A new collection of Original poems Never Printed in any miscellany. By the Author of Sir Walter Raleigh [i.e. George Sewell] |
 |
|
TO Major PACK,
|
 | A new collection of Original poems |  |
63
TO Major PACK,
Requesting him to write TRAGEDY.
See how the Muses undistinguish'd lie,
Bards after Bards, like common Mortals, die!
The Stage declines—while Shakespear's Fire on Flight
Darts faintly back, and leaves a glimm'ring Light.
To You it points—to save the Blaze from Death,
And re-inspire it with uncommon Breath.
Thus once to chear his great desponding Sire,
O'er young Ascanius hung the sacred Fire.
Catch the glad Omen—stop the Stage's Doom,
And in Britannia found a second Rome.
Bards after Bards, like common Mortals, die!
The Stage declines—while Shakespear's Fire on Flight
Darts faintly back, and leaves a glimm'ring Light.
To You it points—to save the Blaze from Death,
And re-inspire it with uncommon Breath.
Thus once to chear his great desponding Sire,
O'er young Ascanius hung the sacred Fire.
64
And in Britannia found a second Rome.
How many English Chiefs whose Names survive,
In long dull Annals, ought in Verse to live:
Their Wounds like Cæsar's in our Shakespear's Song,
Open, and ask the Musick of thy Tongue.
What Nymphs by Fate to hapless Love decreed,
Might rise by Thee, and wish again to bleed?
But if the Hero less deserve thy Care,
A Warrior-Poet should record the Fair.
In long dull Annals, ought in Verse to live:
Their Wounds like Cæsar's in our Shakespear's Song,
Open, and ask the Musick of thy Tongue.
What Nymphs by Fate to hapless Love decreed,
Might rise by Thee, and wish again to bleed?
But if the Hero less deserve thy Care,
A Warrior-Poet should record the Fair.
'Tis true, the Theatre, like Egypt's Soil,
With Famine plagu'd, and worn with fruitless Toil,
Wisely the Product of thin Harvests fears,
And lives upon the Crop of former Years.
But what is this to Thee, whose gen'rous Hand,
Can pour a Nile upon the barren Land?
All Ruins call for Pity, chiefly those,
Where Arts have flourish'd, and where Learning rose;
The fall of dull Bœotia we can bear,
But who sees Athens now without a Tear?
With Famine plagu'd, and worn with fruitless Toil,
Wisely the Product of thin Harvests fears,
And lives upon the Crop of former Years.
But what is this to Thee, whose gen'rous Hand,
Can pour a Nile upon the barren Land?
65
Where Arts have flourish'd, and where Learning rose;
The fall of dull Bœotia we can bear,
But who sees Athens now without a Tear?
Be it no Terror to thy daring Muse,
That the just Town our Impotence accuse;
That Poetry is now Mechanic made,
And Boys bound 'Prentice to the Muses Trade;
Who lur'd by Vanity, or forc'd by Need,
Begin to write, as soon as they can read.
That the just Town our Impotence accuse;
That Poetry is now Mechanic made,
And Boys bound 'Prentice to the Muses Trade;
Who lur'd by Vanity, or forc'd by Need,
Begin to write, as soon as they can read.
The Ancient Mine is yours, thence freely draw,
While Fancy paints, and Judgment gives the Law,
Language, and Manners, and the stealing Pow'rs,
That win the Heart, flow from a Soul like yours.
While Fancy paints, and Judgment gives the Law,
Language, and Manners, and the stealing Pow'rs,
That win the Heart, flow from a Soul like yours.
66
If not convinc'd, you baulk the courting Stage,
Think of the next degenerating Age,
In what a faded Light thy Scenes they'll see,
Since we are Mortal all—the World agree,
Oldfield and Booth—as well as—You—or me.
Think of the next degenerating Age,
In what a faded Light thy Scenes they'll see,
Since we are Mortal all—the World agree,
Oldfield and Booth—as well as—You—or me.
| A new collection of Original poems | |