 | Poems (1806) |  |
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ADDRESSES.
183
AN ADDRESS, INTRODUCTORY OF Mrs. SIDDONS,
ON THE FIRST NIGHT OF HER ACTING IN EXETER, IN 1789.
To please our patrons, who with liberal aim
Light up to public view the Muse's flame;
And by our grateful ardours to repay
Each smile that fosters the dramatic lay—
Be this, whate'er the worth we boast beside,
The noblest triumph of ingenuous pride.
Light up to public view the Muse's flame;
And by our grateful ardours to repay
Each smile that fosters the dramatic lay—
Be this, whate'er the worth we boast beside,
The noblest triumph of ingenuous pride.
Warm'd by these feelings, we call forth to-night
Those magic powers that minister delight;
Your various minds impatient to direct
To every fine theatrical effect—
The pale dejected eye to Pity dear,
And Hope, mild-beaming through the tender tear;
Delicious Griefs that melting bosoms move,
And the soft languish to the light of Love;
Affections that in filial transport glow,
Or swell with all the energy of woe;
The speechless Agony that chills and fires,
'Till the tear trembles, and the sigh expires;
Those looks, that, sudden, the whole heart unfold;
The thrilling pause; the glance, with horror cold;
And, wildly darting into passion's storm,
A soul that lightens, at one flash, the form—
These—these in grand succession shall appear
Triumphant!—for we hail a Siddons here!
Those magic powers that minister delight;
Your various minds impatient to direct
To every fine theatrical effect—
The pale dejected eye to Pity dear,
And Hope, mild-beaming through the tender tear;
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And the soft languish to the light of Love;
Affections that in filial transport glow,
Or swell with all the energy of woe;
The speechless Agony that chills and fires,
'Till the tear trembles, and the sigh expires;
Those looks, that, sudden, the whole heart unfold;
The thrilling pause; the glance, with horror cold;
And, wildly darting into passion's storm,
A soul that lightens, at one flash, the form—
These—these in grand succession shall appear
Triumphant!—for we hail a Siddons here!
And while, from all her richly-blooming bowers,
Her patriot progeny Devonia pours,
And sends exulting, from the rural shades,
In many a beauteous groupe her blushing maids;
While Isca bids the loveliest of the fair,
Their wreaths of glory to a Siddons bear;
Enamour'd Taste and Elegance shall own
A charm in every look, in every tone;
Diffuse congenial raptures 'mid the throng,
At each impassion'd accent of her tongue;
Fill with responsive drops the sparkling eyes,
And raise in many a bosom kindred sighs;
'Till in these sympathies herself she view,
And all her merits re-appear—in you!
Her patriot progeny Devonia pours,
And sends exulting, from the rural shades,
In many a beauteous groupe her blushing maids;
While Isca bids the loveliest of the fair,
Their wreaths of glory to a Siddons bear;
Enamour'd Taste and Elegance shall own
A charm in every look, in every tone;
Diffuse congenial raptures 'mid the throng,
At each impassion'd accent of her tongue;
Fill with responsive drops the sparkling eyes,
And raise in many a bosom kindred sighs;
'Till in these sympathies herself she view,
And all her merits re-appear—in you!
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Hence shall divine Philanthropy confess
Each selfish joy, each selfish sorrow, less!
Hence patriot Virtue a new fervor feel;
Hence Loyalty shall burn with double zeal!
Each selfish joy, each selfish sorrow, less!
Hence patriot Virtue a new fervor feel;
Hence Loyalty shall burn with double zeal!
Ev'n now, as kindling through her raptur'd vales,
Her Monarch's friendly smile Devonia hails;
Improv'd by tragic scenes shall every mind,
And each warm heart with feelings more refin'd,
A richer incense of affection bring,
And, duteous, greet their Parent in their King!
Her Monarch's friendly smile Devonia hails;
Improv'd by tragic scenes shall every mind,
And each warm heart with feelings more refin'd,
A richer incense of affection bring,
And, duteous, greet their Parent in their King!
P.
186
AN ADDRESS, SPOKEN BY Mrs. SIDDONS,
ON THE LAST NIGHT OF HER ACTING IN EXETER, 1789.
Disguis'd no longer by the scenic mask,
To speak with justness is no easy task.
Methinks the hackney'd theme I would not prove
Of fulsome compliment, or mean self-love:
Yet, though some doubt, some danger, I perceive,
I must not, cannot, take a silent leave.
To speak with justness is no easy task.
Methinks the hackney'd theme I would not prove
Of fulsome compliment, or mean self-love:
Yet, though some doubt, some danger, I perceive,
I must not, cannot, take a silent leave.
Whate'er my powers—if tender Pity came,
Glow'd on your cheeks, and trembled through your frame;
If, at my bidding, terror struck the soul,
If (while Despair press'd onward to its goal)
Madness rush'd in, and Horror's aweful form
Imperious urg'd the wild conflicting storm;
Whate'er my pow'rs—if faithful to their aim,
'Twas but my duty, and what you might claim.
Glow'd on your cheeks, and trembled through your frame;
If, at my bidding, terror struck the soul,
If (while Despair press'd onward to its goal)
Madness rush'd in, and Horror's aweful form
Imperious urg'd the wild conflicting storm;
Whate'er my pow'rs—if faithful to their aim,
'Twas but my duty, and what you might claim.
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Yet, be this honest pride to night confest—
With no inglorious art I mov'd the breast,
Aided the Muse, enforc'd her moral laws,
Nor rous'd the passions, but in Virtue's cause.
With no inglorious art I mov'd the breast,
Aided the Muse, enforc'd her moral laws,
Nor rous'd the passions, but in Virtue's cause.
Let me be proud, (base flattery I disdain)
That mute attention listen'd to my strain;
That Candour heard well-pleas'd, and Taste refin'd,)
Which guides each nicer impulse of the mind.
Your echoing plaudits ne'er shall I forget;
Distance or time shall not erase the debt.
That mute attention listen'd to my strain;
That Candour heard well-pleas'd, and Taste refin'd,)
Which guides each nicer impulse of the mind.
Your echoing plaudits ne'er shall I forget;
Distance or time shall not erase the debt.
Accumulated thanks I owe to you
For a lov'd brother, and a sister due;
Here have they past the happiest of their days,
Oft have their tongues been lavish in your praise.
For a lov'd brother, and a sister due;
Here have they past the happiest of their days,
Oft have their tongues been lavish in your praise.
Farewell!—this conscious heart knows how to prize
A liberal audience; the true worth of sighs,
Of tears, whose fountain in the ingenuous soul
No sordid mixture owns, no vile controul;
The sighs which burst, the sacred tears which flow,
From that pure source of sympathetic woe.
Farewell!—such merit ever condescends—
May I presume to say—Farewell, my friends?
I will—for none but Envy can repine,
When I dare call the friends of virtue—mine.
A liberal audience; the true worth of sighs,
Of tears, whose fountain in the ingenuous soul
No sordid mixture owns, no vile controul;
The sighs which burst, the sacred tears which flow,
From that pure source of sympathetic woe.
Farewell!—such merit ever condescends—
May I presume to say—Farewell, my friends?
I will—for none but Envy can repine,
When I dare call the friends of virtue—mine.
D.
188
A POETICAL ADDRESS TO A WIDOW LADY, OVER A DISH OF TEA IN HER HERMITAGE.
In this lone cot, which female hands have grac'd
With all the wildling fantasies of taste;
Where the forc'd trees in Gothic arches frown,
And boast a wreath of mosses not their own;
Where pillar'd birch-bark shews its silvery hue,
Mounts up the sides, and flourishes—in glue;
Where India bends her smooth fantastic root,
And Indian figures sprawl on every shoot—
In this lone cot, miscall'd the Hermit's cell,
No Hermit ever is design'd to dwell.
To spread his sallad on the maple stool,
To catch the clear stream in his beechen bowl;
And every eve, as louder sounds yon rill,
And yon high tower sinks fading from its hill,
To lift his soul in rapturous prayers on high,
Feel his fine spirits mounting to the sky;
And see at times the angels, hovering o'er,
Fling wide their robes, and blazon all the bower.—
With all the wildling fantasies of taste;
Where the forc'd trees in Gothic arches frown,
And boast a wreath of mosses not their own;
Where pillar'd birch-bark shews its silvery hue,
Mounts up the sides, and flourishes—in glue;
Where India bends her smooth fantastic root,
And Indian figures sprawl on every shoot—
In this lone cot, miscall'd the Hermit's cell,
No Hermit ever is design'd to dwell.
To spread his sallad on the maple stool,
To catch the clear stream in his beechen bowl;
And every eve, as louder sounds yon rill,
And yon high tower sinks fading from its hill,
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Feel his fine spirits mounting to the sky;
And see at times the angels, hovering o'er,
Fling wide their robes, and blazon all the bower.—
For such high ends this cell was not design'd:
It owns a genius of a gentler kind.
Here a fine Lady from Park-lane retires,
And blends the Hermit's and the Courtier's fires;
Now dips in ancient or in modern lore,
Tastes as she reads, and lives past ages o'er;
Now, gayly thoughtful, or politely free,
Lights up the mirth of soft society.
The Hermit's beads around her neck she wears;
The Hermit's bowl in China's earth appears;
His maple board mahogany supplies;
And, for his sallad, tea and coffee rise.
It owns a genius of a gentler kind.
Here a fine Lady from Park-lane retires,
And blends the Hermit's and the Courtier's fires;
Now dips in ancient or in modern lore,
Tastes as she reads, and lives past ages o'er;
Now, gayly thoughtful, or politely free,
Lights up the mirth of soft society.
The Hermit's beads around her neck she wears;
The Hermit's bowl in China's earth appears;
His maple board mahogany supplies;
And, for his sallad, tea and coffee rise.
But one thing still is wanting to the whole;
The body asks an animating soul.
Without a warbler, what's a gilded cage?
Without a Hermit, what's a hermitage?
Take therefore, Madam, one monition well,
And place a Reverend Hermit in your cell.
Then shall to you the Saint's gay visions rise,
Then his elysium open to your eyes,
And all the angels, that should tend him near,
In their best forms—as boys and girls—appear.
The body asks an animating soul.
Without a warbler, what's a gilded cage?
Without a Hermit, what's a hermitage?
Take therefore, Madam, one monition well,
And place a Reverend Hermit in your cell.
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Then his elysium open to your eyes,
And all the angels, that should tend him near,
In their best forms—as boys and girls—appear.
W. R.
| Poems (1806) | |