own her controul.
Like Ammon's fam'd son he exerts his high sway,
For with ease he creates forty kings in a day;
The posts of vast import bestows on his cousins,
And heroes and lordlings, can make them by dozens;
Thus regally rob'd, becomes haughty and vain,
And frowns on the Divan in Old Warwick-lane.
Not Augustus himself, tho' his chief and his master,
Could elevate ideots more gladly or faster.

Like Charles the imperial, enfeebled and hoary,
Great Garrick retir'd, o'er laden with glory:
He had run round the circle of Honour's career,
And knew ev'ry blessing which feeling makes dear;
But his vanity sated, his wishes were o'er,
For his hope grew diseas'd, and his joys were no more.
Like the young Macedonian, he wept when he knew,
That no graces of art were now left to subdue;
And that spirit which long was subservient to Fame,
Retreated within, and corroded his frame;
Where with Nature's base particles entering in strife,
It subjected his wisdom, and fed on his life.

Your faculties weaken'd, you think it a crime
To shew in your person the inroads of Time;
But, like a French dowager, vanity-tainted,
Your wrinkles are hid, and your cheeks are be-painted;
And tho' labouring Art throws a veil over Truth,
You still want in mein all the graces of youth;
Yet, alas! on that point we could never agree;
You should leave all those airs—to young beauties like me.

But to give my intent and my action a joint,
We will drop idle tattling, and come to the point.

As you know I abhor both the lies and detractors,
I'll give you my thoughts on your Authors and Actors;
With a critical rod I'll enforce each vain youth,
Unsandall'd, to walk o'er the ploughshares of Truth:
If his worth is innate, and his merits are real,
Unwounded he'll pass thro' the flaming ordeal.
—A dramatic author can now bid defiance
To learning, to genius, to taste, and to science;
Helter-skelter, ding-dong, thro' thick and thro' thin,
They heed not the means, so the prize they can win.
'Twas reserv'd as a type of this frenzy-fraught age,
That such Grub-street endeavours should rise on the stage:
But patrons of Merit, alas! are no more,
And the choir of Parnassus the tidings deplore.
Apollo now ceases the song to inspire,
And tuneless, and silent, reposes his lyre:
As Sorrow the pearls from their eye-lids distil,
The sweet nymphs of Helicon mourn round their hill.

Amid the half taught, illegitimate race,
Charles Dibdin comes forward with bronze-burnish'd face;
Unletter'd, ill-manner'd, presuming and loud,
To push his bold front in the rhyme-weaving croud;
His career has been mark'd like a mere April day,
Where storms, rain, and sunshine, by turns hold the sway:
Now he groans with despair at the scourges of Heav'n;
Now he laughs o'er the wages his follies have giv'n;
Blaspheming this month, amid filth in a garret;
In the next, gorging high, on his carp, cod, and claret,
Like the bird of the east, by his weakness misled,
He'll with pride shew his breech—so the fool hides his head.
The thing mounts to alt' in his passionate fires,
His brains are piano, and bass his desires.

With abortions of Reason he once strove to scrawl,
And baptis'd the vile spectacle—Liberty-Hall.
—May shame brand the man who such nonsense protected,
When Genius implor'd him, and Wit lay neglected:
But fidler with fidler will huddle together,
Like bugs in a blanket, that sleep in cold weather.

It is true, I have authors enough of my own,
Who hang round my skirts like base slaves round a throne:
To my Coz Common Sense, I once ventur'd to shew 'em,
And tho' strange to declare—yet the Nymph did not know 'em.
But what can I do? if I fasten my doors,
They steal to the hatch, and creep in—on all-fours.
They know my weak side to be mark'd with urbanity,
'Tis there they assail me, and tax my humanity.
Friend Dives protects this, for he's shirtless and poor;
And my Lord pleads for that, or, what's worse—my Lord's whore.
Alas! must they perish, tho' dunces and liars,
Who beg an existence like mendicant friars?

I remember poor Merit, that ill-fated youth
Was the offspring of Wisdom, and nurtur'd by Truth;

As patient he sail'd down life's varying stream,
He felt not the warmth of the Sun's genial beam:
Like a flow'ret on Nature's great desart he lay,
Which the weeds that surrounded had hid from his ray;
Its fragrance unknown, none the loss will deplore,
For he droop'd in the vale, and was thought of no more;

Chill Penury's hand drew the child from the womb,
Attended his being, and wept o'er his tomb.
Full oft he attempted to call upon Fame,
But the children of Vice had extinguish'd his claim:
Indignant they drove the meek youth from the throng,
Suppress'd his ambition, and fetter'd his song.—

For rancorous Authorlings sink to Reviewers,
As channels neglected become common sewers:
Hence Folly to high estimation is rais'd,
Hence Sternes were bespatter'd, and Burneys be-prais'd:
They lacerate Wit from their cowardly stations,
And grub for a weed, in—a bed of carnations.
Like the envious pangs of an impotent man,
They can't sin themselves, and they hate all that can;
But deal out their wreaths to the suppliant things,
As honors are shower'd by puppet-shew kings;
And the errors of Dulness, from sympathy smother,
As one vile attorney will plead for another.

Yet his page will be hallow'd on future inspection,
Who laugh'd at their edicts, and scorn'd their protection;
For Time shall their basis of arrogance sever,
And Burneys will perish, and Sternes live for ever!

But enough, my dear sister, we've sung of that sect;
The Bad you encourage, the Good you neglect;
Your despots with evil have crowded their hour,
And fetter'd their slaves, but to manifest power;
They protect but the Grubs of their own vile creation,
And darken at will the bright mind's emanation;
For Folly woo'd Taste, the lewd minx, till he won her,
And Ribaldry treads on the ashes of Honor.
—Let us turn to a better starr'd body of men,
Who've no cause to envy the sons of the pen,
The Actors—who feel not the pangs of starvation,
Nor e'er dread the curse of an earthly damnation.

Mr. KING.

With King, your prime minister, lord and fuc-totum
The theme I'll begin, and his merits thus note 'em:
'Tis long since this veteran led the gay train
Of laugh-loving mortals of poor Drury-Lane:

Tho' 'tis plain in his acting to trace the old school,
He wars not with Nature, but makes her his rule.
And so aptly his sallies accord with his sense,
We can laugh, yet without giving Judgment offence;
He's Comedy's Monarch, well skill'd in the art,
To fasten our senses, and seize on the heart.
The chaste wit of Shakespeare, his point, and his whim,
Suit the talents of no individual—but him.
In Touchstone he's perfect, Malvolio great,
To thought he gives strength, and to sentiment weight;
But his characters fade as his spirits decay,
And his Brass is at best—an attempt to be gay.
Each year of his life seems to poison his hour,
Enervate his vigour, and narrow his power.
To Comedy dear—yet incompetent grown,
He struggles with Fate, still to sit on her throne.
And painful supports the wide scope of her plan;
Yet is but the mere ghost, as we've long lost—the man.

For envious of worth see! to sever the thread,
Foul Atropos plays round his reverend head.
And 'tis plain both his mind and his faculties moulder,
When the task of each day proves the man—a day older.

Pale Care that round Greatness is ever found lurking,
Has fairly worn out the inside of his jerkin:
Like Rome's classic ruins, which nod on her plains,
We trace ancient grandeur in that which remains;
And pine at the tott'ring of aught that's sublime,
And mark, with a sigh, all the traces of Time!

Mrs. SIDDONS.

The next on the list is the Siddons—great name!
Of Britain at once—the delight and the shame!
She lay like a gem on the bed of old Ocean,
'Till Chance and Caprice call'd her soul into motion.

When Virtue exalted groans under oppression;
The turn of her eye gives a strength to expression;
Or poor Isabella, worn out with her woes,
And Misery goaded, looks up for repose
To her Biron's enraged, and unnatural sire,
We all feel her pangs, and acknowledge her fire;

The tale of her sorrows is ably imprest,
And the heroine's wrongs fill the void of each breast:
All the force of Illusion attends on her will,
And the tears that gush forth—prove the test of her skill.
Our pulses flow faint, as the ear drinks her sigh,
And Horror and Savageness glare in her eye.

Her greatness is such that all classes adore it,
Like Africa's whirlwinds, it sweeps all before it:
Nor Cibber, nor Pritchard, nor Crawford, nor Yates,
Or the tribes of which theatric history prates,
Could step with a chance of success in her place,
Or put on the buskin with half so much grace;
She touches the boundaries of all we desire;
Her silence has sense, and her action has fire;

With a sacred lust she assays to be glorious,
And the fiat of Fame proves the effort victorious;
Like the heroes of Homer, her faculties shine,
Of whom half was human, the other divine.

Tho' I paint thus impassion'd her elegant picture,
The model has failings which merit a stricture!
She wants the fine taste of the great Algarotti,
To soften the wildness of fam'd Bonarotti;
Like th' eminent Michael, she scorns to be bland,
Her dashes are strokes; tho' unnatural, grand!

She pants that the Genius of Glory may find her,
But oft, in her haste, leaves—poor Reason behind her.

Thalia, too sportive to dwell in a tomb,
Long since fled her fancy, appall'd by its gloom;
As sable Melpomene watch'd at her birth,
And moulded her features repulsive to Mirth;
The dimples of Pleasure must Siddons resign;
Who's wedded cold Horror, and bow'd at her shrine:
For tho', with vast labour, she forces a smile,
'Tis a sickly exotic, unknown to the soil.

Yet, wond'rous! there are, whose egregious zeal,
Pervert what they see, and defeat what they feel;
They tell us her Lovemore's the type of perfection,
Unsham'd by the clamour of public detection.
—'Tis the lie of the day, a mere falshood diurnal,
Which Fame will, indignant, erase from her journal!
Like a Will-o'-th'-Wisp, they go forth to betray,
And lead simple Nature far out of the way;
'Till fatigu'd and bemir'd, she struggles for light,
And Truth clears the mist which had clouded her sight.

But hapless is he, who, to Folly a minion,
Will yield up his senses to take her opinion:
'Tis fretting the mind her caprice to obey,
When the merit of yesterday's doubted to-day;
For those men whom our sires have lauded, with pride
Their sons have assail'd, and defil'd, and decry'd:
And the mind's poor infirmities dash'd from their throne,
Forgetting the weakness that lives in their own.

—E'en Hayley weaves verse in Antipathy's loom,
To murder the guardians of Warburton's Tomb!
He wounds, unabash'd, the repose of the dead,
And the laurel, once sacred, demands from the head;
As Prejudice, like a vile gypsy sits jaded,
Untwisting that texture which Honor had braided.

But Folly's wild impulse has delug'd the nation,
And o'er-run the land, like a foul inundation;
In her vanity firm the nymph blunders along,
Tho' prov'd to be nine times in ten in the wrong;
And who but laments such a Minx has the power
To consecrate Fashion, tho' but for an hour.

Her Rosalind was—(but, alas! who'd suppose,
That Judgment and Siddons were ever such foes?)
A tragical, comical, farcical creature,
The offspring of Pride, and the alien of Nature!
Such hoarse awful accents were never design'd
To lighten those cares which obtrude on the mind:
As Fate a creator like Shakespeare would send us,
From such a vile martyrdom, Heaven defend us!
She oft fills in thought a vast compass of action,
When her fame's but expanded by false rarefaction.
If Flattery lies in some gross attestation,
Bid her shut up her ears from the foul adulation,
As she suffers the witch (to Deformity blind)
To abridge by vile spells her great powers of mind:

Like a sorceress dire her charms she dispenses,
Encircles her progress, and birdlimes her senses.
Base nymph, tho' she courts with a passion rapacious,
Her praise is disease, and her smiles are fallacious.

It is piteous that Avarice e'er should deform
A mind to the sorrows of fiction so warm:
It sullies the face of her high reputation,
As frost nips the buddings of young vegetation;
Her genius it sicklies, her faculties seizes,
It warps the affections, and amity freezes.
Like the winds at New Zembla, its icy-fraught dart,
Shuts up every passage that leads to the heart.
It wars with the passions which rage in her breast,
And, like the Greek tyrant, subdues all the rest!

Mr. PALMER.

Of Palmer the elder, I'll give my opinion,
No man on the stage holds so wide a dominion;
Come Tragedy, Comedy, Farce, or what will,
He still gives a manifest proof of his skill;

From the Bastard of Shakespeare, and Face of old Ben,
To the dry namby-pamby of—Cumberland's pen.
He's the Muse's great hackney, on which both together
Oft pace thro' the Commons, in damn'd dirty weather.
Yet he still claims applause, tho' like Proteus he changes;
For, equal to all, thro' the drama he ranges;
And bears with much ease its vast weight on his shoulders,
'Till, like Atlas, his powers surprize all beholders.

So graceful his step, so majestic his nod,
He looks the descendant from Belvedere's god!
Yet he has his faults; and, who is there without 'em?
But his pride should take fire and instantly rout 'em;
Nor heed, tho' the effort should cost him some pain,
But puff them away like the chaff from the grain.

In stern Dionysius his acting offends,
For Nature and Palmer in that are not friends:
Like the Rhodian Colossus he stalks round the stage,
Or arm'd gladiator intent to engage;
For his zeal damns his aims in this tragic employment,
As rakes from excess lose the edge of enjoyment:
He out-herods Herod—and tears his poor throat,
'Till Harmony trembles at every note.
Tho' twelve-penny gods may with this be delighted,
Common Sense is alarm'd, and meek Reason affrighted!
—He shines in his Joseph, but more in his Lyar;
In that human Nature can never go higher.
One would think, could a thought so deform'd be supported,
That the man from his cradle with Candour had sported.

Tho' fond of the sex, yet he's fonder of porter;
And Fame, tho' a woman, ne'er labour'd to court her,
But careless to please her, right onward he bustles,
And charms the frail nymph with Herculean muscles;
Who seizes the clarion, subdu'd by her wonder,
As the tones from its womb rend the ceiling asunder;
And frights the wild air with the sonorous clatter,
'Till Reason peeps forward—to ask what's the matter?

Ere Love's gentle passion he'll deign to disclose,
His handkerchief ten times must visit his nose.—
The proud sons of Gallia aver to our faces,
The actors of Britain are foes to the Graces:
Be Palmer the champion to mend the defection,
And boldly assert his high claim to perfection;
Permit them no longer to taunt and rebuke us,
And his handkerchief use—but to wipe off the mucus.

Miss FARREN.

See Farren approach, whom the Fates have design'd,
To fascinate hearts, and illumine mankind;
With myrtle-bound brows the gay nymph is advancing,
And rapt with her smiles the blithe kidlings are dancing;
As the Sylvans pour forth, in their May vestments dress'd,
Their flocks rove at will, and their cots are unbless'd;

Fond Zephyrs exhale, from the incense-fraught flowers,
The sweets of creation, to breathe on her hours!
Her port is seduction, her voice exiles pain,
And the mild social Virtues croud into her train;
They revel and sport 'neath her eyes benign beam,
Correct her warm fancy, and sweeten her dream;
Despair leaves his cave, by her beauties imprest;
And Joy wounds the fiend that had sicken'd his breast:
Young poets for her have relinquish'd the bays,
And Eloquence pants with recording her praise:
See Pride kiss her sandals, and Apathy sighs,
And Honor implores, and Inconstancy dies.

To copy her frame, where divinity's seal is,
Would beggar the talents of fam'd Praxiteles.
See Psyche amaz'd as she turns to behold
Such excellence cast in so perfect a mould;
She trembles in thought, lest the force of such charms,
The wanton young godling should tear from her arms.

Her form is celestial, she looks, Friend, between us,
A fourth lovely Grace, or the sister of Venus.
The mistress of Spring, or the handmaid of Flora,
To chear human-kind, like the rays of Aurora.

A simper bewitching irradiates each feature,
And the men all exclaim—What an angelic creature!

Such ease, such politeness, such wit unaffected,
A love-beaming eye, and that eye—well directed.

Bless'd orbs, where such infantine myriads are seen,
Disportively wanton in Love's magazine;
New pointing their arrows with sedulous pains,
To triumph o'er Reason, and lead her in chains.
Amid Beauty's children superior she shone,
And Cupid's artillery plays round her zone.
As the bee quits the groves of Arabia to sip,
The honey of Hybla which moistens her lip:
And Fame shews her Helen in dingy tradition,
And Hebe retreats to avoid competition.
Impell'd by Ambition, this nymph seiz'd the throne,
The birthright of Venus, but long since her own;
And her wiles she dispenses from that envied station,
For the gods have confirm'd the divine usurpation.

As an Actress, her powers to please are restricted,
Tho' Folly's gay offspring she's aptly depicted,
For she simpers with glee where the dialogue centers,
And smiles when she leaves us, and smiles when she enters;
A strong wish to amuse her best judgment beguiling,
Like a clown at a shew, she's continually smiling;
Tho' her fine set of teeth partial courtesy brings,
From ridiculous Earls, and illustrious Things;
As she nods from the stage to her Stanleys and Foxes,
To let the house see she is known in the boxes.
In Teazle, the springs of mild elegance move her,
But the sightless sweet Emmeline, that's her chef d'œuvre.

Mr. SMITH.

In Townley, Charles Surface, and parts such as those,
Where merit exists in deportment and clothes,
The well-bred Comedian gets thro' with great ease,
And sometimes delights us, but always must please.
He proves the full force of Queen Bess's narration,
For his face is a letter of recommendation.
With pleasure, with transport, the audience descry,
The traits of benevolence beam in his eye;

But that's to a Briton superior to art,
'Tis a comment which tacitly honors the heart.
In the high paths of elegance who dare aspire,
To walk as his compeer, or copy his fire!
For Comedy pleasantly singled him out
As Her Gentleman-Usher, when giving a route;
To regulate manners, pretensions, and places,
To model the awkward, and teach them new graces.

But Tragedy—that is a step 'yond his skill,
He may play it from duty, but should not from will.
No varying sounds from his eloquence flow,
To mark the gradations of gladness or woe;
But a tedious monotony hangs on the ear,
Discordant, if loud; and, unmeaning, if clear;
Tho' Nature his person has form'd with great pride,
The Grief-waking requisites all are denied:
Let him stick to his mistress, and eager enjoy her,
He may do a vast deal ere his efforts can cloy her.

Mrs. WRIGHTEN.

Our woes to diminish, and moments to brighten,
The Fates in good humour have sent us—a Wrighten:
She knows the arcanum to marshal her wiles,
Seduce us with simp'ring, and win us with smiles;
The Nymphs croud around, as the Fauns beat their tabors,
And dance 'fore the chantress, and join in her labours;
Sweet Harmony mellows the notes with her shell,
And Echo redoubles each lay from her cell;
All ages and sexes unite to adore her;
Who sickens pale Envy as Care flies before her.
She adds ev'ry grace to the force of a jest,
Gives sense to her sound, and to wit a new zest:
Thro' Melody's mazes we easy can trace
The intent of her song—by the lines of her face:
Her arch comic spirit calls forth approbation,
Till the theatre shakes with the loud acclamation!

No wonder that wit she can forcibly feel,
Who's liv'd with Thalia long since en famille;
Pray Fate that she long may be sportive on earth,
The prop of burlettas, and, mistress of mirth;
Of female comedians an excellent sample;
Of Abigail singers the first great example!

But, bid her beware of too great an indulgence
Of tricks, that but mar her dramatic refulgence;
Or, if prais'd by the million, grow sick of the cause
That led her to fame, and matur'd their applause;
Lest she find, like some brides who such errors must weep,
She can conquer a heart—that she wants sense to keep,
Those airs which to practise in Lucy she's just in,
If seen in all parts, will make all parts disgusting:
Bid her temper that strong constitutional pertness,
And call upon Reason to bound her alertness.

Mr. JOHN KEMBLE.

In Kemble, behold all the shadows of learning,
An eye that's expressive, a mind half discerning;
Tho' the sense of the scene in its quickness must center,
Yet a pause must ensue, ere the hero will enter:

Well skill'd in the family secrets of mumming,
'Tis a trick that implies a great actor is coming:
But the time that's prescrib'd for the art being out,
Then on rushes John in an outrageous rout,
With a nice painted face, and a complacent grin,
Like an excellent sign to an ill-manag'd inn;
With the lineal brow, heavy, dismal, and murky,
And shoulders compress'd, like an over-truss'd turkey.

Yet he has his merits, tho' crude and confin'd,
The faint sickly rays of—a half-letter'd mind.

Now excellence fascinates every sense,
Now failings appear which give judgment offence;
In this all the force of the Actor is seen,
In that glares the Pedant, and damns all the scene;
For the faults which from Nature he got in great store,
His pride and presumption have made ten times more.

From the deep springs of Science this Marsyas has sipt,
At a period of life when he could not be whipt;
For the immature, silly, adoption of errors,
As Modesty fled, and the rod had no terrors.

Those parts of short length should be ever his choice,
That his action may never out-distance his voice,
Which loses its tones at the end of a play,
Where rant and exertion by force hold the sway:
He has something too much the mechanical stare,
And saws, without mercy, the ambient air;
And martyrs the drama, and treads on its laws,
By seeming affectedly long in each pause.
When Kemble and Siddons are raving together,
They both meet the sight, like snow-flakes in hard weather,
And lay claim to our praise in the very same tones,
The same ahs, the same ohs, the same starts, the same groans!
It is brother, and sister, and sister, and brother,
As each keeps the shuttle-cock up for each other;
Tho' the family policy glares thro' such art,
It destroys the intent, it assails not the heart.

Stung deep in the mind by the Dæmon of scribbling,
Poor John, like young mice in a cheese, will be nibbling;
And, mounted on stilts, as a true son of Phœbus,
Gives his name to the world—in a rhyme or a rebus:
With tragedies tortur'd the public has cramm'd,
Which read, were but laugh'd at; and, acted, were damn'd.
Like the vile amphisbæna, his verses assail,
For none can discover their head from their tail.

When once in a moon sombrous John condescends,
For an easy earn'd stipend to glad all his friends;
And bustling Sir Giles laughs and flounders by fits,
Like a bedlamite bard, who has outliv'd his wits;
Then the day that succeeds must produce his defence,
And Kemble and Massinger teize Common Sense.

Oh! thrice happy age, when each dramatic elf
Can modestly weave such critiques—on himself;
And tell with kind industry all but what's true,
And sing of conceptions—his mind never knew!

Time was, when the great Public Mind was the cause,
From whence issued aught that gave fame or applause;
But that Public long since have resign'd their opinion,
And insolent Folly assum'd the dominion.
Now Candour lies mould'ring 'mid bibles on shelves,
For Actors, like Indians, make idols themselves:
They forge the base lie, hissing hot from the brain,
And anatomize Truth in the villanous strain.

Then the scouts of the stage with th' intelligence fly,
And the press nightly groans with a—sinister lie;
'Till the morn from its womb calls the monster away,
And the offspring of infamy sullies the day.

Like the sun now each Editor beams on his fool,
Of his follies the object, his passions the tool;
As he writes for his print what in dreams he supposes,
And celebrates Harlequin's—apotheosis.
But his noon-tide of flattery darts forth in rays,
So intense, that Credulity's set in a blaze;
For Truth, Fame, and Honor, they equally perish,
And scorch but the object they issued to cherish:
As the magical force that their pens can inspire,
Will ne'er raise the actor a single inch higher.
All faith we have lost in the arts necromantic,
And the man is the same, tho' the shade is gigantic.

Tho' callow novitiates the part may engage,
No Hamlet remains but his own on the stage:
He paints with discernment the woes of the youth,
And his tints are meek Nature's, corrected by Truth:
In particular scenes, even Garrick, tho vain,
Has fail'd so complete to delineate the Dane.
But he oft gives Thalia a stab in the vitals,
When his labours appear—but judicious recitals.
In his novel Mackbeth there are scenes which delight us,
And some which confound us, and some which affright us:
As he banquetting clenches his muscles material,
To bully poor Banquo who's nought and etherial.

Not content with receiving the debt that's his due,
Still John, in perspective, has others in view;
And thinking his consequence needs some addition,
Endeavours to subjugate all competition;
And nibbles at rivals, and envies the men,
'Till the gall of his heart finds the way to his pen.
With a true Kemble stomach, at all things he grapples,
As boys will steal plumbs while they're chewing their apples:
For Jealousy marks all the tribe with her greenness,
As Merit is labouring to dignify Meanness;
And force that respect by the impulse of Art,
Which Nature's vile seeds have denied to the heart.
—But who can efface what is written so plain
By the pencil of Nature? th' attempt were as vain
To wash off the hue from the dark Ethiopian,
Or realize schemes which are merely Utopian,
As drive from the mind such unworthy desires,
Where Envy and Hatred have kindled their fires!

Miss POPE.

Who's that bustling female—so careful to tread
With precision and rule, and a shake of the head;
'Tis Thalia's old handmaid, the excellent Pope,
Whose wishes have stray'd o'er the precincts of hope.

See Fretfulness sits on the tip of her nose,
And rouge on her cheek has reviv'd that gay rose
Which pain and anxiety long since had faded,
When Love's genial flame her young bosom invaded.

In tattling old spinsters she now has no equal,
(But that is a truth will be felt in the sequel;
When, laden with honours, and wounded by age,
The veteran Fair bids adieu to the Stage.)
A key to their follies, she's got by affinity,
And knows all the struggles of hapless virginity;
The colours that mark them on Hope's dark privation,
Their yellow despondence, and green desperation:
The flirt of the fan, when young beauties are near 'em,
Their high-born disdain, if keen satire should fleer 'em;
Those evils unnumber'd which goad them each hour,
And the talent to rail at the grapes—which are sour.

When Pleasure and Ease had seduc'd to their arms,
Convivial Clive, and the stage lost her charms;

The jest-loving muse was alarm'd at the story,
And fearing a rapid decline of her glory,
Deputed her Pope, as successor of Clive,
To keep poignant Wit and gay Laughter alive.

Mr. DODD.

Behold sprightly Dodd amble light o'er the stage,
And mimic young fops in despite of his age!

He poises his cane 'twixt his finger and thumb,
And trips to the fair, with a jut of the bum;
To see such an insect make love to the ladies,
Declares that profession—the bulk of their trade is:
He's been dipt in Salmacis enervating spring,
Which changes progressive the man to a—thing:
With a vacant os frontis, and confident air,
The minikin manikin prates debonnair:
As Quin said of Derrick, when making a rout,
You might take an extinguisher, and put him out.
He exhibits Mercutio's juvenile airs,
With a face charg'd with woe, like a pauper at prayers;
And so martyrs Queen Mab, and the consequent wit,
That we doubt if the text's what our Shakespeare once writ.

We may swear from his mien, that his humour was cast
In the light moulds of Fashion, full thirty years past;
In such acting we look on no effort that new is,
As he steers in midway between Cibber and Lewis;
Partaking of both, as all authors agree,
The Crocodile steals from the land and the sea;
And varies in nought from our grandmother's beaus,
But the curls on his pate, and the cut of his cloaths.
Yet his Drugger defies the stern critic's detection,
And his Ague Cheek touches the edge of perfection.

Mrs. CROUCH.

If Music hath charms to subdue the wild breast,
And fascinate Care from the mind that's distrest,
Let the children of Misery haste in a throng,
Surround lovely Crouch, and attend to her song!

Her accents flow gently, as translucent rills,
Her breath emits odour like newly-mown hills:
The force of her lays, like the Thracian lyre,
Can fierceness subdue, and the savage inspire;
They steal every sense from the finger of Sorrow,
And the wretch puts off Care, like a dun, till to-morrow,
They soothe the wild ravings of tyrannic rage,
And from Avarice turns the embraces of age.
It stops infant Sin in the path of perdition,
And binds by its spells the foul demon Ambition.
'Tis soft as the gentle Favonius' blows,
To awaken the sweets of the opening rose.
E'en Philomel listens to catch from her tune
New graces to carol, at eve, to the moon.

If Sylvia, innocent nymph, sings her pains,
What blandishments live in her harmonious strains,
When Dryden's gay Venus comes on with a smile,
To chaunt the bless'd boons of her favourite isle,
The soul of great Purcel bursts forth from the tomb,
And, listening, flutters with joy round the dome.
By her voice are the precepts of Wisdom supply'd,
And the Stoic's disrob'd of his weakness and pride;
For the heart's tender centinel's caught by surprise,
And Love gives the wound by which Apathy dies.

When Æolus ruffles the wings of the wind,
The sapphire-plum'd Halcyon flits to her mind;
There, nestl'd with Peace, no rude storms can resist her,
When couch'd by the veil of each cardinal sister.

Mr. MOODY.

Here comes lazy Moody—that indolent elf,
Seems lost in the deep contemplation of Self;
A noli me tangere sits on each feature,
Repelling the wishes of social good nature:
Approaching this wight, ere your wish you rehearse,
By instinct the man—claps his hand on his purse:

Go ask him his health, as—How are you, Sir, pray?
He'll answer—The Stocks, Friend—is that what you say?
By the Lord, man, they fell half an eighth yesterday.

To Laziness wedded, no passions can warm,
For he sleeps like a Belgian lake in a storm;
By his meanness subdu'd, his ambition is o'er,
And he crawls on the stage—but to add to his store.

'Tis ascertain'd easy, by plain Common Sense,
He's a Swiss in the drama, and fights for the pence:
No laudable motive, no love of the art,
Gives force to his judgment, or warmth to his heart.
He jogs the same trot he did ten years before,
Contented to know—two and two will make four.
Unknown to the Muses, and Excellence scorning,
He sighs for the stipend, and Saturday morning.
How curst must that dolt be, pursuing his pelf,
Who abdicates heaven to lean on himself:
So insatiate is Avarice, Philosophers fear it,
Like Charybdis it swallows all streams that come near it.

When I think of the worth of this veteran stager,
His Commodore Flip and Hibernian Major,

It mads me to see that the man is contented
To sculk to his tomb by each muse unlamented.
As he knows he can charm us whenever he'll please,
'Tis a shame he gets fat and enjoys so much ease!

Mrs. JORDAN.

Behold sportive Jordan, that favourite fair,
Who was sent by kind Fate to avert your despair:
With her you've successfully baited your trap;
She's in truth the best feather you have in your cap.
How you got her, to me, I must own, is a wonder!
When I think of your natural aptness to blunder.

She must have been forc'd on you, maugre your sighing,
As they give children physic, in spite of their crying.

Be wise, if you wish she should add to your store,
Let her put on Melpomene's buskins no more,
'Tho' the Scion could play ev'ry character well,
You should keep her in those where she's own'd to excel;
For Imogen's woes, or fair Viola's wit,
The decrees of Propriety mark'd her unfit:
Let her polish those talents which Heav'n has sent her,
And the Romp prove the climax to Moody's Tormentor.
Be that her ne plus—keep her actions in view,
Lest she wanders in labyrinths wanting a clew.
As she's mounted the summit of public applause,
Preserve her importance and husband the cause.
Go, copy the priesthood, their stratagems mind,
They know every path to the hearts of mankind.
As the good Saint of Naples is kept in a den,
To be shewn to the mob as a charm—now and then:
E'en thus keep your actress—whose well-tim'd inaction
Will only redouble her force and attraction.
Depend on't, like spendthrifts, incaution will hurt you,
For magnets oft us'd will lose much of their virtue.

In Nell all her infantine habits are shown,
And the rose of vulgarity flushes full blown.
Not a ray issues forth from her keen sable eye,
But gives all the race of Refinement the lye.
Her soul seems contented such feats to embrace,
Which are hostile to Decency, Greatness, and Grace!

But her name's not been rais'd by illiberal arts,
She came 'fore the audience, and rush'd to their hearts:
Their feelings acknowledg'd the nymph could inspire,
And fann'd the faint embers which glimmer'd with fire.
For there are, like your transparent paintings, design'd
Who derive half their worth from the light that's behind.

All honest encomium seems buried for ever,
As the Prints of the day must substantiate what's clever:
—If a hero comes forward a claimant on Glory,
He rises or falls—by the force of their story.
Tho' their praise, like thermometers, Causes subdue,
For it mounts, be the heat artificial or true;
And if, from their page, ev'ry judgment you quote,
They clash like the colours on Joseph's fam'd coat.
This hour to sleep all the critics implore him,
In the next, he eclipses—whate'er went before him.
—Thus shameless they vitiate the taste of the age:
By such base manœuvres men rise on the stage.

To acquire this fame, they must give great rewards,
Tho' such glory is built like a castle with cards,
Which younglings erect for the rapture of viewing,
But, touch'd by the finger of Truth—falls to ruin:
'Tis a transient meteor, an air-fashion'd bubble,
Which bursts in despite of their toil and their trouble.
In the theatre's womb, on a probation night,
All the critic battalions in terror unite,
And tho' potent absurdities neither can see,
All clam'rous dispute 'bout an A or an E;

Prate of sound, sense, and diction, with national pride,
And what Scotchmen call perfect the Irish deride:
Thus on Reason's establishment none can be quiet,
But wrangle in groups like the Polanders diet.

Mr. BENSLEY.

Hear Bensley, whose hollow and sepulchral note,
Seems heav'd from the lungs, to be forc'd thro' the throat:
He strides in the scene with magnanimous air,
And accompanies woe—with a start and a stare!
From the pale Ghost of Hamlet his graces he borrows,
And equally stalks in his joys and his sorrows;
Be it Pierre, or Iago, there needs not a chorus,
To tell us the Ghost is still walking before us!
He steps in such measure, each critic accords,
That he pays more attention to walking than words:
Each thought seems absorb'd in adjusting his figure,
He swells, as still wishing to look ten times bigger.

With three minuet steps in all parts he advances,
Then retires three more—strokes his chin, prates and prances,
With a port as majestic as Astley's horse dances.

But I must not omit, as I've mark'd each defect,
To aver that his part he has always correct;
And, knowing those faults which admit not prevention,
Essays to reduce them by care and attention.

Mr. BRERETON.

Lo! Brereton comes—to his feelings a prey,
To damp our enjoyments, and darken our day;
The hand of Disease has laid waste his meek mind,
To shew her great triumph o'er worth and mankind,

Mrs. BRERETON.

But, mark his pale wife—for, alas! hapless fair,
Her face is impress'd with the seal of Despair;

The mate of her bosom, poor nymph, she has lost,
And the transports of love are by destiny crost.

Who is there that would not endeavour to bless
A mind so enfeebled by social distress;
So torn by its pangs in religion's despite,
So young, yet shut out from domestic delight.
—With joy would I fly round the globe for relief,
Or extenuate aught that could add to her grief:
I'd bathe every wound her Creator has giv'n,
And step 'twixt her peace and the arrows of heaven.

Ye casuist tribes, tell us, why are we born
Predestin'd to drag thus a being forlorn;
Say, why should we suffer, unconscious of ill,
Or sigh, when a crime is unknown to the will;
But, fix'd in a fragile responsible state,
Must answer for vices we did not create!

Dear sister, may you and the nymph never sever;
Be kind to her sorrows—I'll love you for ever.

Mr. PARSONS.

Of Wit, see the harbinger break on the day,
Whose jokes banish Care, and make Misery gay;
'Tis Parsons, who oft the dull moment beguiles,
The father of Mirth. and, the patron of Smiles:
When he opens his mouth, the wide throng feel the jest,
And who but must laugh to hear wit with such zest?

In his features the satire we all can descry!
Like Champaign it sparkles, and brightens his eye:
When Hygeia frowns, his importance is seen
Then how dull is Thalia, how mawkish the scene!
All his substitutes mangle the parts which they play,
And make us regret such a man must decay;
Then Bartholo hangs by Pandora suspended,
And Greedy's vast pleasantries seem to have ended.
When death on poor Parsons shall e'er turn the table;
Gay Momus in heaven will put on his sable;
The eyes of gaunt Envy shall beam with delight on't,
And Spleen, when unsetter'd, with drink make a night on't.

Miss KEMBLE.

Hark! what shouting is this that disturbs the calm day,
See Satyrs and Sorcerers croud all the way,
'Tis an idiot, or driv'ller, the cavalcade tells,
For maddening Folly is tinkling her bells;

As the Magi their foul incantations prepare,
And with seeds of the mania impregnate the air!
See the Heroine comes—mark the wond'rous detail,
As Fashion elate snuffs the poisonous gale.—

Amazing! a third! lo, here's Kemble again,
With Kembles on Kembles they've choak'd Drury Lane;
The family rubbish have seiz'd public bounty,
And Kings, Queens, and Heroes pour forth from each county,
The barns are unpeopled—their half-famish'd sons
Waste the regions of Taste like th' irruption of Huns.
Like th' Hamaxobii tribes, whom Fatigue cannot tire,
They've starv'd, pray'd, and ranted, from shire to shire;
But cash is the magnet that draws them from far,
'Tis the god of their race, and their grand polar star.

In acting, her efforts excite but our sadness,
Like Edmund's orations, her works prove her madness.
As well might you pass for a Titus, Domitian,
Lord George as a saint, or Fuseli a Titian:

The lanes of Fleet-Ditch for the city of Cnidus,
Or the eyes of John Wilkes for the Georgium Sidus;
Or the thistles of Forth for the fleur-de-lis,
Or oily Frank Grose for the flippant Vestris,
As her for Alicia.—The attempt, on my word,
Is impudent, ignorant, gross, and absurd;
And proves for true sterling a vile succedaneum,
Like delft for the pott'ry of Old Herculaneum!
'Tis an insult to Reason—a vile imposition,
As e'er liv'd in tale, or grey-headed Tradition.
But the girl surely maddens with vainness or woe:—
Send Alicia to Ward, and the wench to—Monro.

When Rowe's glorious scenes, which from Nature he drew,
And Shore's hapless fortunes are plac'd in our view,
The sisters assume the great cast of the play,
And, as heroines both, they must both lead the way;
As one treads the boards, by fair Genius attended,
With t'other's presumption the House is offended;
'Tis a feast of strange viands, an incomplete dish,
Where the flesh is destroy'd by the fumes of the fish;
'Tis eating a haunch amid nausea and dirt,
'Tis wearing lace ruffles without any shirt;
'Tis purchasing trash most outrageously dear,
'Tis washing down turtle with mawkish small beer:
It is—but comparison falls far abaft her,
And Folly, triumphant, indulges her laughter.
No wonder in sickness for credit you seek,
When beings like that have Ten Guineas a-week.

—But hearing the sum, see! the Muses turn pale,
And meek Probability shrinks at the tale;
Amazement with wonder aghast lifts her head,
And Excellence sighs in Humility's shed.

If Prudence attempts to develope the cause,
She's silenc'd by one who can o'erleap your laws:
The Siddons exclaims,—Know that Fanny's my sister;
And knowing but that, tell me, who dare resist her?

Permit ye an Actress to wield your state sceptre,
When riches of Gratitude thus has bereft her?
Ye Managers rise from foul Lethargy's den,
Tho' unfit to be kings, shew the world you are men:
Admit humble Merit to peep on your stage,
And let not proud Insolence hoodwink the age;
Make the sisters fill parts as their faculties suit,
Let one play the Victim—the other—be mute.

How many act parts full of bustle and racket,
And arrogate madly the Harlequin jacket.
See Boswell (but who for such drudg'ry more fit?)
Collect the vile refuse of poor Johnson's wit;
And fir'd with zeal, for the scavenger's warm on't,
Indite what Sam did, when his wisdom lay dormant;

When Hate barr'd his heart and bade Ridicule show it,
And treading on Churchill made Pomfret a poet
Lo! he dresses the attribute tawdry, tho' true,
And the errors of greatness exposes to view;
Then mounts the Leviathan's back in full motion,
And, holding his tail, ventures forth in the ocean;
Where plung'd in deep waters—alas! what a whim,
Bellows forth to mankind—how we geniusses swim!

But John Bull is a beast; for who will may e'en ride him,
And Folly and Fashion each moment bestride him;
They stroke the base brute, as their views they dissemble,
From dingy Buzaglo to modest John Kemble.

Ridiculous Isle!—for imposture so fit,
Where the spunge of Credulity soaks up their wit;
Where ideots are honour'd, and Graham can lecture,
And Vice scoff at morals, yet none will detect her!
But the Town oft uplifts that vile varlet who bilks 'em,
And Worth brings the cows tho' 'tis Knavery milks 'em.
Thus your methodist tribes make their order a jest,
For half become brethren—to plunder the rest.

Mr. CHARLES BANNISTER.

Avaunt, ye pale crew! Care's black altars adorning,
And flit like the mists from the beams of the morning,
Behold laughing Charles, great Anacreon's own son!
Whose brow's wreath'd with ivy, his drinking has won.
By the Grecian inspir'd, he's blissful and gay,
As he journies thro' life, Love and Wine lead the way.
He's beckon'd to bliss by the wiles of gay Venus,
And hail'd to the joys of the glass by Silenus;

'Till Charles, like Alcides, is pos'd to obey
The impulse of a heart, where they both hold the sway.

So tuneful his pipe, so mellifluous its sound,
It unpeoples the groves, and the fawns flock around;
The herds leave their browsings and list to his strains,
Even Pan and the Dryads fly swift from the plains.
The blythe purple god, whose oblation inspires,
And gives back to age all its amorous fires;
High flush'd with delight, lauds the song from his seat,
And the tygers, unyok'd, lick the minstrels feet;
As roseate wild Bacchants in extasy twine
His locks with the tendrils they've torn from the vine.
He seizes young Joy, and, arresting his pow'r,
Appoints him the guardian to flit round his hour,
To crush palsied Care, with his train of offences,
And human infirmity shut from his senses;
The full festive goblet he plies in quick measure,
And Laughter attends as the chorus of Pleasure;
And loosens elated the springs of the soul,
And empties with glee the nectareous bowl;
With extacy tastes ev'ry blessing that's in it,
And swift analyses the bliss of the minute;
Then plunders from Plenty the gifts of each season,
As gay vive l'amour forms the creed of his reason;
When Whitely's disciple, gay Charles was the same,
Tho' unknown to Economy, Comfort, or Fame.

Like a prostitute chang'ling dame Fortune he worries,
Her bounty abuses, her passions he flurries;
And receives her choice gifts as the fruit of a whim,
Which Caprice showers careless on Honour or him;
But the minx still adores, tho' the varlet thus treats her,
And, like Russian ladies, grows fond—'cause he beats her.

In thunder harmonious, his cadences roll,
And the full tide of Melody pours on the soul;
His tones the cold breast of Frigidity warming,
Are audible, sonorous, manly and charming.

In the Strangers at Home, (a strange medley indeed!
Where jest, noise, and nonsense each other succeed,
Compos'd of strange oddities jumbled together,
Like men in a porch, to avoid rainy weather:
Where wonder meets wonder, and plot on plot thickens,
As Nature recedes, and Enquiry sickens;
Where Reason, poor nymph, is stuck fast in a bog,
Or like the Egyptians immers'd in a fog;
Where Folly, with fond expectation looks big,
To see Truth overthrown, or the Poles dance a gig.)

There Charles, like a monster, is muzzled in spirit,
And dragg'd forth to growl at the funeral of Merit,
With a strange group of mortals, escap'd from strange dangers,
Where he is the strangest by far 'mid the Strangers.

How different the man, when impervious to duns,
Rosy Charles o'er his wine manufactures his puns,
As the clock's tatt'ling pendulum hints in the nick,
That Time flies away, and he's running—on tick!
But he conquers all thoughts of the first, by a bumper,
And laughs at the last—'till it mounts to a thumper!

Mrs. HOPKINS.

Here comes antique Hopkins, a piece of stage lumber,
Who fills up a niche, and adds one to the number;
Like vases arrang'd o'er the chimney for shew,
She closes a void, and makes perfect the row:
But a sameness prevails in all parts that she plays,
And sameness in acting's repulsive to praise;
For struggling to shew the great test of her skill,
The effort is vain, and—'tis Heidleburgh still.
When she fails, 'tis apparent she did not intend it;
The fault is in Nature, she cannot amend it;
Who mix'd in her juices the Heidleburgh drop,
Which, like corks in a river, will swim at the top.

Mr. JAMES AICKIN.

With strong sensibility, wakeful and keen,
See Aickin advance, with a complacent mien;
Few Actors have e'er better known Nature's laws,
And, learning her dictates, have got less applause.
When the parent comes forth to admonish his child,
What player can do it in accents so mild?
His periods with gentle persuasion are hung,
As the fruit of philanthropy drops from his tongue:
When Clarissa's good father's impell'd to reprove,
'Tis the warmth of resentment corrected by love;
As the noble conceptions which flow from his breast,
Are with all the true force of the Christian imprest.
His Freeport's an instance of mercantile good,
For his tenets of honor add warmth to the blood;
We give him most gladly the tributes of praise,
And accompany all that he does and he says.

Mrs. FOSTER.

Who's that laurel'd Honor is forcing along?
'Tis Foster, meek nymph, who exists but in song;

Like the Medicis statue, to Decency true,
Her wishes seem bent to recede from the view.

An air of mild elegance marks ev'ry motion,
At Modesty's shrine the coy nymph pays devotion:
And should find the effects of such laudable duty,
A strong counter-balance for personal beauty.
Her tones in sweet melody solace the ear,
Like a murm'ring riv'let not deep, but yet clear;
Tho' her merits won't bear the stern critics inspection,
Her gentleness tacitly pleads for protection.

Mr. PACKER.

Behold hoary Packer, grown grey on that soil,
Where we've long known him little great Roscius's foil;
For e'en Garrick the weakness of Nature partook,
And squar'd half his actions from Jealousy's book.

—That he hated all genius which blaz'd to excel,
Could Powell or Henderson speak, they would tell.
When he peeps on the stage the dull wight comes too soon,
Like Michaelmas Day to a moneyless loon.

Lo! he looks like pale Thrift, when he duns for a debt,
Or, a woeful Whereas, in the London Gazette;
Or the herald of Ill, with an aspect suspicious,
And muscles deep-furrow'd, and brow inauspicious.

I prithee, dear Sister, bid Packer retire
To a good easy chair, and a warm social fire;
Let him spend his last days unembitter'd by pain,
Smoke his pipe, and reflect—on the Kings he has slain:
There touch'd by Garrulity—hapless disease,
Let him praise what he's seen, and lament what he sees;
Let him talk of his Cibbers, his Clives, and his Quins,
And now and then break Possibility's shins.

Let him add to their honors some friendly addition,
And redden, if Moderns should name competition;
But if his theatric crust he will mumble,
You must pity the man, when the actor shall stumble.

Mr. BADDELY.

With crab-apple phiz, and a brow that's disdainful,
See Baddely smile with fatigue that is painful;
From his dissonant voice, and the form of each feature,
You'd swear him the favourite child of Ill-nature;
The semblance of Love, in a mind so saturnine,
Like china embellishments, Labour must burn in.
Thus Nero would frown when he Mercy dismay'd,
Thus Herod appear'd when Humanity pray'd.

He snarls through his parts, be they easy or hard,
Like a mastiff that's chain'd to bay thieves from a yard.
Tho' none the misanthrope can copy so well,
As an actor, he's slovenly—Candour must tell;
And changes his dress in so careless a hurry,
He looks near as dingy as F--- or Lord S---y;

And damns that strong prejudice rais'd against dirt,
Which forces a man to put on a clean shirt:
As a commerce, where Freedom for Fashion we barter,
And poison the essence of Runnymede Charter.
Bid him turn Zoroaster's disciple, I pray,
And wash his anatomy five times a day;
His enacting coarse Brainworm's a noble exertion,
And Polonius and Trinculo feed our diversion.

Miss GEORGE.

See George in the sweet paths of Melody tread,
By dull, frigid Insensibility led:
Tho' careless to please, her meek essays delight,
For she charms the rude throng, e'en in Dullness' despite.—
Had her gentle strains join'd the Syrens' fell band,
Ulysses had row'd to their dangerous land;
His Prudence had fled, and, his Wisdom had slept,
And Juno had rav'd, and Minerva had wept:
Then his name had not shone in the immortal story,
And Ithaca's matron had sigh'd for his glory.

Its anodyne powers the sick'ning make cheery,
And tears off the chain from the mind of the weary;

By her soft, blissful sonnets, all bosoms inspiring,
Even Spleen grows diseas'd—and, Despair lies expiring.
As the lark chaunts at sun-rise his diurnal pray'r,
All her loud liquid notes charge the babbling air;
The sounds were not sweeter when Thebes' famous wall
Obey'd the soft magic of Harmony's call;
For spells may be said to exist in that tone,
Whose graces can conquer all hearts—but her own.
Cecilia thus warbled the heaven-fraught line,
For her song was ador'd ere the nymph was divine.

Mr. JOHN BANNISTER.

Who's this that comes forward and squeezes his hat,
Then recedes with a bow, smiles, smirks, and all that;

'Tis the smart younger Bannister, flush'd in a pother,
To turn to a jest ev'ry dramatic brother.
Pray let him speak Prologues, and drop such a measure,
It props not his fame, if it adds to his pleasure.

He has long strove to build him a high reputation,
On an unstable basis, I mean—imitation;
Imitation's a weak and a dang'rous endeavour
On others' demerits to win public favour;
And speaks a low mind, most egregiously prone,
To catch Folly's errors, and make them our own;
An expedient that oft keeps the blockheads in tune:
But the man it degrades, tho' it suits the buffoon.
That the head is too soft, 'tis a tacit confession;
For, like melting wax, it receives each impression:
Like evil companions, it poisons each station;
We cannot shake off the foul communication:
Like the arts of a juggler, it's excellence lies
In casting a film 'tween our reason and eyes;
In artfully stealing 'twixt sight and conception;
'Till, pleas'd with the trick, we applaud the deception.

Amid all the younglings which strut on the stage,
John Bannister mixes most wit in his rage;
He promises largely, from what we perceive,
And the more we survey him, the more we believe:
Tho' his tragical bouncing, and blust'ring, and bellowing,
Tell loudly and truly, his judgment wants mellowing.

Mr. DIGNUM.

See Dignum trip onward, as Cymon array'd,
Both apish and awkward, unlearn'd, and ill made;
The wight has each requisite fitting a clown,
Save bashfulness,—that is a sense he's ne'er known:
Did the varlet affect but to blush, he would cheat us;
For Nature imbronz'd him when scarcely a fœtus:
And the Hibernian atoms descend in his race,
Their foreheads to shield from so foul a disgrace:
With Webster or Vernon the youth could but vie ill;
For he is a vox, et præterea nihil.

Ye gods! what wild havock is made by Ambition!
Tho' she oft brings her slaves to a state of contrition,
She made pious Dornford, a half-witted railer;
And spoil'd, in young Dignum,—an excellent taylor.

'Tis wond'rous we find not, in Opera's van,
A singing Novitiate, who looks like a Man:—
But Grace, that to song should be ever allied,
Left the stage of the world, as her favourite died.

When Death seiz'd our Webster, his heaven-born wife,
Sweet Grace, (whom he wedded and cherish'd thro' life,
Whose mild hallowed influence led him along,
Ennobled his action, and breath'd thro' his song:)
Survey'd, like a Persian bride, his remains,
As the pulses of horror beat high thro' her veins;
Then frowning on Fate, who seized all she enjoy'd,
With Misery laden, herself she destroy'd:
Disdaining existence, his ashes she fir'd,
Ascended the pile, gave a sigh, and expir'd.

Mrs. WARD.

In smart walking ladies, and Tragedy queens,
See Ward take the lead, tho' long out of her teens:
To Nature, for beauty, she's somewhat in debt;
And is perfectly learn'd in the stage etiquette.
That Merit smiles on her, it must be confess'd;
And she always takes care that her person's well dress'd.

Not like some of her sisters, whose raiment's so shabby,
They look like wax figures from Westminster Abbey,
Who've forestall'd the last trumpet, and rose in a hurry,
Half painted, half clad, and unnerv'd by the flurry.
Lady Alworth, neat Ward can respectably fill,
And proud Margaretta owes much to her skill.

Mr. FAWCET.

Behold a great man! 'tis magnanimous Fawcet,
Who turns the best cream of the Muse to a posset;
Meek Modesty's dictates he treats as a jest,
Assails her dominions, and spurns her behest:
Should the wench, hapless, venture but once in his reach,
He'd savagely give her a kick on the breech.
But, the Great Man is rich, and, he labours to shew it,
And thinks, by such madness, the world will all know it.
Oh! bless'd independence!—for, Fawcet has clear
Twelve Pounds Seven Shillings and Sixpence a-year;
Besides some expectancies yet in futuro
From an uncle, who lives by the Tempests in Truro.
By Ignorance nurtur'd, by Vanity rais'd,
That fungus-fraught caitiff has hopes to be prais'd;

Tho' he curses old Cadmus with vehement spite,
Who first taught our sires grey sires to write!

Shall Satire again say, that Fortune is blind,
When, to objects like him, she's so wond'rously kind?
The gift of perception she sure does inherit,
To softer the dawn of such—marvellous merit.

In Dion he fidgets, and foams at the gallery,
'Till Tragedy laughs at the comical raillery;
When he struts, such embargoes are laid on his motion.
You'd swear he was costive, and wanted a potion;
Or a catholic sinner, whose penance decrees
He should walk for a month, with his shoes full of peas:
Melpomene surely would scold, could she find him,
For leaving his breeches—so often behind him!

Mrs. WILSON.

Tripping light o'er the ground, see gay Wilson advancing,
Like the suite of the Morning, which Guido drew dancing;
Or the dimpl'd Euphrosyne, arm'd in her eyes,
Or a Parthian huntress, who wounds as she flies.
She bursts on mankind like the type of Good Humour,
And her smiles have a spell that can regulate Rumour:

So archly she looks, and so beauteous her face is,
Like Venus escap'd from the hands of the Graces.
Such Wilson now is, by the wanton loves led,
Such B---y once was, ere her innocence fled.
Behold that frail fair, how depress'd and dejected,
By a Public despis'd, by that Public neglected;
Tho' her face wears a smile, the sad effort of art,
The light Troop of Gladness have long fled her heart;
In which chilly Misery ever will mourn,
And pant for that peace which must never return.—
No roses remain, the fond wish to inflame,
Except when her cheek is suffus'd by her shame.
Her husband's pale manes obtrude on her slumbers,
And point out his mission in Fate's awful numbers;
'Till, madd'ning with woe, and, from happiness driv'n,
She turns from her vices to supplicate Heaven!

Ye daughters of Beauty, to worth be inclin'd,
Preserve your importance, and brighten mankind;
Be taught by example, ye cannot be blest,
If Virtue withdraws her sweet beams from the breast;
That the wiles of Seduction are meant to destroy,
And extinguish that lamp which should light us to joy!

How serenely sits Innocence, heaven-born maid!
With the precepts of angels her mind is array'd;
She guides her calm being, unconscious of strife,
And smiles as the Fates cut the thread of her life:
The last sighs of Virtue are Nature's great pride,
They turn the fell dart, fraught with sorrow, aside;

The pangs of Mortality sink in the ablution,
They triumph o'er Death in the bright dissolution.
Tho' Want's pallid arm the faint victim incloses,
Her faith in her God strews her pillow with roses;
Her spirit ascends o'er the bourn of her mind,
And leaves the base dregs of existence behind.

Mr. WILLIAMES.

To Decency dear, and, to Merit long known,
See Williames advance to Calliope's throne;
Tho' the tones of his voice are restrain'd within bounds,
They form a sweet concord of heavenly sounds:
If to greatness unequal, each essay prevails,
For his diffidence aids where ability fails,
As encircl'd he stood in the temple of Fame,
'Twas himself that alone had a doubt of his claim.

Mr. SUETT.

What gaunt youth is that who encounters the sight,
'Tis Suett, equipt as the Clown in Twelfth Night;

With front unabash'd thus Presumption begins;
Thus asses of old have assum'd lions' skins.

Go, ask why that Folly should thus be his debtor,
The argument's us'd, that they can't find a better;
Thus scarceness gives value to dirt and mundungus,
And dignifies that Nature meant as a fungus;
It etchings enhances, like Baillies and Hollars,
It currency gave to American Dollars;
But, their day being o'er, and, the exigence past,
To their primitive meanness they all sink at last;
And their names, and the phantom they toil'd to pursue,
In pity Oblivion hides from our view.
But fungus and filth has its uses and buyers,
Hence oceans of urine are purchas'd by dyers;
And lawyers, who liv'd but to generate strife,
May serve when they're dead for th' Anatomist's knife.

Mr. BARRYMORE.

With arms close enfolded, and gigantic stride,
Denoting ill manners, defiance, and pride,
Who's that strutting round like a Tragedy king;
Do you know, my sweet sister, the confident thing?

—See! he's coming this way!—and, my stars, how he lours,
Have you no apt exorcism to fetter his pow'rs?
He surely will eat us—Ah me! what vain fears,
'Tis Barrymore, Sister, I see the man's ears.

To the altars of Modesty, fly, thou vain youth!
And survey thy deserts in the mirror of Truth;
Clear the filth from your brain, and adhere to the poet,
For there's worth hid beneath, tho' the public don't know it.

Such once were my thoughts, but those thoughts are no more,
His wit slew his weakness, his follies are o'er;
The strength of his mind wrought a lively conception,
And each hour that rolls leads the man to Perfection.
Thus Albion's fifth Harry, whose weakness amaz'd;
Dropt the habits of guilt and illustriously blaz'd:
And gave added charms to that name he'd neglected,
By paying a debt that was never expected.

Mr. WRIGHT.

Who's that looks so fiercely! oh, I ken the wight,
'Tis the drama's Drawcansir, the bold Roger Wright!
Have you no work cut out, that you let him thus roam?
In a Bailiff or Murderer, Roger's at home:
Tho' 'tis known from the first he has constantly fled,
And murders in jest, but—to get himself bread;
He often damns bailiffs; for Roger hates law;
And the dagger his feelings will scarce let him draw.
Hard case! when an actor is destin'd to play,
In parts were antipathies block up his way:
But nothing should stop the career of ambition,
Tho' Fate open'd wide the black gates of Perdition!

Alas! who'd imagine good acting was rare,
When every Whipster can thus be a Play'r?
—The science of acting from Nature requires
A genius that knows all her force and her fires;
A classical, polish'd, and well-govern'd mind,
A taste that's correct, boundless, good, and refin'd;
Endowments that seldom are met with in men,
But, like comets, just blaze on the world now and then.

Yet none are alarm'd at so great an assumption;
For Folly has ever been mark'd by presumption.
But touch'd by the dog-star he'll bellow self-pleas'd,
With incontinent rant, and a mind that's diseas'd;
Like Icarus madly he soars to the sun,
'Till his wings melt in air, and the man is undone.
Even Lords and young spinsters of Elegance strive,
Who shall wear the sock best and keep Laughter alive.

Like the wheels of a watch is the actor's estate,
Where the small have their motion impell'd by the great;
And each must fulfill the intent of his station,
And make up a whole—by progressive gradation.

Mrs. LOVE.

Depress'd by stern Time, see poor Love make her way,
And, spurning the tyrant, affect to look gay:

In Dorcas she still can administer pleasure,
And shines in old women a dramatic treasure;
Besides, as a vet'ran, poor Love has a claim
To draw on Compassion, if not upon Fame.

Mr. R. PALMER.

Here's Palmer the younger, so trim, pert, and nice,
I pray give the hero—a piece of advice:
Let him strive all he can to avoid imitation;
And forget on the stage he e'er had a relation;
'Tis highly disgusting, beholding one brother
Exhibit, with pride, all the faults of the other.
Besides, he's too apt to survey the green boxes,
For his porter-fraught friends, and his cheek-painted doxies.
—Of all other follies, this sure's most absurd,
Not to list to the scene, and to feel every word.
Some strokes shew his mind is not mark'd by sterility,
His Prompt proves the Actor has great capability.

********

What monster is this, who alarms the beholders,
With Folly and Infamy perch'd on his shoulders;
Whom hallow'd Religion is lab'ring to save,
Ere Sin and Disease goad the wretch to his grave,
'Tis ---! Alas, Nature starts at the name;
And trembles with horror, and reddens with shame!
Like the Ocean which weeps, when the tempests allay'd,
She shudders to look on the work she has made.
I marvel that God does not open the place,
To ingulph him, like Corah, and all his foul race.

In their hate of his principles, all are agreeing,
And the fruit of his loins curse the cause of their being.
Like a pestilent breeze, he infects these sad times,
A vile abstract of hell, and Italia's crimes!
See Justice offended, exhibits a halter;
And the crucifix shakes as he crawls to the altar:
E'en Angels drop tears in such habits to find him:
As he throws Retribution with horror behind him.
When his soul disembogues each infernal transgression,
Sweet Mercy revolts at the sable confession.
And Honour and Truth form a strong combination
To kick such a miscreant thro' the creation.
Lo! Eternity's paths he with terror explores,
As dæmons look up from sulphureous shores:
While Tartarean bards chaunt the caitiff's encomium,
And Satan sits hunger'd in deep Pandemonium.

His touch is contagious and preys on our sanity,
Offensive to life, and abhorr'd by humanity.
Like the plague-fraught embrace of a foul Alepponian,
Or the incrusted glove of a sick Caledonian;
It nips Virtue's bud, like the winds from the east,
Or Circe's fell wand, turns the fool to a beast:
Or that hot-bed of vagabonds, rais'd on the breast
Of fallen Britannia, to sing her to rest;
Where anticks Discretion can kick till she winces,
And rascal castratos strut prouder than princes:
Where Countesses fight, to kiss sapless Tenducci;
Or tie on the sandals of black Catenucci.

Is it wond'rous that you such antipathy see,
When the tyrant to Virtue's a tyrant to me?
Go, shew me the den where a scoundrel's confin'd,
I'll strike his black heart, and unnerve his base mind;
I'll goad him thro' life with the rod of Correction,
Till his scull pendant locks shall turn grey with reflection;
From the arm of a Titan I'd tear him elate,
Tho' guarded by all the artillery of Fate:
If I quit him, may Peace and my penitence sever;
And the smiles of Omnipotence leave me for ever.

It boots not with me if his infamous darings
Are hid by a star, or armorial bearings:

As Gregory made the proud Emperor wait,
Bare-footed and cold, at Canusium's gate;
E'en thus shall the haughty bend low at my nod,
Confess their allegiance, and honour my rod.

Nefarious island! oh, besotted nation!
Where Folly, to Vice, runs in studied gradation.
See Guilt on the judgment seat, mark'd by pollution,
To watch the degrees of a mean prosecution;
To determine the outlines of right and of wrong,
As manacled Honour is led thro' the throng;
To meet cunning Sophistry's wily position,
And the half famish'd sons of illicit Ambition.

Say, who shall be bless'd, if a Howard's unsainted!
Say, who is unsullied, if Curtius is tainted!
But his worth, like true gold, from the chemical fire,
Will rise less alloy'd, and be valu'd the higher;
And the lie of the moment, which Malice had sign'd,
Sweet Truth shall expunge from the national mind:
As the lion, awak'ning on Nemea's plain,
Indignant shakes off the dank dew from his mane.

The detested miscreant personified in this description, read his portrait, reflected, and expired.

A Visionary Episode.

High rais'd o'er the rest, see meek Janus exalted,
Who ne'er, from the whisp'rings of Conscience, defaulted:
Tho' patriot antipathies drove the keen wight
From the luminous realms of political light;
The vile impositions imbib'd in his youth,
Were effac'd by the impulse of heavenly Truth;

No spark of intrigue, from Saint Omer's remains,
To light that evasion which sleeps in his veins;
And 'tis shameful to call him, or vile, or rapacious,
Who hates all the race, from C---s F*x to Ignatius.

To strengthen his schemes in the bless'd occupation,
Moll Brooks offer'd Pam a high-season'd oblation,
Composed of odd remnants, with nice circumspection,
That the dice had long levell'd in social connection:
A maudlin young Peer, in a gloomy immersion;
A Judge, with the seals of the land—in reversion;
An eminent Rascal, who'd trod round the laws;
A Play-wright, who lost his best wits by applause;
A Captain, deep laden with jokes from Joe Miller,
A Duke, undisturb'd by one penny of siller:
A right honour'd Scoundrel, who liv'd to debase
Those old-fashion'd virtues, which govern'd his race;
A Surgeon, once wont to be-rhime o'er his beer;
A specious Attorney, and dull Pamphleteer:
A Lord who gave Hymen a fete Prudence dreaded,
'Tho he tift with his wife ere the parties were bedded;
A Parson, who ne'er from his vices retreated;
A tactick-taught General, nine times defeated;
A Patriot, red-hot from the bogs of Ierne,
A Caitiff, who stole all his groats from Lord V---y;
A Col'nel, who ne'er was, by blushing, confounded;
Who bounces, like Falstaff, of men he ne'er wounded;
And embryo Statesmen, in scores did exhibit;
And Gamesters, just snatch'd from th' insatiate gibbet;

And S---th the despondent, not bless'd with a stiver,
Who lost all his joys, like a true Scavoir vivre;
From the columns of smoke issu'd halters unnoos'd,
Bloody hands, writs, and coronets, dim and confus'd.

The tott'ring old Sybil, the off'ring prepares,
And adds to the force her immaculate pray'rs;
With combustible vice fill'd the yawning tripod,
And augur'd success from the smiles of the god:
Then the work was complete, that the fiend meant to win him,
And the chief felt the sting of the mania within him:
Like a methodist foaming, he rav'd thro' the earth,
And bellow'd its comforts, and own'd the new birth;
Caught the semblance of Plutus, by Moll's sable art,
And the sight brac'd those nerves which had sunk round his heart!

Thus fir'd, adroitly his subject he changes,
And o'er the wide fields of Sublimity ranges,
Flies off at a tangent, talks long, and talks loud,
His feet in Saint Stephen's, his head in a cloud;
There he licks with his tongue in each labour'd essay,
Not Blarney's fam'd stone, but the smooth milky way.
How piteous! that Fury should ever step in,
To madden his song, when he lacerates Sin!
Rehearsing the theme of the Minister's duties,
He sings of his weakness in metaphor beauties;
And, arming his periods with soft necromancy,
Gives one to the point, and nineteen to the—Fancy.

Mr. WRIGHTEN.

Oh, oh! my friend Wrighten, is he in the cluster?
I soon can find him, by his bouncing and bluster;
Tho' he clips Common Sense, with a mouthful of plums,
By the aid of his wife he can butter his crums;
Not having the fear of remorse 'fore his eyes,
Poor Nature incessantly stabs till she dies;
And murders Heroics, and storms at their death;
Then runs round the stage—to recover his breath:
And, wonderful! growls, if he gets not applause;
Tho' he violates Reason, and treads on her laws.

Mr. STAUNTON.

What animal's this! like the daw in his plumes?
Is it Staunton who thus on your presence presumes?
What the Deuce was it thrust such a man in Or sino?
He's as far from the truth as Pall Mall from Urbino.
See, his essays have made poor Propriety puke,
And the best we can say is—he makes a rum duke.

I pity poor Cranford, and Tidswell, and Burnet,
While the nymphs chew an oath, when they dare not return it:
It hurts me to see radiant beauty like their's,
Devoted to watch the caprice of high play'rs;
As skirtings of worth, like your mundungus wrappers,
The refuse of vagrants, and stage understrappers.
Let the Ladies quit trade, like prudential Maskins,
And mend, in a corner, the king's galligaskins:

By rigid economy gather small riches,
Or darn up a rent in Prince Prettyman's breeches;
Or kiss the young Roscius who snores on a pallet;
Or dress, without oil, the salubrious sallet;
And hot mutton chop, reeking, crisp, sweet and versal,
To solace poor Tom when he comes from rehearsal.

Let the group that remain all recede in a throng;
And, 'tis well for their jackets, their claims are unsung:
Besides, there's not one of the Parnassian Muses,
But smiles to such earthenware beings refuses:
As well might train-bands claim a knowledge of arms,
As caitiffs like those, but to look on their charms:
Tho' their clamours oft bring their good humour to trial,
For, like hungry duns, they'll accept no denial,
But hang round their gates, while by strength they are able,
And feed on the offals that fall from their table.
It has long been a maxim upheld beyond doubt,
Where nothing is in, nothing e'er can come out;
To animadvert on the claims of such men,
Were to prostitute Candour, as well as the pen.

Alas! did kind Nature permit them to feel;
'Twould be cruel such insects to break on the wheel:
Thus like stinted grass on the plain's vernal bed,
The sharp scythe of Judgment flies over their head.
While the tempest's keen rage is dismant'ling the tow'r,
The cot of humility's safe from its pow'r.

Then go, ye base tribe, read the decalogue o'er,
Retreat to your sheds, and, be varlets no more:

Thank the gods, that your state has protected your shins;
Chaunt your vespers in peace, and, go sleep in whole skins;
Nor utter, despondent, that Satire will flay us,
For Hercules wars but with men like Antæus!

END OF PART FIRST.

xcvii

2. SECOND PART.

[_]

[FIRST PUBLISHED IN 1787.]

TO WARREN HASTINGS, Esq.

107

Tho' enrag'd and revil'd, the old Dowager Drury
Reflected and smil'd, as she fetter'd her fury:
Nor sought by base taunts to condemn or deride,
For her Wit and her Years had corrected her pride:
But feeling compassion, imbitter'd with woe,
Thus bade the sweet streams of experience flow:

Of old, when young ladies offended good manners,
Their peers left their elbows, the men fled their banners;
But, thanks to the impulse of high-born refinement,
Each spinster now laughs at the chains of confinement:
No parents are lab'ring by coercive measures
To fashion the thought, or give laws to their pleasures,
Hence daily the torments Propriety feels,
As tittering girls tread on Decency's heels.—
When I was a virgin, young, callow, and bland,
Then Wisdom and Prudence were known in the land;

108

The girls of that æra were beauteous and good,
And drank no French wines to give warmth to their blood:
They knew not the magic that lurks 'neath a sigh,
But trembled at Folly, and blush'd at a lie;
Tho' men were more willing, and husbands more plenty,
We thought not of love 'till at least five and twenty:
But now every minx, when she gets in her teens,
Well knows what the mystical union means,
Rejects the advice of her elders with scorn,
And loves and coquets ere her passions are born.

But, a truce with resentment, our failings we'll smother,
Nor kindle a flame to consume but—each other;
As our interests are mutual, we'll bury our rage,
And strive to restore Common Sense to the stage;
As the Nymph has been banish'd by sturdy Pollution,
Be it ours to raise a renown'd revolution.—

As the kings of the drama Apollo reviews,
He pities mankind, and he mourns for each muse;
From such an assemblage of dolts and deformity,
Can aught be expected but ills and enormity?
Alas! that such follies should riot unchain'd,
Or Ideots rule where a Titus has reign'd:
To shew their base splendor in Reason's despight,
And annoy human kind, they rush forth to the light;
Like the bird of Minerva at Sol's torrid rays,
'Till their sense is oppress'd, and they wink at the blaze:
Thus Pride draws them on, as the scent leads the beagle,
While Scorn draws a line 'twixt the owl and the eagle.

109

Mr. SHERIDAN.

The Fates warr'd with Reason when Sheridan rose
From Hibernian loins to correct human woes;
Then Pallas obey'd the command of her sire,
And touch'd his young brain with Athenian fire;
The Pierian maids led the youth in despite
To the hill of Parnassus and font of delight,
Where Phœbus his dogmas was wont to rehearse,
And shew'd him the force and the features of verse;

110

Fed his mind with large draughts from their translucent spring,
And taught him those arts which made Sophocles sing—
Tho' a one-headed Cerberus, he's destin'd by Fate
To watch o'er the int'rests of drama and state;
Now Policy, hideous witch, wakes her charms,
To woo the equivocal wight to her arms;
And to cheat the fine sense of her retrograde suitor,
Deceives him with shadows, and points to the future:
Now the Muse spreads, like Phryne, her arts of seduction,
And urges poor Dick for a comic production;
Now he writes bitter anti-amicable hints,
For the Premier's good, in the scandalous prints;
Then fabricates odes for the mad and the stupid,
Then strings pretty verses for Emma Crewe's Cupid,
And lives but a sorrowful standard at best
To prove Genius a bubble, and Wisdom a jest;
A Cameleon statesman, endued with strange powers
To seize every hue, and those hues at all hours;
With talents that call'd human kind to admire,
With morals that slew the behest of his sire;
Like an Epicæne animal form'd for deception,
His worth is an instance that staggers perception.
What he is, or is not, is a point in dispute,
Propose what you will, and 'tis Brinsley can do't:
So fit for all things, yet, alas! fit for none,
Continually doing, yet always undone;
So beckon'd by Hope, yet by Hope so oft cheated,
For ever contending, yet ever defeated;

111

By much too sincere for a good politician,
Too eccentric to make a sound mathematician;
Too proud for attendance, too vain to beseech,
Too poor to be happy, too candid to preach:
Thus he swims in a strange indeterminate mean,
Neither hallow'd nor damn'd, but betwixt and between.
When Genius essays to effect his conversion,
Attachments obtrude and defeat the exertion;
Tho' Satire has arm'd him to regulate men,
Young Gratitude draws all the ink from his pen.
If to lacerate Folly he wings the keen dart,
It wounds his best friend in the core of his heart;
If levelling at vice he his archery tries,
By the arrow transfix'd an ex-minister dies,
His fancy's blythe sports o'er our faculties steal,
All poignant as Congreve, as Horace genteel;
But viewing those tablets inwove in his will,
Like the Sybil's black leaves they predict embrio ill,
And his fruitless attemps to make ideots wise,
Resembles Domitian pursuing his flies,
Or stern Dionysius correcting his boys,
Or Britain's Elizabeth sporting with toys.
Like a truant to Fame he has fled from his duty,
To give varlets respect and gaunt Faction a beauty,
His sensible heart seem'd, when Excellence found it,
Like Hermes' Cadeuceus, with reptiles clung round it;
For his manners are spoil'd by the limbs of inferno,
Like Arethuse streams in the lake of Averno;

112

Could critical Alchymy mend such base elves,
I'd place their vile dross on Truth's high-valued shelves,
Tho' my deeds, like Caligula's arts, might be crost,
Who, intent to make gold, moan'd the time he had lost;
For Wit and Discretion in amity bound,
Like the circle's quadrature, will never be found.
Generosity's seen on each eye-brow depicted,
His ideas are vast, yet his purse is restricted.
Tho' a minion of Onus he passes his hours
In feats that dishonour his limitless powers,
Defiling the page of loud Rumour with fears
That a chief may have err'd in twice seventeen years.
Like Sallust he's brilliant, and both shone as senators,
Tho' neither by living uprais'd their progenitors.
His brain, like the library of fam'd Pisistratus,
Is so laden with wit we can find no hiatus;
Like Israel's foul children, for Ruin ne'er spar'd him,
He ran from that Canaan which Phœbus prepar'd him.
Fascination with all her best witch'ries has clad him,
For he ne'er ask'd a friend but in asking he had him:
He dignified tumults Expedience made,
And seems, like the lion, superior to aid,
As inordinate gorging at Obloquy's feasts,
Where, alas! he's but first mid confederate beasts,
He speaks to illumine, sublime, and surprise,
As Columbus taught Indians the laws of the skies,
While the national crowds round the wanderer ran
In doubt if the alien was God or a man;

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Tho' Sophistry partially darkens the way,
He beams like the sun, and creates his own day;
Foul Tergiversation shall fashion his history,
For his life, like the Pentateuch's, mark'd by its mystery,
Like the rock-striking Hebrew he marshals his throng,
But the force of his amulet lives in his song.
When he visited Fortune, the wench most uncivil,
Sent him and his suite to Charles Fox or the Devil:
He wept, he beseech'd, he bemoan'd, he lamented,
Till, chill'd by her mien, left the house discontented.
Thus Dick is oppress'd in his efforts to court her,
For the nymph shuts her gates and he can't bribe the porter.
'Tis said that she once lov'd the indirect youth
Ere polluted associates had led him from Truth;
She saw him deluded, and pitied his blindness,
And sooth'd him with smiles, and embrac'd him with kindness;
But he, like a dolt, with her quiet disported,
Abus'd her remonstrance, and scoff'd when she courted;
Till stung and enrag'd, hopeless, mad, and forlorn,
The dignified wench felt the pressure of scorn,
And imbibing that hatred the dramatist taught her,
Consign'd the proud fool to the care of her daughter;
For as ladies forgive not contemptuous slights,
She frowns on his toils if he speaks or indites;
Pre-damns all his essays in verse and in prose,
And yields him a victim to merciless foes:

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Created to live in Society's school
As the mark of perfection, and bane of a fool;
It mads me to see such superlative merit
Metamorphos'd by Pride to a petulant ferret,
Which Fox drags about with a sinister chain,
To drive the political rats from the grain.
Unfortunate Charles! once the inmate of Glory;
Tho' now he's illustrious only in story,
All his splendour's absorb'd by the Minister's ray,
Thus the grandeur of Memphis gave Thebes to Decay.
Thus Satan lay writhing when Michael trod o'er him,
As demons in clusters crept round to deplore him!

The sceptre of Drury has known many masters,
Like the throne of Warsaw, it seems fraught with disasters;
In all points of government weak and defective;
But that realm must decay where the crown is elective;
When brainless musicians can figure in story,
And, like David Rizzo, debase regal glory.

Mrs. ABINGTON.

Led on by Thalia, with dignified mien,
Behold sportive Fashion's superlative queen!
Illustrious Abington stampt at her birth
The touchstone of splendor, and daughter of Mirth;

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A barrier which Elegance rais'd in our days,
To stop the wild progress of barbarous ways;
Like the Belgian dykes, all their force to withstand,
And shut out their ruinous streams from the land.
This nymph, all abundant, has Science supply'd,
For, when God gave her atoms, he gave them with pride;

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And, her frame holds a heart of the noblest texture,
Where Virtue retir'd when Infamy vext her:
As the Phœnix creates when the Phœnix expires,
Thus Abington issued from Woffington's fires!

117

Ere Taste can establish her motley dominion,
She resorts to gay Frances to know her opinion,
And supplicates Abington every season,
For her smiles, as a passport, to visit our reason.

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Like a pine, tall and straight, she approaches the skies,
But her height awakes Envy to question her size,
And subjects her form to each poisonous gale
Which escapes the low brambles that creep in the vale.
Like the moon in her orb, she diffuses her light,
To emblazon the scene, and give Beauty to sight;
As venomous reptiles antipathis'd gaze,
And yelp at her splendor, tho' lit by her rays,
But, untouch'd by their breath, of her honors unshorn,
She smiles on their malice with dignified scorn;
That heave of her bosom sweet Sympathy taught,
When Pity assum'd the command of her thought,
And with tender conceits did its tablet impress,
Which lead her to Want, and, when led, bid her bless;
'Tis then that her acting vast benefit draws,
Where the wretched and heaven alone give applause!

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That bard's doubly blest in Elysium's gay bowers,
Whose wit-woven scenes are illum'd by her powers:
There Congreve beholds, proud, elate, and delighted,
New graces beyond what his pen has indited:
Then his wit, like some knives in the Birmingham trade,
Is valued much more for the handle than blade;
And her system of sense makes so pleasing a whole,
That her mind seems divine, and her body all soul.
In arch Estifania, by thinking refin'd,
She moves and attempers the springs of the mind,

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Gives new point to the jest, as it flies on the wing,
Adds force to its vigour, and sharpens its sting.
She spreads comic salt o'er her moods and her tenses,
Which, like spices in soup, hide the meat from our senses;
But our lips hail with rapture such pleasant expedients,
And smack, and re-smack, with the zest of ingredients.
In prating Soubrettes she defies competition;
In the broad paths of fashion adds ease to condition.
From the gay, well-bred Charlotte, in Cibber's light page,
To the pert Roxalana, that gladdens the stage;
From the high-seasoned slices of Beaumont's sirloin,
To the witless bon mots of the studious Burgoyne.
When she sinks into Phillis, her high-polish'd mind,
Seems crampt, and coerc'd, and debas'd, and confin'd:
Like a valuable pearl in the womb of an oyster,
Or Madame Victoire in the cells of a cloister;
Or Alfred when eating his soup with a hind,
Contracting the scale of his patriot mind,

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To hide from the peasant his cares and his crosses;
Or thundering Jove when the guest of poor Baucis:
Or Apollo when scoff'd by the base-born Damætas,
Or the pimp of the skies, when the herd of Admetus.

She gracefully trips on Propriety's toe,
And walks, talks, and triumphs at will comme il faut;
The bosom of Feeling with truth she impresses,
And steals all our senses; but, stealing them, blesses.
Like a wond'rous magician she sports with our being,
And turns into doubt e'en the act that we're seeing;
With poignant impertinence marks her whole face,
And says brilliant nothings with infinite grace!

The vigils of Falshood, and all her base train,
Have fail'd to embitter her moments with pain;
Array'd with the armour of Peace round her heart,
She smiles at Contumely's venomous dart;
Shakes the habits of Hatred with scorn from her mind,
And like Taurus' high forehead looks down on mankind.

It is her's to correct the ill humours of Pride,
And bid all the channels of Weakness subside;
As Virtue's chief minion to blazon her cause,
Enforce her behest, and promulgate her laws.
Like Saint Raphael's gay tints, when he portray'd a story,
Her toils touch the summit of sublunar glory;
Like Sweden's Christina, her honor'd existence,
Has nerv'd female worth against critic resistance:
As Servius Tullus, the flame of Ambition,
Lick'd the nymph when a child, and sublim'd her condition.

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Irresistible Fate, to her character kind,
But steals from her dimples—to add to her mind;
If her beauties recede, yet shall Envy confess,
That to brighten the greater he takes from the less:
So governing Jove calls the streams into motion,
And empties the river, to strengthen the ocean,
Like Ninon de l'Enclos, this elegant dame,
Can charm human-kind by her wit or her frame;
She gracefully parries the evils of Time,
And, the older she grows, is the more in her prime;
For Merit shall court her, and Foplings implore,
When her ringlets are ting'd with the dyes of threescore.

Mrs. CRAWFORD.

In the caves of Neglect see poor Crawford retir'd,
To end a frail being, abridg'd and bemir'd;
Lo! her time-whiten'd head is disrob'd of those bays,
Which solac'd and warm'd her in happier days;

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See the violets droop that once sweeten'd the air,
And the yews mark the place as the den of Despair;
For briars and thorns every avenue closes,
That Nature once dress'd with her myrtles and roses.
Say, what was the cause that, destroying her powers,
Made life's chilly evening imbitter her hours!
It was ill-tim'd Desire gave birth to her pains,
And govern'd the Woman, and liv'd in her veins;
Betray'd her to Sorrow and fell Desperation,
And shook, like an earthquake, her high reputation.
To tell what she was, but offends recollection,
To tell what she is, gives a wound to affection.
Even History shrinks when decreed to portray,
The last hapless moments when Swift met decay;
By the force of free agency Crawford has pin'd,
And, the pressure of Wit cut off Swift from mankind;
Tho' both have been tortur'd by Misery's rod,
The first sunk by Folly, the last by his God.

In the whirlwind of Passion, tho' furious and warm,
The force of her judgment gave laws to the storm;
She rov'd the dominions of human ability,
But stopt on the verge, ere she pass'd possibility:
In piteous Euphrasia she issued her moan,
'Till Melpomene trembled, and wept on her throne;
Commanded the suite of Despair in her face,
And murder'd the tyrant with terrible Grace;
Tho' Siddons' high majesty knew not her mind,
Her action was excellent, just, and refin'd;
With the numbers of Otway extorted our groans,
And wonderful Harmony breath'd in her tones.

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The Siddons, convuls'd with the cause of her sadness,
Made the plaints of the heroine border on madness;
And summon'd Amazement in each studied start,
But Crawford effectually wounded the heart!
The first knock'd its centinels down by surprise,
The last gain'd admittance by—pathos and sighs;
And play'd 'till the tremors increas'd in gradation,
And the frame was an organ of tender vibration;
All the pulses accorded with cold unanimity,
And the nerves carried woe to the fingers' extremity.
Her name was once mighty, e'en still 'tis remember'd,
But the thing and idea are widely dismember'd;
On the historic page it is wond'rously seen,
In the grasp of the eye 'tis weak, shallow, and mean;
By the past and the present wise dogmas are taught,
Like the Tyber in act, and the Tyber in thought.

This nymph never learn'd, by cold Policy bound,
To measure her periods, and weigh ev'ry sound;
But, disdaining the aids of an artful pretence,
Gave Nature the rein, and a loose to her sense;
The meand'rings where subtilty toils after woe,
And the deep from whence classical rivulets flow;
She left for those daughters of Judgment to stem,
Who for Genius substitute fustian and phlegm.
Energetic and dignified, beauteous and charming,
Impressive, impassion'd, or chilling, or warming:
The grave Penseroso bent low to adore her,
And Love and Allegro with joy danc'd before her.

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Tho' her scenic exertions the eye met so gladly,
No theatric nymph drest her person so badly;
Be it mantua, or toga, or cestus, or lace,
'Twas absurdity all, from her heels to her face.

In a moment, when Vehemence fir'd her age,
A florid adventurer tickled her rage;
Like Eve, warm and panting, she met the temptation,
And, laughing, resign'd all her hopes of salvation.

Turn your fancy to Scotia, where rigorous snows
Envelope her rocks, and stern Eolus blows;
There Baddely sleeps on Mortality's bier,
Whose pallid remains claim the kindred tear:
Emaciate and squalid her body is laid,
Her limbs lacking shelter, her muscles decay'd.
Cadaverous, fœtid, despis'd, and deform'd,
Unmantled, scarce pitied, unstrung, and unwarm'd:
An eminent instance of feminine terror,
A public example to keep us from error:

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Voluptuous Bacchants have wept round her pillow,
And strew'd her cold temples with cypress and willow;
The train of Euphrosyne ran from their bowers,
And smooth'd the green turf, and bewail'd her last hours;
See Pan with his rugged libidinous throng,
Bring their reeds to awaken a requiem song:
'Till their lays fright the tenants that gladden the sky,
And the vales of Arcadia in murmurs reply.—

What a lesson is this for the beauteous and vain!
What a beacon to light the abysses of pain!—
Can those be the eyes that once sparkled with fire,
Which Splendor might envy, and Monarchs admire?
Ere the Nymph of her virginal zone was disarm'd,
She look'd and enraptur'd, she spoke and she charm'd;
Unmoan'd by the Worthy, she shudder'd and died,
And the worms loath a frame for which Majesty sigh'd.
—Oh Passion! that ever to weakness inclines,
Thou exquisite tyrant, who damns our designs;
Say, why should you shut us from Fear and Contrition,
Or lead such frail beings from Peace to Perdition!
Can the conquest be envied as hallow'd or glorious,
When angels deplore that the sense is victorious!
Ah me! can this world have a charm for the will,
To justify Guilt in an action of ill?
Should a state so restricted, unblest and uneven,
Impel us to combat the canons of Heaven?
Tho' cherub-fac'd Vice hides a moral infernal,
Her joys are but transient, her stings are eternal.

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But when shall we see female prudence have birth,
To set such a price as they ought on their worth?
When Bamber Gascoyne eats a hare without stuffing,
Or Walcot or Pratt write a treatise 'gainst puffing;
When Gordon's fatigu'd with sedition-fraught clamour,
When simpering Christie pollutes his white hammer:
When Brocklesby's language becomes insincere,
Or he cheats human woe of his purse and a tear.

Mr. MACKLIN.

Revere sturdy Macklin, the dramatic sire,
For nor age nor disease can extinguish his fire;
Like an evergreen sent, as a rare vernal treasure,
Tho' he blooms all the year, all the year gives us pleasure;

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Innately convinc'd of his strength and capacity,
Like a giant mid pigmies, he crushes Audacity;
For pigmies in knowledge this Nestor will deem us,
And roars and corrects like a stage Polyphemus;
Tells the younglings how Roscius excell'd but by rule,
Chalks the outlines of Truth, and defends the old School.

When Macklin was form'd, the Almighty intended,
Human clay with empyreal air should be blended;
Disportive he laughs at the toils of the day,
And doubts if our senses were made to decay:
See rejuvenated and blythsome he stands,
With the drama, as God held the seas in his hands;
If Envy could wield th' artillery of Fate,
He'd still be triumphant, and dare to be great.
Surrounded by shrubs on the theatric bed,
The veteran raises his laurel-bound head;
Like the oak of the forest, he lifts his stern form,
With the brow of a monarch, and smiles at the storm;
Unriv'd by the thunder of Malice or Meanness,
He still is majestic, tho' robb'd of his greenness;
And wounded by many a critical scar,
Like the tempest-torn hulk of an old Man of War.

With singular faculties blest and endued,
The interests of Honor he mark'd and pursued;
For Fate to his wishes indulgently kind,
Infus'd an additional beam in his mind;
Made his ideas vast, comprehensive and clear,
His manners august, and his language sincere;

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He foster'd his aims with particular pride,
As ductile Philosophy walk'd by his side;
The elegant Sciences marshall'd his rage,
And Wit and Vivacity brighten'd his page.
Like brilliant Saint Evremond, lively and gay,
He laughs as the streams of his life flow away;
Illustrates our worth in a being well spent,
And, searching for Truth, gathers bliss and content;
In the niches of second Adolescence plac'd,
By the finger of Heaven his system's new brac'd;
And well he's fulfill'd the intent of the plan,
Who was meant by his God as—the type of a man.
In blood-thirsty Shylock, sublimely infernal,
He bares ghastly Vice, and exposes the kernel;
And so well clears the texts of the moralist's pen,
That the head asks the heart if such villains are men:
So perfect the Actor can damn and dissemble,
Could Shakespeare behold him, e'en Shakespeare would tremble.
Like the Eddystone pillar, his excellence braves
The rude dashing foam of the critical waves;
Uprais'd on a rock for the general good,
To guide the weak bark thro' the dangerous flood;
As his head firm and giddiless keeps its high station,
Emitting new lights on the stage navigation.

Ere he means to resign him to Death's awful sleep,
In the year eighteen hundred he'll first take a peep;
To prune each excrescence of Vice from the nation,
And fix the pursuits of a young generation;

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Introduce them to Fame, shew the false from the true,
And then to the World and its jars bid adieu.

Superior to censure the veteran wrote;
But Censors are things that but cavil and quote;
They torture the truth like the essays of Beattie,
Or Statesmen defining the Methuen treaty;
Hence Shakespeare is mangled by weak commentators,
Who gore his fine form like absurd nomenclators;
And many a blockhead, who breathes but to steal,
Adheres to his name like the fly on the wheel.

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They affix to each page a dull marginal note,
And expound on a text which the bard—never wrote.
But Pride governs all; in their various ways,
'Tis the prejudice speaks, and the prejudice sways:
Men argue and write, as French cooks make their dishes;
And blend fact with falshood, to compass their wishes.

Mr. HOLMAN.

Possessing a clear and a capable head,
With the mien of a gentleman, gay and well-bred;
See Holman quit Science, who calls veni Domine,
To embrace, with young vigour, the charms of Melpomene.
From the fam'd banks of Isis this eleve has stray'd,
To pay his devoirs to the tragical maid;
To forego the dull page of the classical schools,
And enlist in the Drama, and bend to its rules;
Tho' sapient Philosophy thrice call'd his name,
He shut up his ears, and walk'd onward to Fame;

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The deeds of romance fill'd a niche in his brain,
And Hesiod and Eschylus pleaded in vain:
Theology wept o'er his youthful endeavour,
As he left her ador'd Alma Mater for ever.
When Worth call'd him forth to the paths of Contrition,
He experienc'd the joys and the ills of Ambition;
The phantoms of Honour crept round to seduce him,
The offspring of Envy to crush and traduce him:
To the first all the fire of youth gave the rein,
To the last all the traits of the man spoke disdain.

Would he seek for the avenues leading to glory,
That his name might irradiate a theatric story;
He should walk in the path of judicious gradation,
Arranging his passion in subordination:
But the toil will be great, as his genius is such,
Which impels him to give, or too little, or much;
'Tis shackled by obstacles, monstrous, tho' bold,
Intolerant heat, and unnatural cold;
For there are who possess contradictory souls,
High-fraught with the temper of opposite poles.
Bid him seek gentle Nature, unravel her schemes,
For the path of Propriety severs extremes:
She is young, gay, and beautiful, constant, and kind:
Bid him list to her lays, and illumine his mind:
No schismatic dogmas will fall from her tongue,
Impotently grave, or vindictively wrong.
The eloquent lessons that Nature will sing,
Refresh like the Zephyrs, and glad like the Spring.—

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When Roscius first honour'd old Albion's stage,
To dignify mirth, and give reason to rage;
He sought for the nymph, in her sacred cell,
To marshall his thought, and be bound by her spell:
And the canons she taught for the progress of art,
He wrote on the tablets that liv'd in his heart.
She holds up the Stagyrite, Terence, and Plautus,
To regulate errors that Custom had brought us.
There he stole like young Troilus every night,
And ravag'd her treasures, and fed on delight;
He utter'd his plaints at her roseate throne,
'Till he melted the nymph, and his woes were her own.

His words flow too quick to administer pleasure;
In adagio time, and precipitate measure:
Like a torrent that rushes adown a steep hill,
'Till the breath is no longer obedient to skill;
Now it thunders, then roars, as it dashes the stones,
Then recedes from the ear, and we lose half its tones
By degrees; 'till the springs of its violence fail,
And its murmurs decay, and it dies in the vale.

The good-natur'd critic, with pain, takes offence,
When his natural warmth mars his natural sense;
But the sword eats the scabbard—'tis fairly presum'd,
That the seeds of his judgment by heat are consum'd;
But Time an amendment will work by his rigour,
And temper the force of this overstrain'd vigour;

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But the fault is a good one, though yet 'tis a fault,
That leads him on Reason to make an assault.
For a juvenile actor, whose method's too tame,
Will scarce ever mount to the regions of Fame;
In the humaniz'd system e'en casuists confess,
That a fire is harder to raise than suppress:
This want of due force sicklies Middleton's deeds;
Whom Genius approves, and whom Modesty leads.

It pains me to hear a vile animal quote,
Some poignant expressions that Shakespeare has wrote;
And deliver the text with as formal an air,
As the dull, drawling tone of a methodist prayer:

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While Folly attends to the vapid oration,
And Madness mistakes for an apt inspiration.—
There are who Thalia's best heroes engage,
Whose villanous efforts but sully the stage;
With arrogant minds, in presumption o'er-weening,
Rant, laugh, dance, and sing, without—merit or meaning:
Such parrots deny human wit as a master,
For their merit consists in who chatters the faster.

This youth should set bounds to his tragic descanting,
Which sometimes approaches the precincts of ranting:
In gentleman juniors, adjust his proud walk;
And abandon the stare, and Titanian stalk.
That action which Nature involves in her plan,
When dignified Leon's assuming the man,
Would be awkward and stiff in Lothario the rover,
Or volatile Belmont, or Romeo the lover.
A part over-strain'd, damns the aims of Expression,
And gives much offence to Delight and Discretion:
Erecting the body, and bridling the head
In all situations, is vile and ill-bred;
Tis torturing the vertebræ bone of his back,
Till the joints creak with pain, and integuments crack.
But bid him be cautious of too much repentance,
Nor do aught beyond what's prescrib'd by this sentence;
Nor sink in the strife to do right with avidity,
From the heights of young rage—to the vale of torpidity;
Like Kemble with classical trifles affected,
Who fine-draws a point 'till the sense is bisected.

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I would guide him to Truth, but the maid is destroy'd,
And but few mourn her fate, who so many annoy'd:
The meek abject nymph was by myriads assail'd,
And, wounded, she droop'd, undeplor'd and unwail'd;
Resign'd to high Heaven, she gave up her breath,
And fell, like Rome's Cæsar—illustrious in death.

Miss WILKINSON.

With grace see young Wilkinson put in her claim,
Tho' chill'd by cold doubts for the honours of Fame;
In the rays of her virgin timidity basking,
Her heart seems to fear what her wishes are asking:
When she warbles her sonnets with rapture and skill,
'Tis an instance where Nature has triumph'd o'er will.
The force of applause has awaken'd that merit,
Which long lay entranc'd by a timorous spirit:
She saw at a distance the stage, and its terrors,
She felt, and acknowledg'd, the strength of her errors.
To impudent habits a foe and a stranger,
The eye of Conception had magnified danger.
Her colloquy justifies Wisdom's defence,
Her notes gently steal on the fetter-bound sense;

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To glad and improve like the soft southern breeze,
When he fans the rich vallies, and sports 'mid the trees;
By magic like this, mirthful wonders are wrought,
And ivy-bound Joy is made pregnant by Thought;
Who laughs 'mid her labours, at Anguish with scorn,
And the brisk panting Heart feeds the brood that are born.

May no rude blasts of Censure suppress her meek toil,
And wither the plant as it peeps from the soil;
When the genus is tender, and flow'ret is rare,
The well-skill'd Conductor redoubles his care;
Protects it when Boreas wings a rude gale,
But leaves it to Fate when the Zephyrs prevail.

Mr. POPE.

In the African Captive, see Pope wake Surprize,
And call Pity's tears into feminine eyes;
When poor Oroonoko is goaded by foes,
That player outrageously pictures his woes:
Tho' his person is fashion'd and prun'd by Perfection,
His weakness incessantly meets our detection;

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With a fine rounded voice, full of Melody's tones,
He wastes half its compass in sighs and in groans;
And thinks, 'cause the buskin he's ta'n into keeping,
His duty directs he should always be weeping.
—When the tear of a man from his eye-lids will start,
It should seem like a tribute that's wrung from the heart;
As an offering that's paid to the 'cause of a crime,
To woe that's unmeasur'd, and grief that's sublime:
But if they're call'd forth on each trivial occasion,
Their worth is no more, and they lose their persuasion;
Then Ridicule laughs, at the tears as they roll,
To tell us the man has—a half-finish'd soul;
With a dropsical brain, which his fancy dispenses,
To drown his perception, his reason, and senses;
That makes his high judgment for ever caught napping,
And which ne'er can have ease but by constantly tapping.
Tho' his Hotspur's an excellent critical sop,
His Bellamy stalks but a solemnized sop:
As Clarinda steps back with a face fraught with wonder,
When he sues her for pity in accents of thunder.

Tho' his strong understanding is blest with profundity,
His face mars its force by a stupid rotundity;
It was form'd to accomplish less amiable uses,
And wine, by a smile, every maid—but the Muses;
Too fastuous for exquisite passion's digression,
Too fair for a hero, too round for expression;
Like a beggar at law, whom no barrister blesses,
His mind lacks an agent to plead its distresses;

139

All his muscles rebel 'gainst judicious controul,
And his face gives the lie to a sensible soul.
His fears to do less than enough, never quit him,
His cloaths in the gentleman ne'er seem to fit him:
With rant he too often disgusts the beholders,
And offends by continually writhing his shoulders.
But his faults like the stones of the pavement decay,
When quick dropping springs wear the surface away.

He has gain'd, as a fence 'gainst the sorrows of life,
An excellent friend in an elegant wife;
By Young's sober Night Thoughts he perfects each plan,
As she re-peruses his—Essay on Man:
Thus jocund, they dignify Hymen's sweet rites,
And the work of each other, each other delights:
But she oft gives his follies a well-manner'd check,
And holds him from ill, with a chain round his neck:
Thus he's kept in a cage, as Dame Fitz keeps her squirrels,
And by wedlock's improv'd—like the blood of the Burrells.

Mrs. BILLINGTON.

Behold a blythe Syren, high priz'd and high finish'd!
Fall back, ye meek songsters, abash'd and diminish'd:
'Tis Billington comes, public praise to implore,
Whom Honor pursues, and the Muses adore!

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Receive her with with homage, ye slaves of Apollo,
As Destiny sent her, for Merit to follow;
To command suppliant throngs, like the tyrant of Delhi,
High charg'd with caprice like renown'd Gabrielli:
With Beauty's soft blandishments arm'd to delight,
Resistless and charming, she bursts on the sight;
From her eyes issue rays of voluptuous mirth,
And she catches applause, ere the judgment has birth.

Had Helen, who set the Greek states in a flame,
Been as lovely in feature, as beauteous in frame;
What man but would combat his legions delighted,
And rush upon Death's ebon spear unaffrighted;
By desparate action amaze human wonder,
And laugh at old Jove, and the point of his thunder!
Were Anacreon living, to brighten these days,
He'd weave her high name in his amorous lays;
And Latian minstrels her gifts would rehearse,
In all the rich splendor of classical verse;

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Her lips red as coral, soft, pulpy and sweet,
For Love's warm embraces, in silence, intreat:
Like the fruit of the vintage, decreed for our use,
They promise, on pressure, an exquisite juice;
The High Priest of Comus gave birth to her wiles,
And Venus corrected her dimples and smiles:
She arm'd her fine eye with that envied ability,
To warm the cold bosom of Insensibility:
Thus she makes greater numbers their liberties yield,
Than Cæsar subdu'd in Pharsalia's field.
As radiant Phœbus, to nymphs ever kind,
With the spirit of harmony, blended her mind;
Illumin'd and lovely the chantress appears,
If cloath'd with ineffable laughter or tears:
The sons of Humanity felt not such glee,
When the regent of Paphos emerg'd from the sea;
And shook from her tresses the drops of the ocean,
And leap'd on the beach, to wake bliss into motion.
Insatiate Attention devours the strains,
And listening wretches forget all their pains:
Like the visits of Peace, to our miseries kind,
She calms those rough tumults which torture the mind.
The wandering Zephyrs creep round when she sings,
To steal her best notes, with aerial wings;
Then leave the gay nymph, of her powers bereft,
And flit o'er the Alps, with the elegant theft;
Where Cecilia descends to unburthen the gales,
As kingdom's applaud in Italia's vales;

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But how great the reduction of eminent skill,
When the graces of Art are o'erthrown by the will!
Should Pride follow Worth, in a constant gradation?
Should Caprice be the offspring of high Reputation?
Philosophy shrinks when bright Genius, inspir'd,
Can forfeit by Pride, what by Worth she acquir'd;
Tho' she breathes her soft notes with a soul-melting thrill
Poor Nature is lost in the triumphs of Skill;
As she courts Affectation to win us and please,
But leaves to her mates, artless manners and ease.
Thus harmoniz'd Reynolds shews part of her power,
As the bud glads the sight before Time opes the flower.

In the lofty bravuras she copies the spheres;
But in madrigal ballads gives pain to our ears;
Her trills, the sweet bosom of Sense never warm,
Tho' her sportive cantabilies win us and charm:
With wonderful art, she can marshal her voice,
And, selecting her airs, makes a judicious choice;
By fine-spun address, gains our plaudits and favour,
And husbands that little which Providence gave her.
She oft wants the gentle assistance of Ease,
And seems more intent to surprise than to please:
Tho' the nymph in Mandane excites admiration,
The wild notes of Catley had more inspiration.

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In songs fraught by Judgment, her powers are plain,
Tho' her tones are confin'd, and her shakes give us pain;
Impressing her stomach, as sick, sore or lame,
She drags up the notes from the caves of her frame;
Opes her mouth like a well, 'till poor Reason flies from it,
And doubts if the nymph means to carol or vomit.

Sweet Harmony, hail! to our miseries given,
As parent of Concord, and daughter of Heaven.
The powers of Music were sent as a blessing,
The evils attendant on mortals redressing:
Like the converse of Beauty, for rapture design'd,
She purifies, softens, and gladdens the mind;
The burthens of Want imperceptibly stealing,
And lightens the dark habitations of Feeling.
Aonian maids croud her fanes in a throng,
Imploring her influence to fashion their song;
The proud and the petulant, poor and the vain,
Who from life's varied weaknesses, shrink and complain;
Intreat all the force of her excellent power,
To wound that despondence which fills up their hour.
By her aid the grim furies could Orpheus quell,
And charm his lost nymph from the torments of hell;
The voice of the minstrel could Fierceness destroy,
And Tartarus blaz'd with a gleam of new joy:
Implacable Dis own'd the charms of his lyre,
And Proserpine waken'd to sigh and admire.
She eases the smart of Affliction's keen rod,
She elevates Sense to the state of a God:

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And the tones from her shell can all beings refine,
'Till the brute leaps in sport, and the man feels divine.

Mr. EDWIN.

See Edwin come forth with a confident air,
As the high priest of Momus, and spoiler of Care;
The dryness of Weston, and Shuter's droll whim,
By Nature were blended, and center'd in him:
Hark! the theatre rings, as the wight makes his entry,
For such men are not born above once in a cent'ry;
Like a watery tabby he sports with his fame,
Which oft changes hue, tho' the texture's the same.
If he errs now and then, and his faults meet detection,
It but proves that the best are not heirs of perfection.

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To debauch Common Sense he takes many a shape,
But we laugh at the crime as a comical rape.
If at Reason's expence he attracts some applause,
Yet his blushes denote he's asham'd of the cause!
If he sometimes should wound the best props of the stage,
'Tis to tickle the lungs of a dissolute age;
But his name is a tower of strength that defies
All the storms which engender in critical skies;
For the interests of Comedy follow his beck,
And the Haymarket Theatre hangs round his neck.

When he first shone in Midas the world was amaz'd,
Admiration pursu'd him, and Excellence gaz'd:
His rival comedians awak'd to explore,
And marvel at graces they ne'er saw before.
His Cambrio Sir Hugh is a true comic test,
Who, like Richard Hill, turns his pray'r to a jest;
With ditties and puns he holds Thought in detention,
With the magic of Mirth charms the public attention:
With nonsense in verse can elate and delight 'em,
And gives them variety ad infinitum:
Burlettas in future, when pregnant with whim,
The bard shall, with pride, dedicate but to him;

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As the God of festivity, foe of Despair,
The beacon of Joy, and assassin of Care.

The irregular movements that mark all his trials
To sing, just resemble the fam'd Seven Dials;
Tho' by various paths the blythe minstrel will enter,
He trips on to Truth which is plac'd in the center;
And none feel alarm'd lest he's out of his way,
As they know where he'll rest at the end of his lay:
Like the mountains of Mourne, though abrupt and alarming,
Their wild inequalities make them more charming.
Tho' he steers near the wind, in a literal sense,
He ne'er lets the helm touch the rocks of offence:
When Decency's drawing her lineaments down,
His wit charms her will, ere they sink to a frown.
Philosophy smiles at his well-manner'd joke,
And Wisdom applauds the exuberant stroke;
To the force of his muscles, and strength of his name,
O'Keefe is in debt for his pence and his fame!
Like chemical liquids creating a pother,
They beautify, strengthen, and brighten each other;

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If diminish'd apart, when their bodies are blended,
Their value is seen, and their virtues are mended;
And a colour's produc'd by the well-temper'd union,
Which deludes, while it charms, like the paste at communion!

O'Keefe is a mortal who lives to o'erthrow
The threat'ning pile of each critical foe;
Like the Anthropophagi in each varied season,
He fattens, he seeds, on the bowels of Reason;
In terrible ruin she bleeds 'neath his knife,
A prey to his works, and abridg'd of her life;
By effect as they call it, by whim, and by pun,
Are our senses debauch'd, and, the drama undone:
Like the wond'rous asbestos his toils we admire,
Whose labours surmount e'en the critical fire:
As the furnace the fossil-fraught drapery whitens,
So public contempt his capacity brightens:
But Harris's pence keep his follies in tune,
And Colman protects the unletter'd buffoon.
He pilfers in cellars the food of his raillery,
And gives the coarse tune to the Gods in the Gallery;

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Who, roaring, exhibit their hoarse approbation,
And shield the base bard from the stings of damnation.

Mrs. BATES.

When Bates in the spleen her fiertè dispenses,
Her angry eloquence jars all the senses;
No delicate springs give a force to her soul,
Or sentiment chains keep her rage in controul:
Untutor'd, ungraceful, unblest, unrefin'd,
With a sonorous voice, and a masculine mind;
Like tempest-fraught furies, whose tongues never cease,
The sound of her lays frright the offspring of Peace;
Like Orion in heaven, her ill-omen'd form
Ne'er bursts on the scene, but it threatens a storm;
And her tones wound the ear, 'till, transfix'd with our wonder,
We all scud aghast, from the feminine thunder.
Her accents are harsh, ill-conceiv'd, and erroneous;
They're sometimes explicit, but never harmonious:
With a terrific tongue to assist a detractress,
They spoilt a good scold when they made her an actress.
No gentle ingredients seem mix'd with her clay,
For the vixen's in front, be the part what it may:

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Her humours are rancid, her lungs are Stentorian,
Her soul seems perturbed, as winds hyperborean:
Like the Lamia 'mid Hebrews, distracted and wild,
She appalls by her ranting, man, woman, and child!

To personate women of fashion she's wrong,
As to her the calm graces did never belong;
'Tis a caricature of original truth,
Like Age mumbling crusts that were destin'd for youth.
'Tis an outrage on Ease, when she labours to smile,
A malevolent grin seems the fruit of the soil;
For the spiteful young congress that play in her eye,
Give the hard-finish'd laugh on her visage the lie.

Her port seems as awkward in high polish'd vanity,
As a lawyer who talks of his God and humanity;
Or a modern dramatist, who prates about wit,
Or an uncarted bawd, when she quotes holy writ;
Or Morgan haranguing on legal ability,
Or Hawkins enforcing the bliss of humility;
Or hallow'd Will Peters when raving 'bout charity,
Or Boydell descanting on feasts and hilarity;
Or Barry when swearing that Fortune a jade is;
Or Johnny Burnell when saluting the ladies.

Mr. HENDERSON.

By the faint gleams of light that irradiate yon gloom,
Behold the pale Muses round Henderson's tomb:

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His eminent name shall exist undefil'd,
Like Pompey's fam'd pillar in Africa's wild;
To chear a wide desart, and solace the plains,
And attract Admiration to view its remains,
Its splendid proportion, its size, and its neatness,
And marks of its vast super-eminent greatness.
It will keep a due sense of ambition alive,
And shew to what heights human art may arrive.

Tho' his forehead resembled old Falstaff's bare knee,
And his eyes seem'd th' incompetent agents of Glee;
Tho' his lips hung like penthouses over his breast,
And his body and limbs seem'd by Awkwardness drest,

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Yet the man in the aggregate wond'rously blaz'd,
Enslav'd us, improv'd us, inform'd, and amaz'd;
And that notion destroy'd of which fools are so fond,
That the soul and the face in all points correspond.
His vocal inflexion was just and extensive,
His mien all commanding, his mind comprehensive;
And he gave the quaint turns of the laugh-loving knight,
With a fatness of tone that was dear to Delight.

In the drama's wide circle he rov'd unconfin'd,
To embellish, with Truth, an original mind;
His compeers from him all their dignity won,
As erratic orbs gather light from the sun:
When he mov'd in the firmament, journeying his way,
The satellites follow'd, to blaze with his ray.
Can we wonder the stage should be dark in these days,
When that sun we lament has withdrawn with those rays?
Now like planets unlit in their orderly race,
They wander at will into infinite space;
Attempt thro' the regions of Science to soar,
When their brains are unhing'd, and their chief is no more;
Conjuring Ambition to guide them to Fame;
But the wench plays the jilt and betrays them to Shame.
Thus Holman and Farren, so forceful their pride is,
Have labour'd to wield the vast club of Alcides;
But fell 'neath the toil with a sigh and a tear,
And one sunk in Benedict, t'other in Lear.

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This chieftain, unblest in his voice and his feature,
Like Sheridan stood, not indebted to Nature;
He pin'd when he knew all the gifts that he wanted,
And his feelings requested what Industry granted.
Tho' the Piedmontese mountain which talks to the skies,
With a lowering brow, human labour defies;
Yet Hannibal smil'd at the frowns of the regions,
And cut, thro' their bosom, a path for his legions.

An integral dramatic performance I ween,
Is what never was, nor will ever be seen;
Some component particle always is wanting,
To perfect the whole, when the muse is descanting:
If the Actor is good, oft the Poet's erroneous,
Who, presuming, is damn'd, like inflated Salmoneus:
When the Author feels all that the Muse can inspire,
The Player wants dignity, pathos, or fire:
Thus Errors change hands, like gay youth in a dance,
And when Judgment's retreating, the Follies advance.
Thus, like strata in mines, the materials lay,
And the ore of high value is mingled with clay.

The theatre now like a desart appears,
And who is amaz'd that the muses shed tears,
Where Garrick and Barry have gladden'd their eyes,
For their thought can give birth but to sadness or sighs?

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It seems like poor Zama when Fortitude fled,
Or Imperial Rome when her Cæsar lay dead.
To compare what once was, with the things that now are,
But plunges each Sense in the deeps of Despair:
Go find me those Richards, Othellos and Pierres,
The Benedicts, Catos, Castalios and Lears!
Who once gave, like Hope, universal delight,
And crept to the heart thro' the medium of sight;
Tho' our modern young Scions oft make an assumption,
The gods have but marr'd them with pride and presumption.
See Grist, Clinch, and Bannister, Dimond, and Farren,
And others who sport in the dramatic warren;
Tho' they all were enlighten'd at Roscius' fam'd School,
And, taught by one master, they all slight his rule:
Like the wandering Amphiscii, whose singular state,
Made sceptics to question the wisdom of Fate;
For, tho' warm'd and supported by one solar blaze,
The shades of their bodies fall contrary ways.

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Miss WHEELER.

See sidling, advancing, now simp'ring, now crying,
This moment in raptures, the next moment sighing;
Egregious Wheeler, whose manners are such,
That her best friends forsake her, as Wit flies the Dutch.
I'm pos'd in what class of strange beings to blend her,
As her humours and passions are known to no gender:
Half Italian, half English, like food for the belly,
When neck of beef 's garnish'd with boil'd vermicelli:
Like Berwick-on-Tweed that divides two great nations;
But unown'd by them both, tho' they both are relations.

When this tittering nymph trod Hibernia's shore,
She was madden'd with praise that she ne'er knew before:
Some credulous friend, by exerting his sway,
Turn'd the keen blasts of Judgment incautious away;
With Jubal's sweet lyre, compar'd her coarse reed,
Fed, propp'd, and protected the musical weed;

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And, by strangling those facts, which, if known, had disgrac'd her,
Thrust the ideot on Fame, who unwilling embrac'd her:
But 'twas praise ill bestow'd on a reptile so humble,
'Twas an act where his honour was soil'd by a stumble;
'Twas like dressing a fool, in defiance of Fate,
Or moaning for miscreants lying in state;
Like a fête at Bologna, or monkish vagary,
When they cloath a mean wench with the robes of Saint Mary.

I hear Reason question the sense of the nation,
That gave such an awkward young minx toleration:—
But various the arts, in this overgrown town,
By which shadows for substance are ta'en and go down.
The mob weds the dogma, if Fashion has said it,
And nine tenths of men's virtues they take upon—credit.

Mr. FEARON.

Unaccountable Fearon demands my attention;
But defies my best powers, to mark his dimension:

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Like the month of November, that sullies the year,
He's adust, short, and gloomy, black, foul, and severe;
His front, like a fog, brings distress on the mind,
Unwholesome, obnoxious, unblest, and unkind:
His fancy seems choak'd with saturnine ideas,
To lead him to murders like those of Medea's.
In strong trepidation the Sciences fly
From his loud intonation and scowl of his eye:
When he damns, like a chief of the church inquisition,
The oath seems the child of a dark disposition.—
But this is but seeming—what being will scorn him,
When the Duties of Virtue with pleasure adorn him?
To please her he roves, like the tenants of Tartary,
And the milk of humanity flows in each artery.

In Belmont the elder, with rigour imprest,
He chides his gay son, like a butcher well drest;
Disdaining all customs but those of his sires,
Makes the manners of kings bend to meet his desires;
With a sinewy arm, lays Morality's lash on,
And ne'er seems so happy, as—when in a passion.

In Zadan, the captive, his skill bears the test,
For his part, tho' restricted, eclipses the rest;
If he made but few efforts, those efforts were good,
As they warm'd and promoted the course of the blood;
Till the streams of benevolence quicken'd to flow,
And the frame trembled round, with a concord of woe;
Till the ice-temper'd chains of the heart 'gan to melt,
And the tears of rude nature prov'd, savages felt.

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Mrs. INCHBALD.

To mangle poor Decency's breathless remains;
To rob gentle Reason of all her domains;
To give the last blow to expiring Propriety;
To feed a base town with still baser variety—
See delicate Inchbald assume the foul quill;
And satirize Wisdom, by pleasing her will!
Tho' unskill'd in the true fabrication of tenses,
She tickles our weakness, and talks to the senses;
For Venus is titt'ring, and Priapus smiles,
As the Queen of Voluptuousness Nature beguiles;
She canters her steed thro' Parnassian lanes,
Till the blood from her heart has half madden'd her brains:
Then, seizing the standish, writes quaint and uncommon;
As the rake mounts aloft, on—the dregs of the woman.
Contemptuously treating the feminine duties,
Her breast lacks the cambric to cover its beauties.

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With the pages of Sappho her cranium she dresses,
While her smock goes unwash'd, and abandon'd her tresses.
If she caught approbation, she car'd not a jot,
If the plaudits deriv'd from a scholar or sot;
The cause, she imagin'd, was blanch'd by the end;
And, to flatter an ideot, neglected—a friend.
Thus her mind, like clear amber, condens'd by stagnation,
Exhibits the dirt it imbib'd in formation:
Like ungender'd abortions, her plays have annoy'd;
Which are born, see the light, and, when seen, are destroy'd.

To effect the sublime, by an artifice new,
And bring all its majesty forward to view,
She purloin'd the stool on which Kemble had writ,
The choicest morceaus of his Jesuit wit;
A stool far more blest than the harps of old Snowden,
Or the tripod of Delphos, or goblet of Woden.

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Uprais'd on its bosom that simpering child,
Self-complacent created young grins, that half smild:
And penn'd wond'rous odes, and astonishing lays,
As have pos'd all discernment, and beggar'd all praise.
When clos'd in Douay's sacred cells, the meek youth,
Receiv'd the behest of all blessings—but Truth.
High-mounted on that the fair scribbler sits,
To watch as her pulses give strength to her wits;
Like the Pythian priestess, she feels new sensations,
That mount from her seat in divine exhalations:
Then laughs, cries and blots, plunges, ponders and writes,
Faints, screams and looks wild, reconceives and indites;
As Kemble administers truth to the sinner,
'Till his eye-balls grow dim, and the god stirs within her:

From the itch to be witty what miseries flow,
When the toil of the brain but establishes woe!

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Hence Bedlam's drear jaws have been cramm'd to satiety,
Hence maniacs have risen to frighten Propriety;
Hence orthodox ideots perplex our best senses,
Hence Priestley with pride vague opinions dispenses;
And Cumberland's pleas'd that his muse, tho' in years,
Should annual conceive, tho' each brat's born in tears:
Thus Harlots feel happy when pregnant suspected,
Tho' they know the base fruit will be scoff'd and neglected.
But Cowley and Inchbald more mad than their neighbours,
With God and the Devil besprinkle their labours;
Sure the traits of the mind must be oddly directed,
When their bawdry destroys what their morals effected.

But writing and wisdom set each at defiance,
And journey no longer in peace and alliance:
Thus Walpole told Chatterton, speaking of skill,
When the half-famish'd bard rov'd to Strawberry Hill:

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Talk to me, man of genius! why, zounds, 'tis all stuff,
Go write when you're rich, and the thing's well enough:
Will Genius protect you from Want's fell decree?
Then leave bleak Parnassus to Hayley and me;
Books charm by their dress tho' the language is vapoury,
As fools blaze at court by the aid of their drapery.

Mr. JOHNSTONE.

See myrtle-crown'd Johnstone advancing between us,
Like the rover of Troy, or the minion of Venus;
To please and be pleas'd make up all his employment,
The cause and the end of his being's—enjoyment;

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'Mid the fair and the beauteous his handkerchief flies,
And the fair and the beauteous contend for the prize;
'Till glutted from Love's varied banquet he rises,
And like Louis Quatorze even dainties despises.

As Fortune and Fate have peculiarly blest him,
The coxcombs all simper, the men all detest him,
And stirring the atoms of Envy's foul dregs,
Assail his proportions, and sneer at his legs;
But an Irishman's leg is not priz'd for its quickness,
But its strength and its vigour, its nerve, and its thickness:
If it holds the frame firmly, the man wins the day,
For the owners ne'er use them—in running away.

Amid all his failings this sure is the oddest,
That he seems in all character somewhat—too modest;
Rests his head on his chest, like a bawd at a burial,
And looks grave as the guard at the Spanish Escurial;
Or a half witted judge, when our follies reviling,
Tho' his heart and his will are incessantly smiling,
Draws his muscles in order, and, bridling his fury,
Looks just like a culprit when ey'd by his jury;
Then touches his forehead, to wipe off the dew
Of an ideal shame, that his front never knew.

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Like the mermaid, whose figure's in story decided,
His frame and his melody both are divided;
The upper division of each is harmonious,
The lower discordant, ill-form'd, and erroneous;
They clash and contend like two priests for a mitre,
And discolour each other like copper and nitre.
His voice was by Nature so widely bisected,
It ne'er can be rightly by Judgment directed;
For wanting an agent, its beauties to tissue,
They teaze the possessor, but cannot join issue:
It consists of contraries, like punch but half made,
Or Rembrandt's designs of abrupt light and shade:
Like an ill-manag'd concert, without any fiddle,
Or Nobody's person, that lacks all his middle;
If they sport with each other, the junction is ill,
Their bodies may meet, but they meet without will:
Like a Jew or Bramin with Father O'Leary,
Or Gog in a dance with the Corsican fairy:
'Tis a wonderful mixture of whiskey and sack,
One half's Rubinelli, the rest—Paddy Whack.

Yet where shall we find, in these dissonant days,
An opera chief that deserves so much praise?
If he answers not every purpose of merit,
If view'd in all points, he has taste, truth, and spirit.
When we measure his worth by comparative rule,
His claims are gigantic, and shame the whole school:
As his fellow disciples, tho' poison'd with vanity,
Have nothing humane, save the husk of humanity.

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(I except polish'd Kelly, that inmate of Science,
Who treats Competition with haughty defiance.)
Tho' Bowdens and Mahons each other succeeded,
Their lives have been short, and their death is not heeded.
Take his aggregate qualities, voice and exterior,
'Tis a thousand to one if we meet—his superior.
As his person is dignified, graceful, commanding,
And his eyes seem illum'd by a good understanding,
When Music's subdued by his Thalian powers,
His Flaherty and Foigard gladden our hours;
And his brogue no intent of Propriety sunders,
But adds a keen zest to his national blunders.

Mrs. BANNISTER.

See, placid and mild, gentle Bannister roves,
Like Humanity's parent in Eden's blest groves.

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Discreetly, tho' trembling, she met high Ambition,
Uninjur'd in fame by a strong competition;
She ne'er drew applause by incontinent rudeness,
And boasted few charms but—superior goodness.
Celestial Decency led her along,
Corrected her manners, and sweeten'd her song:
She equall'd our wishes in lovely Rosetta,
And oft prov'd the pilot that sav'd a burletta.
She touch'd Passion's chord in the love-stricken Polly,
And tinted the part with a faint melancholy:
With plaintive delight taught her numbers to flow,
As the skill of soft Harmony mellow'd her woe.
Her trills were the purest that e'er met the ear,
Melodious, audible, charming, and clear.
Her habits with pastoral maids claim'd affinity,
And lent polish'd graces to rural virginity.
Like Saint Paul's, Covent Garden, appear'd this bright woman,
Whose aspect is plain, tho' the structure's uncommon;
If the traits of a rude simple skill on its face is,
Examine the pile, and you'll find out new graces;
For the elegant Inigo gewgaws despis'd,
And the building, tho' plain, is but Greatness disguis'd.

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Tho' she blazon'd to gladden an infamous age,
Conspicuously bland, and allied to the stage;
The white veil of Chastity hung round her action,
And damp'd the approaches of Vice and Detraction;
Like the priests of Marseilles, by the Virtues protected,
She pass'd thro' the ranks of Disease uninfected;
For Heaven's own agents, to Excellence kind,
Preserv'd from contagion the health of her mind.

She has quitted the stage, to fulfil her desire,
And trim Friendship's lamp round her family fire:
To the duties of social life she's retir'd,
Who, private or public, is prais'd and admir'd;
Who gladly proportions her will to her need,
And to bless and be blest makes the whole of her creed:
Thanks the gods that her measure of joy is complete,
As the Tumults of life lye in chains at her feet.

Hail, nuptial felicity! rapturous station!
Which forms the best prop in the strength of a nation.
Blest source, from whence every happiness flows,
That subjugates passion, or conquers our woes!
The connubial twain, whom sweet virtue impresses,
Can draw forth the arrow from human distresses;
Their mutual strife is to banish Despair,
And hide the shorn heart from the pressure of Care;
Like the dreams of an angel, to transport resign'd,
The finger of Peace smoothes the springs of the mind.
As the kindred tie of soft Sympathy moves,
And the organs are tun'd by confederate Loves:

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A commerce empyreal the senses unite,
To barter for blisses, and feed on delight;
'Till the mind's so high charg'd, it can treasure no more,
But, fill'd with the balm of enjoyment, runs o'er.
From so hallow'd a state can weak nymphs have revolted?
Can the daughters of Guilt boast a joy so exalted,
When a beauteous offspring, surrounding their knees,
Look up with ineffable wishes to please;
In envious rivalry anxious to share
The test of their kindness, and force of their prayer;
To catch ev'ry accent that falls from the tongue,
And echo the song which their parents had sung?
With reciprocal blessings they cheat the sad hours,
Awaking the slumbers of infantine powers;
Correct those ideas which rise in gradation,
And hail innate worth in a young generation;
Explore all those objects that Wisdom has sought,
And polish with care the fine traces of thought;
Guard the void when their earliest pleasantries cease,
Then point out those rocks which have wreck'd human peace;
Impress their white minds with examples of worth,
And prune the weak thought, ere their knowledge has birth!
Thus Art turns the stream with a liberal hand,
To strengthen the sapling, and nourish the land:
On exertions like these e'en the gods look with pleasure,
If their cup lacks a joy, Virtue fills up the measure.

As gladsome they journey down life's steep declivity,
Their toils shall be weaken'd by Mieth and Festivity;

168

Young cherubs press forward to hail and adore 'em,
And the beauties of Paradise open bofore 'em:
Led onward to Heaven by calm Resignation,
They'll wonder and pant on the brink of creation:
Then monarchs might envy their beatify'd lot,
As the world and its vanities all are forgot.
There angels shall fix the last seal to fatality,
And wrap the fond twain into bright immortality.

May the miscreant, who toils with apocryphal art,
To drive by his wiles gentle Peace from the heart;
(Like the reptile who poison'd the organs of Eve,
And abandon'd to ruin, but sung to deceive;)
Evince all those torments that Heaven has deign'd,
To visit the wretch who his mandates prophan'd.
May the ills of Pandora in concert surround him,
May the moans of the damn'd issue forth to confound him:
May he ever reflect, and eternally weep;
May the demons of Thought break the bands of his sleep;
May the agents of Horror his senses enslave,
And his shrieks of Remorse only cease in the grave.
When he mould'ring decays, as humanity must,
And hell drags his being to sully the dust,
May the unction that's meant as a sacred ablution,
Be chang'd by his God to the pass of pollution.

Mr. LEONI.

Neglected, appall'd, sickly, poor, and decay'd,
See Leoni retiring in life's humble shade;

169

'Tis but few little years since the charms of his voice.
Made theatres echo, and thousands rejoice;
When the Sock and the Buskin, depress'd and dismay'd,
From the altars of Music call'd Voice to their aid.
And by walking approv'd thro' the Thespian via,
Tho' a slave to the tribes, prov'd the Drama's Messiah
But, like great Sobieski, the service forgot,
The Pole and the Jew knew a similar lot;
Tho' the first drove the Turk from the gates of Vienna,
And the last banish'd Want when he woo'd the Duenna.

When his talents seduc'd his meek soul into life,
And plac'd him to meet public pleasure and strife,
Like an owl in the sunshine, he met the broad ray,
And winking deplor'd the meridian day.
Unfit for the habits of scenic proficiency,
His song had scarce charms to make up the deficiency.
But cast, like a bark, down the streams of Despair,
A prey to his fortunes, an inmate of Care;

170

All shorn of those honours with which Merit crown'd him,
Bereft of those pence which he once threw around him,
To Abraham's bosom the profligate run,
Imploring relief, like the prodigal son,
Re-wedded his faith, paid his dues unto Cæsar,
And kiss'd the brown children of Nebuchadnezzar.
Digesting those acorns with peace and with pride,
Which his stomach in happier days had deny'd,
By his wand'rings the circumcis'd minstrel has found
That the friendship of Vice is at best but a sound;
That Temp'rance was sent as the handmaid of Health,
That the peace of his mind's the most excellent wealth;
That Pleasure and Sin are inveterate foes,
And that Virtue alone can embalm our repose.

Mr. FARREN.

By much the most ardent among the assuming,
By much most presumptuous amid the presuming;

171

Hear Farren affright every muse from his station,
By unqualified rant, and extreme intonation:
Melpomene shrinks from his heroes and Lears,
He debases Thalia's best smiles into sneers!
But why should he walk in the dramatic van,
Who exhibits at best, but the sign of a man?
No min'stry of Art seem to lodge in his scull,
That's inflexibly turgid, and rigidly dull.
By what wond'rous means has he brighten'd his name,
How the deuce has he mixt with the followers of fame?
On the basis of puffs the false pile was erected,
But its durable state has been often suspected.
His glory, like poor Cagliostro's, is built
On the slippery threshold of indirect guilt:
Not like old Erostatus for burning a fane,
Tho' crimes less enormous have made the man vain!
Traducing Will. Shakespeare, and mouthing heroics,
In such a base style as would anger the Stoics:
Like Epiminedes the poet of Crete,
Stupidity binds both his hands and his feet.
If apparent he reasons, the thing does but seem,
For the man is entranc'd, and declaims in a dream;
Hung round with inaptitudes formal and lazy,
Automatical, heavy, dull, sombrous, half crazy;
The husk of vulgarity dims every feature,
Defeats his exertions, and sullies his nature.

172

When he labours to waken our praise or our wonder,
He raves like a maniac and roars like stage thunder.

'Tis said that when Thisbe first whisper'd her pains,
By the pale lamp of night on fam'd Babylon's plains,
By the Destinies barr'd from a love-fraught embrace,
The nymph sung her grief to a wall on the place.
Thus Brunton is fated to generate spleen,
When Farren and she fill the void of the scene.
With a gesture of woe, and a high-passion'd tone,
She pours out her plaints to a well-chissel'd stone:
A mass more ignoble than those Sculptors deal in,
That never were damn'd with—the torment of feeling;
Who brings proud Horatius to comic perdition,
And murders the Roman, sans shame or contrition.

173

But Pride's fatal influence, heu quam inglorium,
Has pierc'd the thick membrane and crack'd his sensorium.

Remember poor Hanno of Carthage his fate,
Let him ponder in thought ere he aims to be great;
Bid him read classic lore, and behold how the case is,
Lest the errors of Lear shake him off from your basis.
Tho' his Oakley and Polydore make us not glad,
In the present dull day they're the best mid the bad.

Mrs. CARGILL.

Ah! where is sweet Cargill! to Harmony dear,
Whose worth claims remembrance, that mem'ry a tear?
Gay Truth touch'd the hue of her virgin desires,
Each Muse added strength to her fancy's first fires,
Ev'ry sense was sublim'd by her soul-thrilling tone,
And the fierce ceas'd to say that their hearts were their own.

174

She soften'd the Savage, she dignify'd Love;
As persuasive as Reason, as meek as the dove;
As blythe as our wishes, as roseate as May;
As seducing as Hope, and as gladd'ning as day.
When she grew into life, by its gewgaws allur'd,
Ere her womanhood blaz'd, or her thought was matur'd,
Sly Vanity caught the young minx in her net,
While Honor was lauding the matchless brunette,
And held her in bondage, to Folly resign'd,
Till she jaundic'd the purest conceits of her mind:
Then unpanoply'd loos'd her on Nature's wide field,
Where Guilt trac'd her footsteps, and bade the maid yield;
Tho' her song was complete, yet her minstrelsy fail'd
To charm as of old, ere the demon assail'd.
In Clara she scarce knew applause at her lays-end,
When she caroll'd in Polly, 'twas Polly embrazen'd:
And that syren who once could enchain her beholders,
The Town, half indignant, shook off from its shoulders.
Thus Eloise saw her best wishes miscarry,
Thus Wolsey bemoan'd when he lost the eighth Harry.

With the West of the world, sicken'd, sick'ning, and tir'd,
Unbless'd, unprotected, betray'd, and bemir'd;
The green glassy deep she incontinent crost,
In search of that peace which her frailties had lost.
Where Phœbus gives light an additional gleam,
And darts his intense perpendicular beam

175

On the Orient kingdoms, whose fissure rent plains,
Have been tinted and moisten'd by Tyranny's stains;
Where Bramins our moral declension deplore,
And the billows recede hissing hot from the shore;
Where slaves dig for diamonds, which ideots prize,
Tho' their lustre was dimm'd when arrang'd near her eyes.
But Peace was not there!—the mild harbinger vanish'd,
When men became despots, and Equity banish'd;
Her early associate the Wanderer mourn'd,
Re-ascended the bark, and to Europe return'd.
But as Peace wav'd her olive from Britain's extreme,
And the ills of her youth 'gan to fade like a dream;
A wild hurricane burst, and the waves mounted high,
Till the foam of the ocean had dash'd 'gainst the sky!
And cloud-blacken'd cloud bellowing low with fell thunder,
Till the lightning's keen flash tore their bodies asunder,
As her Reason uprose from the weight of her terrors.
Her faculties roam'd 'tween her God and her errors:
Then clasping that infant, Love gave, in her arms,
She indented her bosom, and wept o'er its charms.
Loud shrieking for mercy, half madd'ning, half dead,
But the prayer was dispers'd by the storm round her head,
As its bolt smote the nymph with an aspect forlorn,
Who was plung'd in that sea whence a Nepthe was born.

END OF PART SECOND.

clxxvii

3. THIRD PART.

[_]

[FIRST PUBLISHED IN 1788.]

clxxix

TO THE RIGHT HONORABLE EDWARD Lord THURLOW, LORD HIGH CHANCELLOR OF GREAT BRITAIN.

181

How hard is the lot to admonish our neighbours,
When hatred's the fruit we receive for our labours!
For the mind is oft pang'd, when the frame's unresisting,
And, like vipers new bruis'd, frets existence by twisting.
Nay, frown not, sweet Sister, I mean, on my verity,
To give that for truth you receive as severity.
I can see, as your eyes o'er my countenance roam,
That you tacitly bid me for faults look at home;
When I do, lovely spinster, I freely confess,
That the picture enhances my mental distress;
Kath'rine King's my palladium, my pride, and my pleasure,
Who leads my battalions, and—fingers my treasure;
But Kate has antipathies, deep and oppressing,
And ne'er would consent to give Genius her blessing,
Yet the imbecile harlot acts proper by fits,
Tho' the finger of Time's rubb'd the nap from her wits:

182

She pats Gossip Forde, on her three-inch thick head,
And lights goody Linley with caution to bed;
Mutters prayers with long muscles, that good may betide her,
And places her crotchets and fiddles beside her;
Then gives the old women some obsolete rules,
And strives to get bread as the wet nurse of fools;
Wipes the breech of her bantlings, night, morning, and noon,
And feeds master Cobb with a shovel-form'd spoon.
If my gloom is increas'd by untenanted benches,
Still the Norfolk Street nymph all that's costly retrenches;
Forms her creed of what's right from Economy's song,
And clips off an ell from each train that's—too long;
Hides the tenth of old candles, as family duty,
And tells gentle Crouch, her best dress is her beauty.

Mrs. PITT.

On the skirts of the Drama, by Habit suspended,
Regard wrinkled Pitt, ere her hours are ended:

183

By the cumbrance of full sixty summers opprest,
She toils in expanding her time-narrow'd chest:
Like an old foundered doe, that's hoof-beaten and blind,
And abridg'd in all powers but those of the mind,
She limps o'er that course where she formerly run,
Ere the clouds of Pandora had darken'd her sun:
To renovate health in her faint-ebbing veins,
And preserve an existence that's scarce worth the pains,
She nibbles with care the salubrious sod,
And hails the injunctions prescrib'd by her God.
Tho' condemn'd by Disease to recline in her home,
Yet with bliss she surveys the young fawns as they roam;
Reviews in their transports what once were her own,
And fondly reflects on those joys she has known.—
Her petulant Deborah's mirth's ready source,
And her snip-snap denials have wonderful force;
Acrimoniously hasty her prejudice flows,
Like a virgin whom Winter has chill'd with his snows;
And whose envious mind bids her cease to be gay,
Having pass'd in neglect her meridian day.
Her Quickly, her Dorcas, old Spinsters and Nurse,
Are parts, when she dies, should be laid in her hearse.
In that cast of the Drama her merit's excessive,
For she gives them a colouring high and expressive;
With a peevish acidity sharpens their features,
As Nature declares them legitimate creatures:
Like John of Gaunt's sword, when she rots at her length,
There's none will be able to wield them with strength.

184

Mr. WROUGHTON.

Respectable Wroughton was form'd to exist,
Like an elegant bracelet round Dignity's wrist
In Society's circle, where Honour him leads,
As he brightens the beauties of Truth—by his deeds.—
When your vices impell'd you such worth to reject,
I caught him to give my weak household—respect;
Now he breathes 'mid my rulers to combat Disgrace,
Like Confucius haranguing a mob in Duke's place;
Tho' the language of neither can much mend the band,
Yet both of them hallow the spot where they stand.—
In those parts where the moral emblazons the friend,
We scarce can the actor too warmly commend;
The reins of Propriety govern his powers,
Few errors creep in, but no apathy sours.
If the author has fail'd in a portrait of worth,
This player well knows where such virtues have birth;
And using discreetly a laudable art,
Researches his bosom, and draws—from his heart.
His Ford is an instance of wond'rous ability,
And proves his importance, his sense, and utility;
Like Vandyke's exertions, it teems with effect,
And the little extremes are high priz'd and correct;

185

Yet sometimes he gives antient judgment a jostle,
By fidgets that speak him too much in a bustle:
Running over his periods with singular haste,
He crucifies oft his own natural taste;
But if in some moments the man is deficient,
In Restless that bustle is apt and efficient;
It gives added charms to the ludicrous knight,
And removes the deceptions of Art from the sight;
Makes us think what we see, not a case that just seems,
Like a shadow that's nought, or the phantoms of dreams.

While genuine worth merits human esteem,
Shall Wroughton's meek claims be the popular theme?
Like Edward the Sixth, Peace bestows him her meeds,
For the godlike display of benevolent deeds;
No vaunting encomiums have hung round his name,
No mean little arts have promoted his fame;
He elbows no youth in the road of renown,
He plays no illiberal tricks with the Town;
He never has once been affectedly ill,
Or, to punish his Chief, drawn his name from the bill;
But pursues the calm duties attach'd to his station,
And lives an example without—ostentation:
As th' associate of Honor he loves his behest,
Whose maxims he treasures with care in his breast;
Thus they lye undefil'd where no vice can misuse 'em,
Till the actions of life call the man to peruse 'em.

186

Mrs. LEWIS.

Like a tremulous hare stealing over the stage,
See neat lovely Lewis illumine Anne Page;
Who fills pretty Godfrey with timid alarms,
And gives Lady Percy—proverbial charms;
But her heart welcomes Ease when the business is ended,
As if Habit and Will in the duty contended;—
She looks, when arrang'd in the Drama's gay row,
Like a vale-nourish'd lily brought forward for shew;
And compell'd Admiration's keen gaze to endure,
As the pinks look more gaudy, but none—half so pure;
Or a beautiful yacht, which, to honor the nation,
Is unmoor'd now and then, on some splendid occasion;
Hung round with bright colours, that sport in the breeze,
And seems pleas'd to be happy, and happy to please;
'Mid the vessels of thunder she gracefully glides,
And with sounds next to silence, obeys the rough tides,
Till the service is o'er; then the nymph sleeps inactive,
And is laid up in ord'nary, trim, yet attractive;
Takes her top-gallants down, when forbidden to roam,
And rides with delight—at her anchor at home.

187

Mr. BLANCHARD.

From that sportive city where Hygeia dwells,
In dark drizly clouds, and astonishing wells;
Where Physic's grave race, in full regiments resort,
And the pale son of Sin holds his annual court;
Blithe Folly's emporium, where Vice gilds her pills,
And Fancy exterminates—corporal ills:
Where rogue and coquet league as sister and brother,
And diamond cuts diamond, unknown to each other;
Where Faith the high worth of warm water enhances,
And dolts pay the piper, while—Knavery dances;
Where Bladud, so Fame has the tale understood,
Roll'd his schrophulous limbs in salubrious mud;
And crescent on crescent, looks saucily o'er ye,
Like the tip of those fanes rais'd to Mahomet's glory;
Comic Blanchard has rov'd, to set Care at defiance,
And form with the Town a defensive alliance.

Sure the handmaids of Fate and Propriety scolded
With retrograde Nature, when Tom was first moulded;

188

As they kneaded the atoms which made up his form,
Where Saturn and Mercury live in a storm;
And each takes his turn, for they ne'er mix together,
Like the man and his wife, by which clocks note the weather:
This moment his heels govern all, then his head,
And now the man's quicksilver, then—merely lead.

In his Hodge, tho' there's merit, and much to commend,
To the rustic endowments he scorns to attend;
Broad Humour the province of Wit is invading,
And his efforts are weaken'd by—harlequinading;
He's a sort of stage Andrew, for evermore skipping,
And turning, and twisting, and laughing, and leaping;
If he means to command adventitious applause,
By touching the edge of her ill-conceiv'd laws;
And awake noisy Mirth, in her echoing cells,
By ringing a change with the dramatic bells;
He is wrong, and had better forego the attempt,
As 'tis slippery ground, where a fall breeds contempt:
Bid him marshall his cloth by the size of his coat,
And discreetly repeat what the author has wrote.
'Tis the toil of a master to sport with the strings
Of the eloquent lyre, when Melody sings;
And to seize, yet not sully, Diversity's Throne,
Is Edwin's department, and—Edwin's alone.

189

'Twas bestow'd him by Heaven, to abrogate laws,
Which were modell'd by Woe, in Despondency's cause;
And his arts, like the bow of Ulysses, have tried him,
As they're us'd with effect by no mortal beside him.

But I mean not to wound, by ungenerous lays,
For there are who repine when the feat deserves praise.
E'en the laural-clad Murphy has felt their foul dart,
Tho' supremely adorn'd—in his head and his heart;
With a singular zeal they directed the blow,
Tho' he rose like Antæus, new-brac'd to his foe;
For his wit like the steel, by attraction made strong,
Had gather'd the lightning of Hate round his song;
Tho' all-furious it blaz'd, still his works are untomb'd,
And his name lives untainted, his verse unconsum'd.
When Candour assumes the dominion of men,
And Truth marks those beauties which flow'd from his pen;

190

When that muscle is worn, which once smil'd when dismay'd
And the long-hidden fangs by Destruction betray'd;
When the pallid Malevoli sink into dust,
And the heart's serious voice bids the action be just;
When Oblivion secretes the base party-bought rhyme,
And the points of their malice are blunted by Time;
Then Phœbus shall cherish that theme he inspir'd,
And his worth shall be deathless, his numbers admir'd;
Then Fame's best encomium, sweet Bard, shall be thine,
And Memory's offspring embrace thy cold shrine.

Mrs. WELLS.

Come hither, ye sculptors, and catch every grace,
That Fate interwove in a heaven-form'd face;
Come hither, ye pencil-deck'd artists, and seek
Those tints, with which Beauty has soften'd her cheek;

191

Come hither, ye minstrels, who charm the wild throng,
And list to the tones which sublime her meek song;
For 'tis Wells, the resistless, who bursts on the sight,
To wed infant Rapture, and strengthen Delight.—
When she smiles, Youth and Valour their trophies resign;
When she laughs, she enslaves, for that laugh is divine.
Those wreaths of fresh myrtle which circle her brows,
Were affix'd there by Wit when he issued his vows;
As omnipotent Love rais'd the theme by his sallies,
And Melody bless'd her from Arno's rich vallies;
How piteous this nymph should quit decency's rule,
And, like Helen, be scoff'd for a Fop and a Fool;
With the mien of an angel she bids tumult cease,
And moves like the halcyon sister of Peace,
As her port by the influence of Fear seems restricted,
And she looks like that Modesty Guido depicted.—
Her moist pulpy lips wear a lovelier hue,
Than cherries new dipp'd in Aurora's bright dew;

192

Her Jove-killing charms could call Wrath from his deed,
Re-humanize Timon, and fetter the Swede;
Meet the hope of Spain's Charles, from a diadem driven,
And by opening her bosom—receive him in heaven.

Tho' her mind with no rage of intemperance burns.
And the arts of false blandishment Nature inurns,
Yet her noon-tide of life has been warm'd by fair praise,
And she feels Approbation's meridian rays,
Which thaw her cold dreads by their genial heat,
And impell shrinking worth to a laudable feat:
The village-bred maid by base lovers distress'd,
Or the emblems of thought by its sorrows depress'd,
Suit her pensive capacity, fitted to give
Those traits where the delicate images live.—
When I speak of her Cowslip in terms of probation,
I speak of an act that defies emulation.
All her innocent wonders are touch'd with nice skill,
As she harbours resentment, unconscious of ill;
'Tis nature and knowledge most cunningly blended,
And the author's ideas are brighten'd and mended;
Like Trajan's fam'd column it equals desire,
And the more we behold it, the more we admire.—
In her Maud we survey a delectable union
Of Truth and Simplicity, met in communion;
And the strong combination of meekness and honor,
Seem habitual marks, and sit easy upon her;

193

The plaudits of Judgment she's sure to obtain,
As 'tis colour'd with neatness, and play'd—without pain.—
Her Bridget is every thing Sense can request,
'Tis diminutive vanity ably exprest;
Where vulgar Ambition on Decency treads,
Where base Apprehension a consequence dreads;
'Tis a brilliant example of imbecile art,
Where the moral by Folly's expung'd from the heart.
If Envy pursues this applause-listed dame,
The pursuit but implies she's an inmate of Fame;
—How hideous is Obloquy, lame and base-born,
To obscure Desert, like a fog in the morn;
With an indirect vision she looks at men's deeds,
And sows, as she wanders, Contumely's seeds;
Approves the heart's wish, when the heart goes astray,
And journies with Hatred to gladden her way:
To the virtuous she mutters a ruin-stamp'd curse,
And the half-fashion'd vicious she makes ten times worse;
Adheres to no point, but the wish to do ill,
And clings with fierce zeal to the credulous will;
Deprives Honor's martial descendants of life,
And gives hapless Love—to the murdering knife;
Offers Peace to hell's god as a bleeding oblation,
And smiles at the ravings of hot Desparation;
Grows pale and perturbed, when Merit is prais'd,
And pulls down that monument—Gratitude rais'd.

194

Mr. LEWIS.

'Tis said that the stars take a peep at our birth,
And give the young bipeds to Bacchus or Mirth,
To Minerva, the Muses, Bellona, or Beauty,
And the predestin'd instrument walks to its duty:
But when Lewis first met this gross world's chequer'd light,
They consign'd the brisk brat to the care of Delight;
Who call'd polish'd Elegance in to assist her,
As the boy met the nymph, and with extacy kiss'd her.—

195

The volatile particles strew'd in his brain,
Give a vif to his eye, like the froth of champaigne;
Which delectably bubbles commix'd with the liquor,
And makes the full tide of enjoyment run quicker;
Gives our feelings an edge which before was unknown,
And sublimes and new-regulates Sympathy's tone.

He exists 'mid the motley retainers of Fiction,
As an instance to reconcile all contradiction;
If unlearn'd, yet that want Judgment cannot upbraid,
His deportment's august, yet his limb's not well made;
His face has its charms in the eyes of the fair,
Yet that face is not form'd with peculiar care;
He commands not by height, yet that height always pleases,
His voice is not good, yet that voice never teazes;
In a word, the fond Graces in concert combin'd,
To conceal half the faults of his body and mind.—
Tho' he oft pleases Truth, yet will Truth oft confess,
He would please her much more, did he—shew his teeth less.
Indiscriminate grins, like professions at court,
Turn the Agents of Reason to objects of sport:
The impulse of each, the observant suspect,
And both lose their value in point and effect—
A comedian's face on the audience should pop,
Like the rubric post of a bookseller's shop;
Where Pope, Swift, and Gay, meet the eye in a range,
And the gazer knows what to expect for his change.

196

In short, as a herald, our senses to win,
Descriptive of all the best matters within.—

In those amblings of manhood, where Fashion decrees
That God's image erect, is offensive to—Ease;
Makes emphasis hateful to drawing-room sense,
And amputates words as a coiner clips pence;
There Lewis embraces the Muse's intent,
And yields the gay minx most extatic content—
He's dramatic noun, which is held undeclinable,
With a je ne scai quoi, that is quite undefineable;
And a talent to bandy a quaint turn of thought,
Which defies education, and cannot be bought;
An odd fascination he borrow'd from Fate,
Which can't be ingrafted, but must be innate;
Like the zest of a damsin that's pleasantly smart,
And makes the lips smack, after eating the tart:
Hence his Marplot, the rage of the critic has stood,
Hence his flippant Mercutio is quoted as good.—
When rank'd with his rivals, their boasting he martyrs,
For he struts like a Titan in Lilliput quarters;
As his compeers walk round him, look up, and revere;
And Lewis seems noble, for pigmies are near.

If you ask me to name a professional test,
Tho' his Faddle is prais'd, yet his Belcour is best—
It has happened from Bannister up to Kate King,
That their toils, as bucks phrase it, have not been—the thing.
They have wanted that undescrib'd gift half divine,
Which is known to us all, but is hard to define;

197

And if in some scenes, by a painful attempt,
They have rose 'bove the level of—common contempt;
Yet in spite we've beheld the low vulgaris'd token,
As the bricks oft appear where the plaister is broken:
For 'tis Lewis alone who is capable found,
To scatter with taste Fashion's roses around.—
In arranging the food of the mind for this age,
As the deputiz'd lord of Antiquity's stage;

198

He deserves from the Muses distinguish'd applause,
For preserving their interests, and loving their cause:
He is active, complacent, wise, vigilant, just;
And fulfils, with strong zeal, his ambition-fraught trust.
By a well-manner'd conduct he marshals the throng,
And kindly reproves where the action is wrong;

199

Often meliorates errors, deriv'd from his chief,
And alters, by stealth, his false creed of belief;
Supports abject Virtue, depriv'd of her throne,
And feeds the fair nymph in some corner unknown;
Introduces poor Merit, disguis'd, with a sigh,
And calls the youth Folly, suffus'd at the lie;
Binds his principal's brows with Discretion's soft wreath,
And puts gold in his coffers—in spite of his teeth.

Mrs. POPE.

Like Thalestria the Amazon, wise, bold, and strong,
See Pope lift her head 'midst the caballing throng;
Good sense thro' the range of her character flies,
It prevails in her action, and lives in her eyes;

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It prescribes the true bounds to a tragical start,
And tempers the ills of a feebly-wrote part.
She knows the grammatical rules of her duty,
Which aids a comedian, as neatness aids beauty;
Tho' 'tis possible both have made conquests without 'em,
The wiser examples are anxious about 'em.—
In the great points of acting, when Judgment's delighted,
The rays of concordance are aptly united;
The arm, and the voice, and the eye, and the mien,
Must all correspond to give force to the scene;
Abrupt oppositions the sense will confound,
Like a trumpet that's crack'd, or hiatus in sound;
It was qualified thus Pope besieg'd our affection,
And pleas'd the idea, when led by reflection.—
When first Desdemona is smote, as accus'd
By Othello, who raves that his wife has abus'd
The connubial bed; then her passions will rise,
Thro' a climax of grief, and engender surprise;
She attaches electrical force to her art,
And communicates woe to each auditor's heart.—
Her Sylvia's an elegant portrait which charms us,
Whose frankness subdues, and whose loveliness warms us;
A luxuriance of worth plays in Viola's duties,
And she gives Cowley's nonsense extraneous beauties.
If Siddons (who feeds on the fools of the minute,
And whose bosom retains all the furies within it,

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Tho' cold as the hall of a capon-fed vicar,
Whose tongue gives you prayers, but whose bounty no liquor,
Who writes her large name on base Flattery's card,
(Like Daffy's Elixir in Paul's funeral yard;)
All-buskin'd, with insolent stride, stalks before her,
The wise welcome Pope, and step forth to adore her:
Who despising those arts, by which Meanness has risen,
Hid her merits from Rumour, in Modesty's prison.—
Tho' delicate fears have oft sicklied her action,
Those fears ne'er reduc'd her strong force of attraction;
Such retreats made the judgment more keenly admire,
'Tis the something not granted which fans our desire,—
With the wings of an eagle she flew o'er her station,
And explor'd but those objects which grace our creation;
Still gliding content with the fame she had won,
Tho' nerv'd in her vision to flit round the sun;
While lapwings and owls flutter'd after their prey,
Till they lost e'en themselves in the blaze of the day.

Tho' her name always means what it should do—an host.
She often does least where she strives—to do most;
With an eager avidity, asking applause,
Tho' the end is denied by a sight of the cause:
Thus priests over-righteous their wishes defeat,
Thus swordsmen from zeal, have been wond'rously beat.

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'Tis in acting, like love, sometimes Chance plays the game,
And they're oft most successful who scarce ever aim;
Tho' by Science, and all her sweet inmates assisted,
This nymph had play'd better, had Yates ne'er existed.
But let not the children of Envy suppose
That Discernment and Pope have been frequently foes;
As she knows to anatomize purely her text,
And ne'er leaves the audience by Dulness perplext;
For there are, who would damn, by a bestial perception,
The loftiest ideas of human conception;
such animals mouthing that heaven-caught wit,
Which the sweet bard of Avon with energy writ,
Is by far more terrific to rational Fear,
Than Nero, who pour'd boiling lead in the ear.

But, alas! who can hope to be wise as they ought,
When the evils of life taint the progress of thought?
Like a snow-ball, the mind, fraught with peace in its prime,
Moves swiftly adown the steep shelvings of Time;

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Accumulates filth from Society's sons,
And strengthens and hardens its coat as it runs;
Till habit on habit is negligent laid,
And the object appears motley, vile, and ill-made;
At last, when its indirect wanderings are o'er,
And the sated despoiler can gather no more,
The form lies repos'd at the base of the hill,
A globular concrete of good and of ill;
As its worth has been mix'd with the radix of woe,
And the dirt of the valley has sullied the snow.

Mr. DARLEY.

To hear Darley mouthing his tempestuous numbers,
Would burst the strong bandage of Morpheus's slumbers:
When he tears, without Mercy, poor Music to rags,
It resembles stern Boreas untying his bags;
As the hurricanes, foster'd by Wrath, issue round
Humanity's offspring, to scare and confound:
But this minstrel would certainly add to our joys,
Could the dolt be persuaded to chaunt with less noise;
And Phœbus to Harmony sure would consign him,
Could the animal think, or would Arnold refine him.

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When he bellows in Hawthorn, or Sternhold, or Giles,
Sweet Poetry shudders, and Irony smiles;
Then all murd'rous he foams, like John Kemble in Lear,
Or a Goth hacking Wit with his Scythian spear.

By the Succubæ spawn'd, he was knit in an hour,
When some butcher was madden'd by Cynthia's power;
Who did the foul deed in a lunatic rage,
And jointed a monster to roar from the stage;
Who would freeze all the liberal functions of being,
By his iron-wrapt front, which appals while we're seeing:
But some tawny Egyptian was hurried to cure him,
Who touch'd him with spells, that the sense might endure him.
Behold! 'mid the harmonic Congress he stands,
Distress'd by the weight of two ox-knuckle hands;
And is mark'd from his peers, in an over-grown head,
Like the Israelite's food—by a symbol of lead.
But tho' Fate to his savage exterior's unkind,
He has blanch'd ev'ry ill by the worth of his mind;
Thus dainties and dirt mix like pigs in a litter,
And those nuts which are sweetest have husks the most bitter.

Mrs. KENNEDY.

See diffident Kennedy, gliding along,
Who's endear'd to each breast by the force of her song;

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For 'tis her voice alone that so aptly can fit
The Gallery, Boxes, and critic-cramm'd Pit;—
If it sometimes should fail to entrance cognoscenti,
It ravishes Britons—nineteen out of twenty;
'Tis a tenor so sheath'd with all Art can desire,
Cecilia might envy, and Gretry admire.—
She touches the ballads of love-lorn despair,
With accents denoting a mind worn with Care:
But no sick'ning cantabiles clog the essay,
Or mar the intent of her pastoral lay:
When Nature and Knowledge are thus counteracted,
'Tis not Skill ably manag'd, but Science distracted.

Is there one but laments that she e'er would assume
The habit of man, or the masculine plume?
Such an act lays the first corner-stone of Neglect,
And wounds that Attraction which feeds our respect:
If, to vitiate appetites, trash gives delight,
The daughters of Decency shrink from the sight;

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And depend on't that scene, tho' applause it beguiles,
Can ne'er be prais'd long, if not bless'd by their smiles.
Like the Chancellor's seal, which gives value to paper,
They raise that to worth which before was mere vapour;
And her name will be scoff'd if she wants such prudentials,
Like a weak plenipo who's forgot his credentials;
They are passports to Fame, which insure her civility,
E'en if Nature restricts the fair claimant's ability:
Lo! the Sight turns aside, as the Sight ever ought,
And tells what she's mark'd as offensive to Thought;
But tells it with sighs that most eloquent prove,
She arraigns a mild nymph she's accustom'd to love;
And vast must that worth be which thousands can warm,
Yet wanting the aid—of the delicate charm.

How potent that delicate charm moves each sense,
Of the hero created for Beauty's defence!
It steals o'er his manhood, and plays with his peace,
And bids in sweet tones the fierce attributes cease;
Tho' apparent too weak any conquest to claim,
It wounds the heart deep, when it takes the least aim;
It agitates nerves with a rapture-born fear,
Which brac'd the broad target, and brandish'd the spear.

Mr. F. AICKIN.

Where a bold striking contour encircles the part,
Where manhood should make an attack on the heart;

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Where ancient Ferocity stalks unrestricted,
Or the old hardy virtues are ably depicted;
Let Aickin come forward, with confident claim,
And create a glad theme for the clarion of Fame.—
Such excellent force makes him honour'd by those
Who have wounded loud Fustian by rational blows;
It speaks him possess'd of the truth-wrapt sublime,
And wearing a judgment that's mellow'd by Time.—
When Cantwell declaims with an hypocrite zeal,
His gesture, his tones, prove the actor can feel;
He besieges adroitly the family treasure,
And the Muse and Perfection behold him with pleasure.

Yet oft-times a painful anxiety seems
To encumber his art, and defeat his best schemes;
It bears the vile face of a tacit-told thought,
Which implies that the audience are not what they ought,
In the points of Attention to high-finish'd skill;
But obey a relax'd indiscriminate will:

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This hapless conception has frequently made
The sensible Aickin Discretion invade;
Who, by striving to give wond'rous force to his song,
Strides over meek Right to impregnate base Wrong;
Makes Clytus with vulgariz'd impudence strut,
Like a Dutchman who dares a dull boor to play put;
Or old Louis quatorze, in each Parisian street,
Who looks as if treading the world 'neath his feet:
Gives the mien of a bully to Rome's angry peers,
And too copiously weeps when Macduff tells his fears;
Calls the errors of Mossop from forth the cold grave,
By preserving those failings good sense would not save;

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And, by running beyond the original test,
Turns the emphatic tone to a laugh-burthen'd jest;
With his R's and his M's invokes Discord to sing,
Till the Theatre's caves with harsh consonants ring.
Thus his energy mars the heroics he launches,
As rude gusts of wind tear the leaves from the branches.

But whoe'er sees his Pierre, and with-holds his applause,
Must be envious of Merit, or dead to the cause:
'Tis a delicate morsel, high season'd and good,
That to minds well attun'd will prove excellent food.

Mrs. KEMBLE.

To those who feel bless'd in the gentler desires,
And light their enjoyments at Love's hallow'd fires;

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To those adult fancies, where Grief cleaves to live,
And imbibe a delight which her plaints cannot give;
To those who with saint-like compassion survey
The breathing memorial of Beauty's decay;
Let Sympathy's child, pallid Kemble, be brought,
And give mimic sorrow to pliable thought.—
Her face, by soft Pensiveness touch'd and resin'd,
Seems tinted with woe, by the toils of her mind.
So the bust of bright Venus, by Excellence made,
Looks dim and imbrown'd 'neath the willow's sad shade.—
Ah! where is this nymph, who so exquisite play'd?
To what point of the globe has the copyist stray'd,
Who gave rural Stella the heart-wounding moan?
Who made simple Yarico's terrors her own?
That nymph we lament, who could foster the tear,
Whom Honor applauds, and the Virtues revere,
Is now making a circuit thro' half-peopled towns,
And led by harsh Fate 'fore illiterate clowns;

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Where in heavenly accents the Passions she wooes,
With a glance of expression that's dear to the muse;
As the crowds half-observant, with apathy gaze,
Unimpress'd by her force, and unskill'd in her lays.—
Thus sweet flowrets decay, in the wilds' ruthless air,
Thus Pilon was known but to madd'ning Despair;
Thus Cunningham wasted his bay-circled deed,
And charm'd rustic worth with his pastoral reed.—
But to soften her wanderings, and calm her meek will,
And nerve her to bear such an aggregate ill,
Fond radiant Genii her labours shall greet,
And Aurora's blythe Fays wipe the dew from her feet;
Young Zephyrs repel each rude blast with their wings;
And Echo redouble the note when she sings.

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She is sentenc'd to Want, by an Emperor's command,
And lives an example that's shewn round the land;
To affright injur'd Merit, from waging big war,
Like the heads that once wither'd on old Temple-Bar;
Or the mummy that keeps famish'd warblers from pilllage:
Or the law-chissel'd stocks which appal the rude village
To deter from rebellion the Drama's proud peers,
By a loss more important than heads or than ears;
A suppression of salary, rank, food and fame,
With the libel of power affix'd to her name.

As the Ægis once blaz'd with a death-giving ray,
And expell'd mortal Pride 'yond the threshold of Day;
May the shield of her honor extinguish her foes,
And Peace sooth her bosom where-ever she goes.

Mr. BOWDEN.

Lo! favour'd by Fate, see a minstrel advance,
Led on by Absurdity, Joke, Love and Dance;
As the favourite of Fortune, and Sound's brazen son,
The appendage of Opera, and innate of Fun.

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Hark! the rout mad and frantic, their pæans prepare,
And alarm the responsive dependents of air;
As the Fawn with his thyrsus, obtrudes on the day,
And Circe all-hails the deprav'd roundelay.—
With a port meanly awkward, yet tacitly proud,
Like Xerxes he leads human dolts in a crowd;
Who imitate Jacob, and do themselves wrong,
By resigning each sense for a wit-chilling song.—
—That musical mania, which tortures the times,
Provokes my regret, and gives birth to my rhymes:
But Prudence demands, should that Folly disgust us,
Which is nurtur'd by Taste, and upheld by Augustus!!!
—I would probe with the knife of Severity deep,
In this base motley beast, that can sing, laugh, and weep;
But such toil I disdain, as an Opera at best,
Is an error-made monster, and national jest;
Manufactur'd the reason of man to affright,
Insulting our wit, while it flatters the sight;
Like the deity Jos, who absolves China's sins,
And is worship'd by fools, 'cause he's ugly and grins.

In opposing the follies and vice of the stage,
I must stand as a mark for the arrows of Rage;
Proscrib'd from those douceurs enjoy'd by that crowd,
Who are mean without merit, and servile tho' loud;
If I fall by Resentment, effecting my plan,
I hope when I'm martyr'd, to fall—like a man.—
Oh! I'm sick to the soul, to see Music alone,
Stretch her negligent length on the Drama's gay throne;

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Where Muses more honor'd by Wisdom should sit,
To adorn the heart's mirror, and fashion our wit.
Let the Wench have her place, as a Wench worth respecting,
But to wound her old sisters, is base and affecting:
As all the high orders of Science deplore,
That their use is neglected, and influence is o'er.—
Tho' obedient Shields charms the ear by his skill,
He exalts his meek name, by resigning his will.
And Linley pens canzonets Pleasure holds dear,
Tho' Pensiveness dims every note with a tear;
But Arnold steps forward with colossal stride,
To command in the van, and diminish their pride;

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Unabash'd he disports with the Orphean lyre,
As Judgment and Harmony temper his fire;
While the spirit of Handel, with rapture imprest,
Thinks the doomsday is o'er, and it flits mid the bless'd.

Public Taste is a despot which sports with the mind,
As inconstant as chaff that's impell'd by the wind;
It runs o'er the soil, like the serpent of Thebes,
And poisons our splendor, and roots up our glebes;
It exists in despite of the frowns of high Phœbus,
For the land is unbless'd with a letter'd Choræbus.
E'en the points of perfection are hid by its fools,
That Folly may sport with the Stygyrites rules;
But our weaknesses shoot in each progressive season,
As our lives are at best—a reproach to our reason;

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And we painfully think, at each revolving sun,
Of the little we did, and the much to be done:
Can we feel the quick pulse, run its race o'er and o'er,
And not dream that its warmth may this eve be no more?
Let Thought view the chiefs under Death's sable banners,
Then establish a moral to chasten our manners;
The lyrical Stevens, whose song bless'd the bowl,
And Mossop who knew measur'd thunders to roll;
With the elegant Digges, who could errors refine,
In puerile weakness met Nature's decline;
The ear-piercing rebeck no more shall awake 'em,
Or the terrors of Responsibility shake 'em;
Now Ross claims the tribute of public regard,
And beautiful Hartley from Hope pleads reward.
When Disease loos'd that zone which had brighten'd her day,
She threw Laughter's vizor indignant away;
Shun'd the gaze of that world, which she once met with pride,
Like a care-stricken doe, with the barb in her side.

Miss BRUNTON.

When prodigies peep on the earth, or in air,
Mankind for some great revolution prepare;

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And somewhat like that may young Brunton be nam'd,
Who the meeds of Desert has successfully claim'd.—
Ere fifteen green summers had mellow'd her age,
She rush'd to the van of a profligate stage;
Threw Melpomene's robe o'er her juvenile shoulders,
And, seizing her bowl, shook the faith of beholders.—
Tho' her mind and her powers I gladly admire,
She has much to unlearn, and yet more to acquire;
But greatness is form'd from contracted beginnings,
As Scott made his plum by progressional winnings;
And the order of Corinth, whose value is known,
To embellish the pile, and give beauty to stone,
From a sprig of acanthus Callimachus made,
Which secluced a tomb with its reverend shade;
And Sculpture's in debt, when she noblest succeeds,
For this standard of Grace—to a basket and weeds.

Her voice and her body give birth to my wonder,
'Tis a marvellous instance of pigmy-born thunder;
'Tis a giant's big voice, when a giant's in ire,
Drawn forth from a frame shap'd for love and desire;
As a striking example, the curious may take her,
Where the chain of analogy's broke by our Maker;
Where opposite faculties press on the sense,
To poze and defy philosophic defence.

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Now her eyes flashing issue a heart-catching beam,
Now she rumbles out notes like a bear in a dream;
'Tis like Rodney's pursuits, or the acts of a jury,
A succession of deeds fraught with sunshine or fury.
As her merits are great, and her will seems obedient,
I'll teach her Propriety's happiest expedient.

Let Nature unshackled fulfil her calm duty,
As the twistings of infants are marshall'd by Beauty.
Let that serpent of Science the Stagyrite stole,
Lick the nerves of your system, and twine round your soul:
As the zig zags of Glory are harder to find,
Than the Lemnian maze or a Frenchwoman's mind.
In some versatile parts you must supplicate Fate,
That your gifts may change places like Vectius estate;
Remember in tragic exertions to blend,
Those acts which the million can feel and commend:
As Melpomene's honors are quaint and precarious,
And oft dwell in tricks that are false and nefarious:
For a cobweb partition but subt'ly divides
That effort an audience respects or derides;
And a sameness of e'en the best action will tire,
As the eye, like the Turk, many forms must admire;
And the sky gaily chequer'd's more pleasing to view
Than one wide expanse of etherial blue.—
Keep the interests of Farce at an unmeasur'd distance,
Nor e'er give that monster your potent assistance;

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Treat the Prompter the same as old hunks does his treasure,
Keep the man in reserve, to be mov'd at your pleasure,
But let not your faults into action seduce him;
Like hunks praise his virtues, but pray—never use him.
If you lean on his shoulders too oft for the cue,
That Fame which attends you will soon bid adieu!
And recede to give force to your action and fire,
As those who leap farthest must previous retire;
Avoid Snuff, as an instrument sent by Pollution,
To murder your accents, and young constitution;
It gives to vast Siddons her sharp nasal twangs,
And forms all those hooks on which Dissonance hangs;
When Nature on stilts, in heroics expires,
And that nymph gives Absurdity—all she desires.—
Make your voice, like an ally, your gesture befriend,
And arrange its beginning, its middle, and end;

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Preserve all the unities, true as they ought,
For they're full as essential to acting as thought;
And those rules by which Greece chain'd the Drama's decorum,
The play-wright and player should both have before 'em;
Nor e'er let a vulgar demeanour obtrude,
To debase your neat form, by a habit that's rude;
For e'en Venus offends, tho' the child of a Deus,
As she takes up her vest, to survey the glutæus.—
Let your notes touch the ear by nice skill-fraught degrees,
That their bursts may not wound, nor their tameness displease;
For those players exist, whose vile epicæne tones,
Resemble big thunder, or infantine groans;
As the bells of a convent unequal assail,
When Eolus sports with the fugitive gale:
You should meliorate both, and their harshness refine,
As the forge can make obstinate bodies combine:
Thus opposite elements profit by ire,
And the air in a rage oft regenerates fire.—
Study Reason's arpeggio to minister pleasure,
And keep relative notes in their relative measure.
Scorn to borrow from any, 'twill mislead your youth;
If you wish to improve, ope the folios of Truth;
For like Lebanon cedars, those graces you wanted,
Lose their worth, and decay when the root is transplanted.

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Write this rule in your mind, for tho' ideots may scoff it,
If you mean to act well—'tis the law and the prophet.
When Truth takes the helm, as the novitiates guide,
She may ride unappall'd where the rocks break the tide;
By her precepts enlighten'd, the actress explores
The heights and the shelvings of critical shores;
No malevolent Scylla need shake her with fear,
As the danger's far off, tho' the object is near;
Unobtrusively sweet, every cadence runs o'er,
And we hear till the wish craves each sense to have more.
Remember the stage is Morality's school,
Which should give social life both example and rule.
You must husband your pence, for that time may arrive,
When your wealth can alone keep attention alive;
As theatric commanders are apt to forget
That object to whom they're immensely in debt:
As boys use an orange, they deal with their prey,
Who the juice having squeez'd, throw the rind far away:
Thus Merit's destroy'd by each dramatic schemer,
Like Papists who furiously—eat their Redeemer.—

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Put your trust not in Princes, or oaths, or to-morrow;
See Pinto consum'd by the slow worm of Sorrow:
She's chain'd by cold Want and gives Horror a tear,
Who once held in bondage the national ear.—
Be jealous of every competitor guide,
Who would poison your fame, by debauching your pride;
For thus Envy creeps in, with her politic spite,
To hide infant worth, like the mantle of Night;
Even Garrick, like Saturn, by Terror betray'd,
Oft devoured that being his labours had made!—
Lay a curb on your transports, and govern your sighs,
To illustrate the passion which beams in your eyes;
And leave it to Nature to wring from your breast
That pathos which ought to be forceful exprest;
You must re-re-revise your professional errors.
'Till Labour shall fashion a grave for your terrors.

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Thus Florists trim plants that the stem of the flower
May be warm'd by the sun, and refresh'd by the shower.
But copy not Siddons in every start,
As to imitate aught is reducing your art;
Her masculine figure admits of a stride,
Which in you Common Sense would be apt to deride;
And select with much care the false taste from the true,
For what's pleasing in her may disgust us in you;
Be content with calm praise, when by Tragedy lur'd,
For but one is enjoy'd, where nineteen are endur'd.

Melpomene once was a nymph of respect,
Tho' now, like a strumpet, she's scoff'd by Neglect:
Time was when she summon'd her legions about her,
And Fashion was known to be wretched without her;
But, ah me! what a change! Lo, the Siddons is sleeping,
As Comedy triumphs, and Madness is weeping;
For the Sight 'gainst the Judgment has ceas'd to rebel,
And the pale pensive maniac's long been unwell;
As the dagger, the bowl, and the mien, all forlorn,
Unanimity gave to omnipotent Scorn;

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And her Ohs! and her Ahs! and her Starts! and her Stares!
Which so long have affrighed poor Wit from his prayers,
Are all laid in the dust, like mere mortal machines,
Since inquisitive Wisdom pervaded the scenes;
As Philosophy laughs at their comical doom,
And Reason, all-jubilant, sports on their tomb;
While Kemble desponding gives way to his fears,
And Davies is mute, and poor Hull hangs his ears.
Once Brinsley in sport aim'd a desperate blow,
Which shatter'd her influence, and murder'd her woe;
Tho' Fame clapp'd her wings, when she saw him indite it,
He has since curs'd the zeal which impell'd him to write it;
For he now lives in want, tho' his genius forbid it,
And the Muse shews her wound, and tells Richard—he did it.

Mr. WEWITZER.

In those portraitures tinted with Gallic grimace,
Who but Wewitzer's fitted to stand in the place?
But, like Hobson, the oaf is Necessity's debtor,
As the town calls him best, for the want of a better:

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In this dearth of desert, few his claims will examine;
Thus rats become dainties where God sends a famine.
As colloquial wit would embarrass his skill,
All the points must be modell'd to square with his will;
'Tis not equal to manage Thalia's tight rein,
When the jest-loving wench squeezes Laughter's warm brain.
Like a racer, light mounted, he oft wins the plate,
But is distanc'd with ease, if you add to his weight;
Yet his Caius and Clowns we may see and admire,
And his Bellair, like glass, is engender'd by fire.
When he's cast for old men, to elude keen Derision,
He should burn his white wigs, and recede from the vision:
For his character feels all Contempt can impart,
When he confident raves in a substitute part.
If an Edwin by Malady's tied to his chair,
Can a Wewitzer hope to succeed such a play'r?
Would not Truth be offended, and Sense cock her nose,
To view size-stunted Quick in tall Cambray's cloaths?
Tho' the universe Atlas could bear without dread,
A dwarf must be crush'd—with the world on his head.

Mrs. MARTYR.

See Harmony joyant burst wild on the stage,
To give a young sorceress up to the age;

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'Tis all-alive Martyr who claims Beauty's throne,
And marks indirectly each gazer her own.—
Feel the aggregate raptures that live in her sigh,
See the love-darting blaze of her black rolling eye;
Which eloquent speaks all the wish can desire,
And silently whispers—the pulse is on fire!
Mark that killing air-riant exalting her strains,
See Dignity bowing, and Passion in chains;
Not the regal Persephone look'd more divine,
Whom Dis bore triumphant to hell's aweful shrine:
Those rich sable locks, which o'ershadow her brow,
Frigidity warms and provokes the fierce vow;
In irregular ringlets they happily wave,
To hook the blithe hearts of the wise, young, and brave;
In delicious disorder they artlessly break
On those soft snowy mountains which hallow her neck.
Could Ptolemy's relict such witcheries have wore,
Who rul'd the Egyptians on Nile's fruitful shore,

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To have call'd such all-potent enchantments her own,
She'd have given a province, perhaps too—her throne;
For sure gallant Cæsar could never have fled,
Had tresses so lovely but play'd round her head.

While simplicity charms, shall her Phœbe be priz'd;
When she sings, that calm stillness is praise undisguis'd;
Her arch replication's her fame's surest guard,
And her Cherry demands every critic's reward:
But should sentiment fail in conveying its zest,
Her beauty obtrudes, and performs all the rest.—
In her happiest moments, when voice, grace, and ease,
Give the mirth-waking nymph every power to please;
Even Guilt forgets fear, and the sisters of Sin
Hear away all those woes which corroded within;
And her tones stop the rage of intemperate motion,
As oil smooths the swell of the turbulent ocean.
I know not that nymph who can wield Pleasure's dart,
With more skill to transfix the warm core of the heart;
Not the brunettes of Greece, nor those bright peerless maids
Who lay panting by groupes in Circassia's shades:—
Where she treads, bounteous Nature receives her with bliss,
And the sod gladly hails the pedestrian kiss;
The violets emulous blazon more blue,
And the hyacinth breathes with a gaudier hue;
Pomona's best gifts wear a lovelier bloom,
And the valley diffuses a richer perfume;
While the village-bred minstrels, subdu'd by her sound,
Throw their rude oaten pipes in despair on the ground;

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As Cynthia's light fairies, who flit from the day,
Peep from flow'ret buds, to catch bliss from her lay.
It is wond'rous to sing, but those Time-gather'd snows
Which the petrified bosom of Apathy froze,
With rapidity melt 'neath the beam of her eye,
As the Passions o'erleap their cold cell with a sigh,
Range at large thro' those regions to Happiness known,
And drag their old tyrant to Extacy's throne.

Mr. WILSON.

When the grim dart of Death (which was never known neuter)
Touch'd the warm spinal essence of matchless old Shuter;

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Gay Wilson appear'd somewhat aw'd by his dread,
As the droll locum tenens of comical Ned;
(Unfortunate Ned, who lov'd Virtue's behest,
Tho' his wit was a doubt, and his being a jest;
He marr'd those great faculties God had prepar'd him,
And died like a driveller, tho' Excellence rear'd him;
For with Tinkers and Taylors he jok'd and he booz'd,
Till the wine thro' the pores of his cranium ooz'd.)
But long since has been drove to the north of our isle,
To make Caledonia's gaunt family smile.—
When Wilson departed from Truth's rigid rules,
The defection seem'd only enormous to fools;
If he fail'd to adhere to the judicious letter,
Your hearty old men have not since been play'd better;
And the part of Don Jerome remains to be sold,
E'en tho' Edwin bid loud, with high-priz'd sterling gold:
And for want of a Hardcastle, Sense might admire,
Poor Goldsmith's broad pleasantries sleep with their sire:

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Tho' the Manager held not his merits too dearly,
No comedian's loss has been felt more severely.—
A strong zeal to be right made him oft seem untoward,
As some men become rash to avoid the term—coward;
If he bled in his fame for so noble a daring,
Still the folly was blanch'd by a spoil worth the wearing.
He resembled that soldier who mounted the wall,
In despite of the foe, or his general's call,
And tore down the standard, tho' bullets had lam'd him,
While tremb'ling Discretion imperiously blam'd him.
Oh! I love such an ardour that springs unaffected,
I honor the source, tho' the flame's ill directed;
I hate that cold bosom which starts at a leap;
In beings like those, the great attributes sleep;
Such caution makes Fate view his works with a tear,
For the meanest of all mean emotions—is Fear.

Turn your eyes to John Kemble, pert, prim, and erect,
An automaton actor, who's led by Defect;
That stalker who makes the sense doubt e'en reality,
That ill chizell'd stiff eldest son of Formality;
Cut and prun'd like the shrubs in a Dutchman's domain,
Where the beauties of Nature are artfully slain;
See he stumps o'er the stage, as the Twisses adore him,
And Ease and the Graces in fright scud before him.
From his full classic lip the minc'd periods steal,
For that God gave him thought who deny'd him to feel;
On the shelves of his mind, vile hyperboles sleep,
With maxims and indexes, heap over heap:

231

Mark the gallant Lord Gayville compress'd by his hands,
Like a taylor on drill in the yellow train-bands;
'Tis in all points of view so absurd an exertion,
His sister's mad Rosalind caus'd less diversion.
Had Seduction no chief better taught for her uses,
King's Place would want tenants, and Frailty excuses.
See! he moves as if Nature of warmth had bereft him,
And all the strong Passions disgusted had left him
E'en the thunder of Jove, or the element's ire,
Combining their wrath, could not kindle his fire.
If this is a rake, who all-hails Fashion's fiat,
He's been fed with restringments, and curtain-rod diet;
Tho' the scowl of his eye should seem ravenous for Beauty,
His heart and his limbs both rebel 'gainst the duty.
Will the Town permit Truth to be smote by Offence?
Cannot Cunning be drove from the regions of Sense?
Tho' Comedy's sinking like stars from their spheres,
Can we see her declension and govern our tears?

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So Gentleman Smith, whom the Muse lov'd and trusted,
Retreats from her service, annoy'd and disgusted;
Thus meek Montezuma, with horror retir'd,
And left a Banditti that spoil they desir'd.

Mrs. MORTON.

As the sad solemn Eve takes a peep and recedes,
The chaste-nurtur'd Morton for tolerance pleads;
But tho' Destiny narrows her simply-wrought feat,
Her will meets the act which is pleasantly neat;

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If the root won't admit of much ramification,
Those branches which spread bear the fruit of Duration:
'Tis that lunacy only can grandly offend,
When the exploit and capacity strongly contend.—
—To see Queensbury wedded to Marlboro's sweet daughter,
Or the rough Lord of Effingham sprinkling rose water;
The host of Bath Easton correcting dull sonnets,
Or Lady Page Turner new-darning old bonnets;
Would excite honest Rage to some act of hostility,
To drive such things back—to the paths of utility.—
That such wonders have happen'd, each hour brings witness,
And the sense waxeth wrath, when the talent wants fitness.

Mr. LEE LEWES.

Co-equal to Lun, in the pantomime graces,
Lee Lewes the dumb necromancy embraces;

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And the harlequin jerk is to him so attracting,
That it steals thro' his mien in colloquial acting.—
In the smart replication he mostly excels,
When Pertness or Wit in the character dwells;
His Flutter was great, but it dignified trash,
Like the heads of wise monarchs on base metal cash,
As of old in Ierne would currently pass,
When the phiz of black James made a crown of bad brass:
But the uniform traits were not constantly brought,
In the focus of Truth, to accord with the thought;
For his own understanding oft broke down the fence,
And the fop spoke at times like a coxcomb of sense.
His Razor's a copy of palpable mould,
Deriv'd from an origin sharp, true, and bold:
It is Woodward in voice, gesture, feeling, and feature;
And seems like a strange resurrection of Nature.

Mrs. WILSON.

Beneath some vile turf in her kindred clay,
The atoms of Wilson are melting away;

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In some negligent spot, with coarse thistles o'ergrown,
Far remote from her fathers, she moulders unknown:
In the heyday of life this incontment gipsey,
Seiz'd Pleasure's vast goblet, and drank until tipsy;
But Fate saw the deed and to Sickness consign'd it,
Thus the draught, like the Danube, left ruin behind it.
She was mown in the bloom, like a rose in its prime,
Ere her ringlets were thinn'd by the minions of Time.
Who can bring her gay wiles 'fore the Memory's eye,
And with-hold the big tear, or refuse the sad sigh?
Such reciprocal debts we should chearfully give,
As Hopes whispers Love, our remains may receive.—
Her death like those posts by a parish bestow'd,
Should shew her successors the regular road;
As in eloquent language her sepulchre tells,
She had stray'd from that mansion where Innocence dwells.
A bright maid who from ills can more certainly screen us,
Than the ton of flush'd Bacchus, or myrtle of Venus.

When she sung, her awards were the meeds worth imploring.
As the roof of the theatre rung with encoring;

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Tho' a bankrupt in voice, yet her spirit inspir'd,
And the points of her ditty were heard and admir'd:
In the vice-tinted Edging her powers best blaz'd,
There her artifice charm'd, and her method amaz'd!
For the low vulgar guile she so ably sustain'd,
That Perception had doubt if the cunning was feign'd.

Mr. CAMBRAY.

The chissel of Phidias, when fancy was warm,
Ne'er call'd out of stone a more exquisite form;
Tho' we read of his gods, and Antinous behold,
The figure of Cambray surpasses each mould;
And reduces their value as much in our eye,
As a Farren must feel when an Abington's by:

237

Like the taper and sun, tho' they both may be bright,
Weak beams are absorb'd—by superior light,
When he rav'd in young Ammon, his confidence slew him,
And his mental Bucephalus furiously threw him.—
He should stop the approaches of turbulent fire,
When Energy's heat would the passions inspire;
Such force, like a torrent, oppresses the sense,
And breaks down those dams Wit had rais'd for defence;
Spoils the regions of Taste unrestrain'd by command,
And, tho' meant for a blessing, inundates the land.—
His Jaffier, tho' deck'd with much personal grace,
Is a part that's too vast for his skill to embrace;
When he yields up his honor'd associate Pierre,
As the martyr to one weak uxorious tear;
No beam that's divine round his periods play,
No signs of the god lift the man from his clay;
'Tis a mortal exertion to Common Sense due,
That is well, but not great; and tho' pleasant, not true.

The labours of Garrick were labours that fed,
With salubrious sallies, the heart and the head;
A sweet mental diet correcting the bile,
Which it turn'd, by its passing, to excellent chyle;
A sublimate off'ring, just caught from the fire,
When Reason's bless'd heat bid all grossness retire,
That its subtelties then, more prevailing and pure,
Might probe Wisdom's wounds, and establish a cure;

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Raise a warfare 'gainst errors which Weakness prescrib'd,
And exterminate follies the system imbib'd.—

Ere he burst in Othello, to seize tragic spoils,
An over-strain'd policy ruin'd his toils:
Hideous puffs, like base Croats, were plac'd on each post,
To precede the dread march of the regular host;
Affirming the public in duty were bound,
To exalt this astonishing—mouther of sound!
So Kemble each day meets with Lunacy's praise,
Tho' Laughter destroys more than Madness can raise:
For puffs ill-conceiv'd, by such sinister elves,
Drag a ruin along, and recoil on themselves.—
Thus Hannibal felt, when his well-phalanx'd foes,
Led their legions the vow-shackl'd chief to oppose;
Drove his elephants back with unbounded destruction,
And what Pride meant as glory, Death us'd as Seduction.

Mrs. BROWN.

When a strange mawkish miracle crosses our road,
Or peeps unawares in the public abode,
John Bull, like a beast as he is, stares with wonder,
And cuts his rewards and his reason asunder!
Hence the deification of sapient swine,
Hence those dull sonneteers who made Jordan divine;

239

But as Envy is ever Calamity breeding,
Like the Demon who tickled our mother in Eden;
That base wench to oppose this divinity brought
A Brown Angel with every excellence fraught;
Then these petticoat chiefs met in aweful array,
As Momus and Mummery fed the loud fray;
In the Virgin, pert Tomboy, and all those mad misses,
Where Folly the skirts of Outrageousness kisses;
These heroines cuff'd, like your knights in old stories,
Or Ward and Mendoza for—vulgariz'd glories.
Thus each tugg'd the oar in the boat till she fretted,
And doubled, and wrangled, and laugh'd, wept, and sweated;
Till the Parent of Thunder's supreme resolution,
Extinguish'd the limbs of this low prostitution;
Then the issue was dreadful—poor Brown lost her honor,
As Fate, in a rage—threw the Jordan upon her.

Mr. BERNARD.

Agile Bernard, thro' George's three nations well known,
In Archer's disguise made his bow to the town;

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But who gave him that part, prov'd in fact but his foe,
As no bulwark he rais'd—twixt the groom and the beau.
'Tis the actors of France know the use of those arms,
Which were meant by our God anatomical charms;
Tho', if we may judge from our players strange duties,
All believe them incumbrances—none think them beauties!
And to prove how impatient their feelings abide 'em,
In the pocket or bosom with industry hide 'em:—
But that tale would amaze, such a tale could I tell,
That a country-bred actor play'd gentlemen well;
There the grant to do wrong but enervates the will,
And Nature unbridled, oft wanders to Ill.

If high-born example can qualify wrong,
Pleasant Bernard may quote England's historic song;
Warm and wild with his errors, unshackl'd he rov'd,
As the heart strongly urg'd what the mind disapprov'd:
Thus the jest-loving Charles, and his comic adherents,
Assum'd Britain's sceptre, as Laughter's vicegerents;
Having smil'd 'mid the Belgæ, they seiz'd Albion's throne,
When exotic follies corrupted their own.—

'Tis not ludicrous tricks can upraise a strange name,
Or give mask'd Desert to the volumes of Fame;

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For the part and the habit must both be convey'd,
To the critical eye, as the man and his shade.
—But let him not droop at his fate, or regret it;
When the diamond is polish'd, the public will set it;
Tho' the town and the claimant oft growl when they meet,
Yet Custom at length makes their bickerings sweet;
Till enraptur'd his feebleness Charity sees,
And their atoms commix by a chain of degrees.
If an actor for years has repeated a crime,
Still the edge of that error is blunted by Time;
Hence Hull is permitted his post to retain,
And the tones of a Bensley are heard without pain!!!
The audience of London, (thus all know the case is)
Are notoriously fond—of old friends and old faces!
And well must he know all the wiles of Seduction,
Tho' indebted to Wit for a brief introduction;
Who by efforts of dignified worth can remove
The fim harden'd base of their old fashion'd love;
For misled by its whisperings oft Judgment retires,
While Peace warms the bosom with Amity's fires.

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Mrs. PLATT.

As Purity stalks with a taper before her,
See Platt look on heaven, while vestals adore her;
Tho' a mistress by name, still the nymph's a mere miss,
As her lip never met the connubial kiss;
If giggling spinsters by myriads have throng'd to it,
She abhorr'd the enjoyment, and all that belong'd to it.
No vile flaunting roses are seen in her breast,
She laughs not at saucy Indecency's jest;
She ne'er was relax'd by young Love's fierce offences,
Tho' Time's busy handmaids have jaundic'd her senses.
A strong dread of the Incubi cleaves round her soul,
And holds all her passions in trembling controul;
For she suffers no thing, in the shape of a man,
To peep o'er her tucker, or play with—her fan.
When this tulip of maidenhood first saw the light,
Her brows mark'd the infant—a foe to Delight;
The first words that escap'd, in a soul-heaving sigh,
Were Man is a monster! pish! psha! and oh fie!
Like a sensitive plant known by innate debility,
She trembled, and shrunk from—the touch of virility;
On her lack-ruby lip, see 'tis written most clearly,
—Who-e'er ventures here—shall be punish'd severely;
Not the frozen Lucretia, whom Vice put her feet on,
Or the scar'd Britomartis who div'd from the Cretan;

243

Or the cold headless Winifred, dear to North Wales,
Nor Ursula holy, of whom they've wove tales,
With the thousands of virgins she piously led,
And who Claude on the canvas still keeps from the dead,
Were half so precise, lofty, cautious or chaste,
For no masculine finger e'er sullied her—waist;—
That waist which ne'er swell'd by a warm constitution,
Like the conjurer's circle, defies all pollution.
She oft carols sweet, tho' she never sings loud,
And the end of each ditty is—woman be proud.

I ne'er saw her play but nine times in my life,
And each portrait was then—nor maid, widow, or wife;
But like Mecca's fam'd tomb that's suspended on high,
A strange thing unattach'd to the land or the sky;
A ridiculous biped (for Spleen had suborn'd it,)
That just trod the stage, but—to shew how it scorn'd it.

Mr. QUICK.

With his gibes and his quiddities, cranks, and his wiles,
His croak and his halt, and his smirks and his smiles;

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View the smart tiny Quick, giving grace to a joke,
With a laugh-loving eye, or a leer equivoke.—
Madam Spleen shuns that rogue with particular care,
And flies to a palace, to keep from Despair:
She hates the blythe dwarf with immoderate rage,
And for fear of his power ne'er visits the stage;
Or e'en ventures abroad, her fix'd dreads have so won her,
Except with a duchess or stray maid of honour.

Of all the bright parts which he fills with high credit,
His Drugget's the best, and 'tis Judgment has said it:

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There are others more priz'd by a common affection,
But none that so nearly approaches perfection.—
A great part of the audience alone feel delight,
When the heart can be mov'd thro' the medium of sight;
Tho' the sound's as important, when artfully stealing
Thro' the chinks of the ear it alarms all our feeling;
But seeing's the grand and the primary sense,
Thro' which every nerve receives bliss or offence;
Turns the force of the relative four to a jest;
For the sight, like a bawd, prostitutes all the rest.

With an inborn regret, and a sigh that's conceal'd,
He joins Mummery's flag in the dramatic field;
Yet the act's not his own, 'tis swoln Folly demands it,
And he must be obedient, when Fashion commands it:
There's sorcery in nonsense which leads us astray,
Tho' Wisdom attempts to exorcise the way;
We're bewitch'd from ourselves, in an imbecile nick,
And subscribe to the art, tho' we talk 'gainst the trick;

246

As prudes rail at passion, with vehement din,
And profess to chain sense, tho'—they privately sin.—

It is strange to assert, but 'tis Truth tells the story,
That your small individuals are dearest to Glory:
It should seem that the souls of diminutive men,
Are too vast for their brittle corporeal den;
And impel their possessors o'er mountains to leap,
While the big race of mortals half petrified sleep:
Hence Berlin's late lord made the world kiss his rod,
And the victor of India was hail'd as a god;
While chiefs full as valiant are kept from the fray,
As their minds are depress'd—by the weight of their clay.

Mrs. MATTOCKS.

With a sort of a cobweb-like half-tatter'd pride,
That is gay but not good, like a lustring thrice dy'd;

247

With the jerk of a Thais, an eye mark'd by Cunning,
And a small mincing step that's nor walking or running,
All-confident Mattocks befeather'd descry,
Who, ere her tongue speaks, her front says—here am I!
In high life or low, in the palace or cot,
Her mind's leading feature is never forgot:
Be the part old or young, witty, flippant, or dull,
A rustic, a countess, a romp, or a fool;
The jig indecorous steps in to confound it,
And like dogs when distracted, runs rapidly round it—
Unappropriate grins, like a fool at confession,
Or the shrugs of a Gaul at the void of expression;
With impertinent titterings, make up that measure,
Which Wit meant an offering for rational Pleasure.—
She was once prais'd by Truth, happy, artless and gay,
But a wish to be more makes her efforts outrè;
Thus old belles patch their wrinkles when vanities mad 'em,
To regenerate charms they mis-us'd when they had 'em.
When she aped Lady Racket (as Phrenzy once tried her)
Her address near effected what Nature denied her;
The bold minx turn'd a thief, in the Muses' abode,
And stole all she could, from bright Abington's code;
She would hide the rich theft, when the credulous praise her,
But Truth draws the curtain, and, angry, betrays her;
Now 'tis seen thro' and thro' by a curious eye,
Like the transparent wing of a summer-dry'd fly;

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Or the unnapp'd remains of—an honest man's coat,
Or the old water-mark of a hacknied bank-note.

Mr. HULL.

Lo! Chearfulness flies from the haunts of poor Hull,
Who's adust, melancholic, somnific and dull;
The flame of his mind lacks additional fuel,
His passions are cold, and his words—water-gruel:
Like a walleted pilgrim, he looks desolation,
As his eye craves from Pity the timely donation!
No tons of impulsive phlogiston were treasur'd
In the stores of his frame, when his vitals were measur'd;

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For th' Almighty design'd him in buskins to tread,
As a tyrant in wood, like the Saracen's head.—
Like a poor knight of Windsor, by royalty drest,
His honours but make him—the but of a jest;
With a sense-goading lisp he pursues his vocation,
And feeds half the fools who profess—Imitation!
Borrows six pounds a-week from the ill-gotten treasure,
And murders the idiom of Britain at pleasure.—

To lacerate acting like his with my pen,
Where charging a cannon, to tear—a poor wren;
Let the man have his broth, and applaud the Creator
That Charity marshals the scenic narrator;
Tho' we all must feel bless'd at the tragical fact,
When the Bard slaughters Hull—in the Drama's first act.
He once sought the Muses conven'd in their bowers,
To claim a reward for his poetic powers;
When he ask'd for his caput some decent apparel,
They gave him a night-cap—instead of a laurel!
To shield Dulness' seat, from the pressure of pains,
And preserve all that fungus his God meant for brains.—
In verbal arrangements he's chief mid the chimers,
And an excellent helpmate to Bell's flying rhymers.
Or to grace his Pantheon, with poppy bound rods,
Be drawn as a Morpheus to honor his Gods.
He may then highly strengthen the interests of Sleep,
Whose toils have too long made our Aristarchs weep.
But minstrels like Hull, fret this Saturn-crush'd age,
And encumber the closet, as well as the stage;

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We have Greatheads and Yearsleys, and Sewards, and Mores,
Who rave with Cimmerian influence by scores;
A Beotian husk, for such faculties fit,
Enfolds their ideas and cases their wit;
Who count their minc'd periods, as misers count pence,
And first think of harmony, then—think of sense;
Who have glean'd fertile Byche of all good he can yield,
As the poor of the hamlet strip Ceres' rich field;
Who coldly correct, have accomplish'd their ends,
By the dull visitation of classical friends;
Tho' no grain of rich ore gives true worth to the mine,
Tho' no feature of Genius illumines a line;
Who fine-draw the delicate theme from the head,
And toil at the texture, and rhime themselves dead;
But such phrase-haberdashers and epithet finders,
Are not poets innate, but mere Poetry-grinders.

251

How Dryden would smile, could he rise from the dead,
And behold such refin'd—preparations of lead!—
When the half famish'd Bard gives his Wit-woven lay,
From the jaws of the press, to the broad eye of day;
Who draws on his fancy for viands and raiment,
And sinks into woe, if he fails—in prompt payment.
Uncandid Reviewers, abusing their duties,
Will feed on his errors—but sleep o'er his beauties:
For, alas! he's too poor to suborn one vile name,
To forge a base draught on that prostitute Fame;
Then like villainous watchmen, corrupted by pence,
They'll wink at a thief, but insult Common Sense;
If rich, they'll applaud Hawkins' trash to the skies,
If poor, Otway's labours affect to despise!
—Sure Phœbus in ire will lift up his hand,
And strike, like the Python, such plagues from the land.

Mrs. WEBB.

Like a lusty old Sybil, who rambles elate,
With a raven-ton'd voice, to anticipate Fate;
Mark Webb, like a whale, bear her fatness before her,
As the sprats of the Drama for mercy implore her;

252

Her high-garnish'd phiz give young Pleasantries birth,
And her well-fed abdomen's a mountain of mirth:
See the coarse-hewn old Dowager's mix'd with the rest,
Like a piece of brown dowlas near lace from Trieste;
And darts her huge beak for the prizes and pickings,
As an overgrown hen amidst delicate chickens:
Impertinent Doubts run to measure her size,
While Temperance looks at her frame with surprise.
Her airs are as harsh as a Brighthelmstone dipper,
And loosely assum'd like a pantaloon's slipper;
Tho' base without force, like the oath of a harlot,
Or the impudent grin of a shoulder-deck'd varlet.—
This mould of the fair sex is true female stuff,
And warm at the heart, tho' her—manners are rough:
Like Queen Bess she disdains the resistance of man,
And knocks down a peer with the end of her fan;
Old Care knits his brows to coerce and impale her,
And eyes her with hatred, but dare not assail her.
For social contumely cares not a fig,
For if none call her great, all the world swears she's big.
She's a beef-lin'd adherent to thundering Rage,
And a prop of vast import to Wit and the stage;
But Bards have too potently season'd her song,
Which like garlic in soup makes the pottage too strong:
For by playing old furies so apt and so often,
No human device can the habitude soften;
Thus an exotic sapling we frequently see,
When engrafted by Art, become part of the tree.—

253

So poignant a mind in a vulgariz'd shell,
Resembles a bucket of gold in a well;
'Tis like Ceylon's best spice in a rude-fashion'd jar,
Or Comedy coop'd in a Dutch man of war.

Mr. RYDER.

When Ryder, with sighs, left that mirth-loving spot
Where the sins of the man in the friend are forgot;

254

All-bounteous Ierne, who gives drink and diet,
But when Gratitude speaks—bids the crater be quiet!
With his faults on his forehead he met the fierce eye
Of those critical squadrons who write—but to lie.
As it ne'er was his subtle and illusive lot
To envelope what is, by a shew of what's not;
His performance was bold, if not always correct,
And his mien, like his mind, was august and direct.
But this is a land where Deception embraces
The mean fawning caitiff who Nature disgraces;
And transcendent Ability cannot protect
Its own proper lord from the public neglect;
There's a social sophistry crept into life,
Which keeps modest Merit and Honor at strife;
For the surface contents those averse to much toil,
And but few take the pains to examine the soil;
Such men, like th' Ephemera, should rapid decay,
And be born, blaze, and perish, within the same day;
As their praise puts the kindred of Doubt into motion,
Like a lawyer when caught—at religious devotion.—

Those actors there are, who have touch'd silly hearts,
Impell'd by a congress of pitiful hearts;

255

Upheld by those Journals which blaze in the day,
Tho' their numbers and jarrings lead Reason astray;

256

Unknown to example, he acts from his feeling,
And scorns his compeers who get rich by their stealing.
Iv'e seen him play Wolsey with wonderful force,
I've seen him in Zanga draw tears from their source;
His Ironside, Hob, Scrub, Tom, Scapin, and Ben,
Are parts where he equals the dramatists' pen;
And his Miser, like Rigby's blithe board, when he treats,
Is surrounded by richness, and pregnant with sweets;
Propriety smiles in such habits to find him,
As he leaves all his rivals at distance behind him.—
Had the Graces but moulded his visage and figure,
In the censor's stern eye no adept would seem bigger:
He has failings, 'tis true, but where's he who has none?
Yet his faults are like blots in the radiant sun;
Which Envy had dash'd, but she found by Surprise
That the beam of his excellence dazzl'd her eyes.

The FRY.

If such heroes and nymphs are scarce worth critic powder,
In the Drama's vast regiment no bipeds are louder;
And tho' all may be class'd as the Scions of Nature,
There's none deserve rank in my proud nomenclature;
See! they look dim and sculking, like Ivy-lane bards,
Or club's dingy knave on an old pack of cards;
Or Falstaff's recruits, or a limb of the law,
When Loughborough chills the black caitiff with awe;
But these children of Nothingness feed the depravity,
By viewing their size in the mirror's concavity:

257

A great part were engender'd, when Nature was tir'd
With chisseling beings the world have admir'd;
As Augustus turns buttons, and Louis seize dances,
When matters of moment have moider'd their fancies:
So Wedgwood, when all the fine clay is destroy'd,
Which in elegant forms he so ably employ'd;
To fulfil and amuse his industrious wishes,
Manufactures and kneads hideous pipkins and dishes.
But the Stage, like a huge caravan, takes in all,
The erect, the infirm, lofty, worthless, and small;
Like Debret's Foundling Hospital, issued each season,
Where dolts rank as wits, who have scarce human reason.—
Yet among them some few have deserv'd Merit's wreath,
As health-giving herbs deck the russet-clad heath;
And Fame says no object more strongly can please her,
Than when men in the ranks own the soul of a Cæsar.
Like Stevens and Rock, who both honor probation,
And in humble attempts seize the Town's estimation;
A few grains of true worth in their characters settle,
As chalybeate waters are freighted with metal;
Which receiv'd in small draughts do the animal good,
But if ta'en in large goblets would sicken the blood.—
Stern Cubit's low life is an excellent test,
For his Gibbet was ne'er better play'd or exprest;
And Gardener's broad firm manly figure contributes
To keep scenic Lords from Derision's high gibbets.—

258

Poor Thompson the modest, first stole on the scene,
Incrusted with baseness, repulsive and mean;
So the bodies of mummies are hid with asphalthum,
For thus Zeal deck'd the breathless, when Zeal would exalt 'em;
But the labours of Habit have made him a new-man,
As she lick'd off his filth, till the oaf appear'd human.
As for Blurton, and Bonville, and Painter, and Helme,
Who're created each muse to oppress and o'erwhelm;
Fame throws them in heaps with contemptuous quickness,
As Turks use the dead in a national sickness.—
Mark the old tabby Davenet, Tweedale, and Brangin,
Who are ever on tags of false rhetoric hanging;
'Tis strange, but these grubs view a town-favour'd sister,
With a scowl that speaks plainly they wish to resist her;
And greedily look with an eye as voracious
As intent, as all-grasping, as fierce and rapacious,
As the nurse views our cash on a baptismal night,
Or a miser the means of terrestial delight;
Or an Africain chieftain his enemy slain,
Or a kite who's long flitted o'er Sarum's wide plain;
Or a virgin who's hopes are decay'd she once built on,
Or the liveried sharks of great Pembroke at Wilton!—
Tho' each minx knows I'm right, yet like villains in grain,
There's not one will confess that there's fact in my strain;

259

And if forc'd to speak truth, they as tremblingly tell it,
As the hand which bestows the first-fruits of a prelate;
Or Melpomene's arm over Gower-street dishes,
When she carves fatless joints—for the slaves of her wishes;
Who sit in pale congress, encircling that place,
Where she measures banyan—for her circumscrib'd race.

As the theme is exhausted that first fed its fire,
I'll resign to Repose, both myself and my lyre;
Now Satire is dumb, let the miscreant rejoice
That Indolence fetters the springs of his voice:
Farewel to the buskin, the sock, and the truncheon,
Now Folly may riot, and Vice chew her luncheon;
Gaunt Falsehood and Fraud will mislead Britain's youth,
As the diurnal puff shall eclipse antient Truth:
Be pert, ye base sinners, for who can ye dread,
Now Equity's silenc'd, and Chastisement dead?
Now the mean and malicious may crawl from their dens,
And kick the deserving, and brandish their pens;
Dame Linley may cripple Old Drury at pleasure,
And Sheridan seize—the superfluous treasure!!!
While Kemble, who Joy's roseate family slashes,
Shall dress all the Muses—in sackloth and ashes.

E'en that august Bard must my senses resign,
Imperial Shakespeare, supreme and divine.
As the clay of his frame lay benumb'd in a dream,
On the violet-clad bank of smooth Avon's clear stream,
The Genius of Albion defended his slumbers,
Lest Guilt should obtrude, and disjoint his sweet numbers:

260

The Muses, tho' coy to the rest of mankind,
Ran jocund to light the vast caves of his mind;
Bore his harp to Minerva, who marshall'd its sound,
And hung Fancy's elegant symbols around;
As the sacred minstrel imbib'd in his thought,
All that Destiny will'd, or that Heaven had wrought;
With his keen mental eye Nature's source to discern,
Pass'd o'er the dread fence of Mortality's bourn;
Presum'd thro' the mists of Tartarean gloom,
And hail'd the lean Fates at their ominous loom;
Dash'd the horrors he saw with his spell working pen,
Then awoke with the scroll to raise wonder mid men.—
But should I lament in prophetic despair,
Should my song be replete with the axioms of care;
When a Star in the East, all resplendently rises,
Which Phœbus illumines, and Excellence prizes?
Its appearance proclaims that Offence is suppress'd,
That Candour shall govern, and Talents be bless'd:
So in Bethlem the light 'midst the peasantry shone,
And gave to Hope's bosom sweet transports unknown;
Its radiant beam waken'd Raptures within,
And promis'd Redemption from Sadness and Sin.—
—May no mean narrow maxims oppose its progression,
May no sinister tyrants enchain the profession;
May its influence be broad as the realms of the day,
Where Wit, without insult, may offer his lay;
May its members be brilliant in wish and in action,
May theit deeds give the lie to the page of detraction;

261

May the lovely Pierides temper their fire,
And point out those chords on the Orphean lyre,
By which the young Thracian subdu'd the wild throng,
And forc'd savage Nature to melt at his song.
May its base by the wealthy and wise be supported,
May its firmest adherents be cherish'd and courted;
May the smiles of Morality shield its good name,
And the pen of bright Genius consign it to Fame!

End of the CHILDREN of THESPIS.