The Works of the Late Aaron Hill ... In Four Volumes. Consisting of Letters on Various Subjects, And of Original Poems, Moral and Facetious. With An Essay on the Art of Acting |
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PROLOGUE.
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 | The Works of the Late Aaron Hill |  |
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PROLOGUE.
Spoke by Mr. Johnson.
Tonight, no languid love shall dare complain:
Woe, far more serious, asks more serious pain;
Critic, be ours; 'tis now, the patriot's cause;
What Briton wars, on liberty—and laws!
Sweet liberty! thou sunshine of the heart!
Thou smile of nature! and thou soul of art!
Without thy aid, no human hope could grow:
And love, and wealth, and wisdom, were but woe!
Thine, in all ages, all the wise and brave:
No hero ever was—or wish'd a slave.
Woe, far more serious, asks more serious pain;
Critic, be ours; 'tis now, the patriot's cause;
What Briton wars, on liberty—and laws!
Sweet liberty! thou sunshine of the heart!
Thou smile of nature! and thou soul of art!
Without thy aid, no human hope could grow:
And love, and wealth, and wisdom, were but woe!
Thine, in all ages, all the wise and brave:
No hero ever was—or wish'd a slave.
BRITAIN, fair Queen of states! feel if thou can'st,
Feel thy own happiness—'Tis all thou want'st:
Blest Isle! while every groaning nation, round,
Bows, to the servile yoke, ignobly bound,
Thou, from their confines, and their miseries, rent,
Safe, sea-set gem!—thy own, great continent!
Shew'st a tame, truckling world, one generous land,
Where power ne'er prosper'd, in a tyrant's hand!
Live, ye brave guardians of your country's cause!
Live, and give freedom life, by living laws.
From your white cliffs, look round a world enslav'd;
And hug th' asserted rights, your fathers sav'd.
Feel thy own happiness—'Tis all thou want'st:
Blest Isle! while every groaning nation, round,
Bows, to the servile yoke, ignobly bound,
Thou, from their confines, and their miseries, rent,
Safe, sea-set gem!—thy own, great continent!
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Where power ne'er prosper'd, in a tyrant's hand!
Live, ye brave guardians of your country's cause!
Live, and give freedom life, by living laws.
From your white cliffs, look round a world enslav'd;
And hug th' asserted rights, your fathers sav'd.
But, while slow-rous'd, your dreaded arms prevail,
And commerce, spite of envy, spreads her sail,
Stoop not to forfeit Wits all-bright'ning claim:
Sword, Trade, and pen, should guard the conqu'ror's fame.
Taste, for yourselves—be all French power disdain'd:
Not e'en a slave wou'd bear his fancy chain'd.
Off with their fripp'ry modes—their Kings, in vain,
Attempt us—shall their cooks, and taylors reign?
Cross 'em, in taste, dress, politicks,—and dance;
Scorn, e'en, a Step, that leaves the lead, to France;
Smile at the pride, their light stage-cap'rer feels,
Firm-standing Britons need no flying heels.
Rise, rise, lost muse! re-wake the slumb'ring scene,
Teach show, to animate—and sound, to mean.
Solemn, and high, new-string the tragic lyre;
Tempt back the Poet's God, to lend his fire.
Here, must he dwell; his face no slave dares see,
And who, not British-born, is, now, left free?
And commerce, spite of envy, spreads her sail,
Stoop not to forfeit Wits all-bright'ning claim:
Sword, Trade, and pen, should guard the conqu'ror's fame.
Taste, for yourselves—be all French power disdain'd:
Not e'en a slave wou'd bear his fancy chain'd.
Off with their fripp'ry modes—their Kings, in vain,
Attempt us—shall their cooks, and taylors reign?
Cross 'em, in taste, dress, politicks,—and dance;
Scorn, e'en, a Step, that leaves the lead, to France;
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Firm-standing Britons need no flying heels.
Rise, rise, lost muse! re-wake the slumb'ring scene,
Teach show, to animate—and sound, to mean.
Solemn, and high, new-string the tragic lyre;
Tempt back the Poet's God, to lend his fire.
Here, must he dwell; his face no slave dares see,
And who, not British-born, is, now, left free?
Hither, from Rome, Rome's antient genius flies:
For fancy cannot live, where courage dies,
Hail, my last hope, she crys—inspir'd by me,
Wish, think, talk, write, and act—for liberty.
Yet—would you build my fabrick, to endure,
Be your hearts warm, but let your hands be pure.
Never, to shine, yourselves, your country sell:
Displac'd, think nobly: when in power, act well.
Agree, like modern, fight, like antient, Rome:
War but abroad—and taste sweet peace, at home.
Let no self-server, general trust betray;
No pique, no party bar the public way:
Front an arm'd world, with union on your side,
No foe shall shake you—if no friends divide.
For fancy cannot live, where courage dies,
Hail, my last hope, she crys—inspir'd by me,
Wish, think, talk, write, and act—for liberty.
Yet—would you build my fabrick, to endure,
Be your hearts warm, but let your hands be pure.
Never, to shine, yourselves, your country sell:
Displac'd, think nobly: when in power, act well.
Agree, like modern, fight, like antient, Rome:
War but abroad—and taste sweet peace, at home.
Let no self-server, general trust betray;
No pique, no party bar the public way:
Front an arm'd world, with union on your side,
No foe shall shake you—if no friends divide.
| The Works of the Late Aaron Hill | |