The Histrionade Or, Theatric Tribunal; A Poem, Descriptive of the Principal Performers at Both Houses. In Two Parts. By Marmaduke Myrtle [i.e. Thomas Dermody] |
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| 2. | PART THE SECOND. |
 | The Histrionade |  |
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2. PART THE SECOND.
When two dire Chiefs determin'd battle wage,
Firm to assert the Empire of the Stage,
'Mid the conflicting havoc of the Scene,
How bold the critic-wight who steps between!
From either party, he has cause to dread
Theatric thunders vollied at his head;
For while Diurnal Swiss are kept in pay,
A war of words prolongs th' immortal fray.
But I, who, haply, from no danger shrink,
Where nothing more is shed than harmless Ink;
Who, blest in secret vanity can smile
At the smooth scandal of the Grubean style;
Nor should some wretched imp my verse defame,
Run, in a pet, to hang myself for shame;
I, to both sides, can patiently attend,
With all the candid coolness of a Friend,
The friend of Truth, whom, obstinately right,
No favors soften, and no threats affright;
Who with my Master's maxim still agree,
That “Those who're Slaves to All, are Slaves to Me.”
Hence, no licentious torrent of abuse,
Shall mark for Billingsgate my maiden Muse;
O'er the pure mirror of whose modest cheek,
The vestal blushes of the Morning break;
Hence, I, to humblest Merit homage pay;
Or censure in the honest eye of Day;
Proud, to the Worthies of my native shore,
To add one manly Son of Satire more.
Firm to assert the Empire of the Stage,
'Mid the conflicting havoc of the Scene,
How bold the critic-wight who steps between!
From either party, he has cause to dread
Theatric thunders vollied at his head;
For while Diurnal Swiss are kept in pay,
A war of words prolongs th' immortal fray.
But I, who, haply, from no danger shrink,
Where nothing more is shed than harmless Ink;
Who, blest in secret vanity can smile
At the smooth scandal of the Grubean style;
34
Run, in a pet, to hang myself for shame;
I, to both sides, can patiently attend,
With all the candid coolness of a Friend,
The friend of Truth, whom, obstinately right,
No favors soften, and no threats affright;
Who with my Master's maxim still agree,
That “Those who're Slaves to All, are Slaves to Me.”
Hence, no licentious torrent of abuse,
Shall mark for Billingsgate my maiden Muse;
O'er the pure mirror of whose modest cheek,
The vestal blushes of the Morning break;
Hence, I, to humblest Merit homage pay;
Or censure in the honest eye of Day;
Proud, to the Worthies of my native shore,
To add one manly Son of Satire more.
By Nature form'd in happiest hour, to raise
The fainting energy of former days;
To lend strong sense each amiable charm,
Sublimely wild, or masculinely warm,
Whose fine conceptions ev'ry heart engage,
Thee, Cooke, I hail, the Wonder of the Age!
A Meteor, whose abrupt, but bright career,
Mocks the dim lustre of each lower sphere.
Oh! could great Shakespeare, by some magic pow'r,
Awhile forsake his amaranthine bow'r,
Lap'd in Elysian slumber, where he lies,
And view thy Richard with paternal eyes;
How would his ghostly visage learn to glow,
And his glad hand th' eternal wreath bestow?
Nor, less, would thy Iago, please the Sire,
Whom, villain as he is, we must admire;
Whose sly suggestion, and insidious lure,
At once, deceive the Audience, and—the Moor.
Well might old Massinger thy worth repay,
With the best branch of his immortal bay;
Neglected bard! whose spirit lives anew,
When thou pourtray'st the fiend his fancy drew.
Who can presume, successfully, to find
The secret sources of thy copious mind?
When, transmigrating to each Poet's thought,
Thou'rt, now, the murd'rous Jew, anon, the wily Scot!
The fainting energy of former days;
To lend strong sense each amiable charm,
Sublimely wild, or masculinely warm,
Whose fine conceptions ev'ry heart engage,
Thee, Cooke, I hail, the Wonder of the Age!
A Meteor, whose abrupt, but bright career,
Mocks the dim lustre of each lower sphere.
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Awhile forsake his amaranthine bow'r,
Lap'd in Elysian slumber, where he lies,
And view thy Richard with paternal eyes;
How would his ghostly visage learn to glow,
And his glad hand th' eternal wreath bestow?
Nor, less, would thy Iago, please the Sire,
Whom, villain as he is, we must admire;
Whose sly suggestion, and insidious lure,
At once, deceive the Audience, and—the Moor.
Well might old Massinger thy worth repay,
With the best branch of his immortal bay;
Neglected bard! whose spirit lives anew,
When thou pourtray'st the fiend his fancy drew.
Who can presume, successfully, to find
The secret sources of thy copious mind?
When, transmigrating to each Poet's thought,
Thou'rt, now, the murd'rous Jew, anon, the wily Scot!
For some bold flights, the vulgar tribe decry,
Barren of heart, who comment with the eye,
I quarrel not with thy stupendous soul,
Nor for a petty blemish blame the whole;
Such glorious faults have lighten'd, not obscur'd,
And Genius would but languish, were they cur'd.
Yet, much as I thy mental strength applaud,
And, dreadless, blow thy public praise abroad;
By puffing sycophants beleagur'd round,
Who swell plethoric Pride beyond all bound,
Who, madly, mingle thine with Garrick's name;
Mistake not their vile stuff for solid fame:—
Dare to despise encomium, when unjust,
Nor Managers themselves, too surely, trust;
For tho' they rule the roast, we, now and then,
Clearly discern that Managers are Men.
Two errors gross I wish thee to amend,
And, freely, note them, for that wholesome end.
In ev'ry character, thy features wear,
Unchang'd, and stiff, one harsh, sarcastic sneer;
Keen Penetration, vainly strives to trace
One wond'rous shift of the cameleon face;
When, for the diff'rent lineaments, we look,
Of diff'rent men,—we find tis 'only Cooke;
And thy deportment, could plain Truth persuade,
Should call the absent Graces to it's aid.
Barren of heart, who comment with the eye,
I quarrel not with thy stupendous soul,
Nor for a petty blemish blame the whole;
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And Genius would but languish, were they cur'd.
Yet, much as I thy mental strength applaud,
And, dreadless, blow thy public praise abroad;
By puffing sycophants beleagur'd round,
Who swell plethoric Pride beyond all bound,
Who, madly, mingle thine with Garrick's name;
Mistake not their vile stuff for solid fame:—
Dare to despise encomium, when unjust,
Nor Managers themselves, too surely, trust;
For tho' they rule the roast, we, now and then,
Clearly discern that Managers are Men.
Two errors gross I wish thee to amend,
And, freely, note them, for that wholesome end.
In ev'ry character, thy features wear,
Unchang'd, and stiff, one harsh, sarcastic sneer;
Keen Penetration, vainly strives to trace
One wond'rous shift of the cameleon face;
When, for the diff'rent lineaments, we look,
Of diff'rent men,—we find tis 'only Cooke;
And thy deportment, could plain Truth persuade,
Should call the absent Graces to it's aid.
Of Johnston much:—upon his bosom-throne
Sits Judgement, and Expression is his own;
All forms, tho' widely varied, fit him well,
A vent'rous youth! impatient to excell;
Who no supply from Imitation draws,
But rests on his own passions for applause.
Thus, ev'ry movement, forcibly, betrays
He is the very Douglas that he plays,
Self-taught, self-modell'd, by no slavish awe
Deprest, nor shackled by pedantic law.
The roughest task, with vigor, he assails,
And is Original where ev'n he fails.
Sits Judgement, and Expression is his own;
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A vent'rous youth! impatient to excell;
Who no supply from Imitation draws,
But rests on his own passions for applause.
Thus, ev'ry movement, forcibly, betrays
He is the very Douglas that he plays,
Self-taught, self-modell'd, by no slavish awe
Deprest, nor shackled by pedantic law.
The roughest task, with vigor, he assails,
And is Original where ev'n he fails.
With pow'rful tones, whose silver sound can call
Heroic heat, or musically fall,
Supremely gifted, Cory stands the chief:
And where the wither'd Captive pours his grief,
Or tott'ring Age recounts his former woes,
An equal interest his spirit shews.
Why, then, to any one, scant walk, confin'd,
That clear perception and impassion'd mind?
Why? but to give those tow'ring Lords the road,
Whose buskin'd feet should still the Barn have trod.
Heroic heat, or musically fall,
Supremely gifted, Cory stands the chief:
And where the wither'd Captive pours his grief,
Or tott'ring Age recounts his former woes,
An equal interest his spirit shews.
Why, then, to any one, scant walk, confin'd,
That clear perception and impassion'd mind?
Why? but to give those tow'ring Lords the road,
Whose buskin'd feet should still the Barn have trod.
What sprightly feature, and elastic limb,
Lewis, evince the very soul of Whim,
When, spite of Gout, and ruinous decay,
The frolic Graces waft thee on thy way?
Florid in youth, methinks, I see thee rise,
Shew thy white teeth, and roll thy leering eyes,
As tho' Medea's cauldron had renew'd
Thy waning bloom, and fir'd thy frozen blood;
Or Hermes, banish'd for some heav'nly scrape,
Had sought the Garden, and assum'd thy shape!
How many a gasping Scene, not dead outright,
Rais'd by thy spell, has liv'd it's little night;
'Till stun'd by Opposition's final blow,
It sunk, sad martyr! to the realms below,
In peaceful lethargy where farces rot,
And literary follies are forgot.
Surprising Actor! o'er thy future bier,
Witlings unborn shall stream the filial tear;
Fop-hunting Playwrights persecute no more,
But R---give “his occupation o'er.”
Lewis, evince the very soul of Whim,
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The frolic Graces waft thee on thy way?
Florid in youth, methinks, I see thee rise,
Shew thy white teeth, and roll thy leering eyes,
As tho' Medea's cauldron had renew'd
Thy waning bloom, and fir'd thy frozen blood;
Or Hermes, banish'd for some heav'nly scrape,
Had sought the Garden, and assum'd thy shape!
How many a gasping Scene, not dead outright,
Rais'd by thy spell, has liv'd it's little night;
'Till stun'd by Opposition's final blow,
It sunk, sad martyr! to the realms below,
In peaceful lethargy where farces rot,
And literary follies are forgot.
Surprising Actor! o'er thy future bier,
Witlings unborn shall stream the filial tear;
Fop-hunting Playwrights persecute no more,
But R---give “his occupation o'er.”
On droll Ned Shuter greybeards may debate;
Others on Edwin, tho' of later date;
Yet much I doubt, could that facetious Pair,
With Munden, now, co-equal honors share;
So scrupulous of Character, you guess,
Before he speaks, his manners by his dress.
Prim Prudence may forgive the merry sin,
When happy thousands join in his broad grin,
For, seldom, does he, by distortion strive
To keep one, long, fatiguing laugh alive!
But, certain his unerring shafts will hit,
Luxuriant revels thro' a wild of wit.
Others on Edwin, tho' of later date;
Yet much I doubt, could that facetious Pair,
With Munden, now, co-equal honors share;
So scrupulous of Character, you guess,
Before he speaks, his manners by his dress.
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When happy thousands join in his broad grin,
For, seldom, does he, by distortion strive
To keep one, long, fatiguing laugh alive!
But, certain his unerring shafts will hit,
Luxuriant revels thro' a wild of wit.
Of true Milesian make, a sturdy rogue!
Rich in spontaneous impudence and brogue;
With not a little native humour blest,
A brawny back, but an untainted breast;
Johnstone, the scowling front of Care defies,
But is, by far, too merry to be wise.
In the low Teague, unrival'd he must stand,
Neat as imported from that famous land,
The land of Bulls! whence studiously, he draws
Such genuine mirth, as must extort applause,
While Reason laughs, and wond'ring asks the cause?
Whate'er cold-blooded Sages may aver,
Who, gravely, on the side of Wisdom err,
Ev'n Wisdom's self might speak in his behalf,
Who wreathes on Sorrow's lip the guiltless laugh.
Rich in spontaneous impudence and brogue;
With not a little native humour blest,
A brawny back, but an untainted breast;
Johnstone, the scowling front of Care defies,
But is, by far, too merry to be wise.
In the low Teague, unrival'd he must stand,
Neat as imported from that famous land,
The land of Bulls! whence studiously, he draws
Such genuine mirth, as must extort applause,
While Reason laughs, and wond'ring asks the cause?
Whate'er cold-blooded Sages may aver,
Who, gravely, on the side of Wisdom err,
Ev'n Wisdom's self might speak in his behalf,
Who wreathes on Sorrow's lip the guiltless laugh.
Should liberty of conscience be allow'd,
To differ from th' Inquisitorial crow'd,
So much do I despise that rabble-throng,
Who, always, are most clam'rous in the wrong,
That I must freely own, among my crimes,
I do not relish Fawcett, at all times.
Monotonous mimicry; and pert grimace,
I hold, most suited to the monkey-race;
And, often, I must deem that waggish clan,
Superior to their clumsy copyist, Man,
When, awkwardly, he apes their nimble pranks,
And to his blushing brethren, looks—for thanks!
Yet to his Pangloss be my tribute paid,
Where all the formal Pedant is pourtray'd;
Where archest Humour wears the solemn smile;
And triumphs in it's old Cervantic style.
To differ from th' Inquisitorial crow'd,
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Who, always, are most clam'rous in the wrong,
That I must freely own, among my crimes,
I do not relish Fawcett, at all times.
Monotonous mimicry; and pert grimace,
I hold, most suited to the monkey-race;
And, often, I must deem that waggish clan,
Superior to their clumsy copyist, Man,
When, awkwardly, he apes their nimble pranks,
And to his blushing brethren, looks—for thanks!
Yet to his Pangloss be my tribute paid,
Where all the formal Pedant is pourtray'd;
Where archest Humour wears the solemn smile;
And triumphs in it's old Cervantic style.
More genuine strokes of exquisite delight,
Enrich thy pure performance, modest Knight!
Skill'd a sincerer transport to impart,
And seeming artless, prove the height of art.
Yes! I prefer thy unassuming ease,
Without laborious struggle, sure to please,
To all that toilsome drudgery for fame,
Which, often in our time, extorts a name.
If dignified deportment, decent grace,
And just delivery deserv'd a place,
Murray should, surely, not remain unsung:—
For strong Conviction dwelt upon his tongue;
Each period with energic vigour flow'd;
And Action the last, brightest charm bestow'd.
This once was Murray—Murray has thought fit
To take a higher aim, but fail'd to hit;
Not satisfied with Nature, the proud elf
Would be more natural than Nature's self.
Who that has seen his Ghost, if not a post,
Has not enjoy'd so laughable a Ghost?
Now, drawling the sad sentence, dismal deep,
Now, cutting short the cadence, with a clip.
Nor Ghosts alone, in this strange language prate,
His poor, old Clytus shar'd no better fate,
When Lacy (what a hero, sev'n feet high!)
In Alexander made me almost cry.
So great the falling-off, to Murray's shame,
I must enrol with Betterton his name.
Enrich thy pure performance, modest Knight!
Skill'd a sincerer transport to impart,
And seeming artless, prove the height of art.
Yes! I prefer thy unassuming ease,
Without laborious struggle, sure to please,
To all that toilsome drudgery for fame,
Which, often in our time, extorts a name.
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And just delivery deserv'd a place,
Murray should, surely, not remain unsung:—
For strong Conviction dwelt upon his tongue;
Each period with energic vigour flow'd;
And Action the last, brightest charm bestow'd.
This once was Murray—Murray has thought fit
To take a higher aim, but fail'd to hit;
Not satisfied with Nature, the proud elf
Would be more natural than Nature's self.
Who that has seen his Ghost, if not a post,
Has not enjoy'd so laughable a Ghost?
Now, drawling the sad sentence, dismal deep,
Now, cutting short the cadence, with a clip.
Nor Ghosts alone, in this strange language prate,
His poor, old Clytus shar'd no better fate,
When Lacy (what a hero, sev'n feet high!)
In Alexander made me almost cry.
So great the falling-off, to Murray's shame,
I must enrol with Betterton his name.
In early youth, ere Sorrow could remove
The soft congenial sympathies of Love,
Oh! Pope! thy sighing Romeo would impart
Divine sensations to my tender heart;
But now, alas! too gross to feed on air,
No more the lank Disciple of Despair!
When for thin shape, and woe-worn look I seek,
I view a Falstaff's paunch, and Friar's cheek,
Tho' still thy mellow accents melt the soul,
And thy sweet periods musically roll.
She, too, who, erst, as Campion charm'd my ear,
Nor did less lovely to my eye appear,
Has felt th' impairing hand of cruel Time;
Yet waste of beauty is a venial crime,
And could, for ever, Helen's form remain,
Lo! needless would be Homer's matchless strain!
The soft congenial sympathies of Love,
Oh! Pope! thy sighing Romeo would impart
Divine sensations to my tender heart;
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No more the lank Disciple of Despair!
When for thin shape, and woe-worn look I seek,
I view a Falstaff's paunch, and Friar's cheek,
Tho' still thy mellow accents melt the soul,
And thy sweet periods musically roll.
She, too, who, erst, as Campion charm'd my ear,
Nor did less lovely to my eye appear,
Has felt th' impairing hand of cruel Time;
Yet waste of beauty is a venial crime,
And could, for ever, Helen's form remain,
Lo! needless would be Homer's matchless strain!
A Stripling-hero, next, attracts my view,
Nor shall he miss the meed to Merit due;
For tho' perhaps, too much confin'd by rule,
He has not studied in a vulgar School.
'Tis Siddons' Son! that magic name alone,
Might for more glaring blemishes atone,
Did his ingenuous diffidence, demand
A partial eulogy, at second-hand.
Not such the case; instinct with native fire,
His talents need no borrow'd aid require;
And the pleas'd Muse is happy to assign
A wreath to him, who worship'd at her shrine.
Nor shall he miss the meed to Merit due;
For tho' perhaps, too much confin'd by rule,
He has not studied in a vulgar School.
'Tis Siddons' Son! that magic name alone,
Might for more glaring blemishes atone,
Did his ingenuous diffidence, demand
A partial eulogy, at second-hand.
Not such the case; instinct with native fire,
His talents need no borrow'd aid require;
And the pleas'd Muse is happy to assign
A wreath to him, who worship'd at her shrine.
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Let Harmony forsake her silver sphere,
And mute Attention be, awhile, All ear!
For, sweetly led by Incledon, along,
Each unobstructed labyrinth of Song,
My rapt Imagination heav'nward strays,
Delighted, wand'ring thro' a tuneful maze;
And list'ning Angels fold their filmy wings,
In silence, while a kindred Spirit sings.
Yes! tho' I scorn Italia's screaming crew,
And scorn this Island's screaming blockheads, too;
For ever I could listen to thy strain,
Distinctly clear, melodious without pain;
Nor, fearful when the tortur'd voice should crack,
Picture a victim—shrieking on the rack.
And mute Attention be, awhile, All ear!
For, sweetly led by Incledon, along,
Each unobstructed labyrinth of Song,
My rapt Imagination heav'nward strays,
Delighted, wand'ring thro' a tuneful maze;
And list'ning Angels fold their filmy wings,
In silence, while a kindred Spirit sings.
Yes! tho' I scorn Italia's screaming crew,
And scorn this Island's screaming blockheads, too;
For ever I could listen to thy strain,
Distinctly clear, melodious without pain;
Nor, fearful when the tortur'd voice should crack,
Picture a victim—shrieking on the rack.
Uncaponiz'd as yet, tho' oft appear
Sufficient symptoms to excite our fear,
When to each foreign foppery devote,
Squeaking, he twists the long-tormented note,
I own of Braham the superior skill;
But, likewise own, I'm better pleas'd with Hill.
Sufficient symptoms to excite our fear,
When to each foreign foppery devote,
Squeaking, he twists the long-tormented note,
I own of Braham the superior skill;
But, likewise own, I'm better pleas'd with Hill.
With vocal charm, unlabour'd yet refin'd,
Whose exquisite controlment sways the mind,
And holds in willing bondage well-pleas'd Sense,
Townshend to Humour lays a fair pretence.
Tho' his choice parts are neither mean or few,
Fleuellin, only, makes th' assertion true.
Whose exquisite controlment sways the mind,
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Townshend to Humour lays a fair pretence.
Tho' his choice parts are neither mean or few,
Fleuellin, only, makes th' assertion true.
Simmons, tho' young in life, and to the stage,
Familiar, takes the feeble form of Age;
Matthew or Mordecai, to nature true,
He is the very Simpleton or Jew.
Familiar, takes the feeble form of Age;
Matthew or Mordecai, to nature true,
He is the very Simpleton or Jew.
Blanchard and Gibbon (tho' the last great name,
Can, scarcely, yet a final verdict claim,)
Had they a little spice of prudent wit,
Might make th' old cloaths of Quick and Munden fit.
Nay, Emery in his allotted cast
Reminds us of superior merit past.
Waddy is decent, would his teeth unclose;
And Farley shines in fops; but all his beaux,
A nasty habit! snuffle thro' the nose.
Tho' I must not, too far, pursue the theme,
Ev'n Brunton gives sometimes a transient gleam;
But to poor Clermont's credit, speak who can?
That vain, affected monkey of a man.
Can, scarcely, yet a final verdict claim,)
Had they a little spice of prudent wit,
Might make th' old cloaths of Quick and Munden fit.
Nay, Emery in his allotted cast
Reminds us of superior merit past.
Waddy is decent, would his teeth unclose;
And Farley shines in fops; but all his beaux,
A nasty habit! snuffle thro' the nose.
Tho' I must not, too far, pursue the theme,
Ev'n Brunton gives sometimes a transient gleam;
But to poor Clermont's credit, speak who can?
That vain, affected monkey of a man.
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Thomson and Beverley, lo! follow quick,
And droning Davenport, a stupid Stick!
Little alas! have they to gain or lose;
Such fellows boast no favors from the Muse.
And droning Davenport, a stupid Stick!
Little alas! have they to gain or lose;
Such fellows boast no favors from the Muse.
Now must the ladies, tremblingly, advance!
Sweet creatures! they had rather have a dance!
Tho', if I right remember, once before,
A huge, indeed, a shocking oath I swore,
They had not ev'n the slightest thing to dread:
I will not hurt a hair upon their head!
If o'er their beauties hastily I pass,
I'm not to blame, the fault is in my Glass;
And when no mention's made,—it is my fate,
I may immortalize, but can't create.
Sweet creatures! they had rather have a dance!
Tho', if I right remember, once before,
A huge, indeed, a shocking oath I swore,
They had not ev'n the slightest thing to dread:
I will not hurt a hair upon their head!
If o'er their beauties hastily I pass,
I'm not to blame, the fault is in my Glass;
And when no mention's made,—it is my fate,
I may immortalize, but can't create.
Gifted with simplest grace, in scorn of art,
And finely fram'd to captivate the heart,
Whether her modest looks, that love the ground,
Effuse a soft, luxurious languor round;
Or from her lip, where rosy Pleasures play,
Arch humour issues innocently gay;
Johnston appears—tho' not a faultless fair,
Yet such her meaning eye, her tender air,
Such the harmonious symmetry, that guides
Each step, and o'er her model'd shape presides,
Beauty, for such meek charms, might well forgo,
The lustrous glance, the polish'd front of snow,
Or the ambrosial mouth, where balmy kisses blow.
And in each motion of that chasten'd mien
The pure irradiant Intellect is seen,
Without whose bright intelligence, the form
Of S---y's beauteous self, would faintly warm.
And finely fram'd to captivate the heart,
Whether her modest looks, that love the ground,
Effuse a soft, luxurious languor round;
Or from her lip, where rosy Pleasures play,
Arch humour issues innocently gay;
Johnston appears—tho' not a faultless fair,
Yet such her meaning eye, her tender air,
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Each step, and o'er her model'd shape presides,
Beauty, for such meek charms, might well forgo,
The lustrous glance, the polish'd front of snow,
Or the ambrosial mouth, where balmy kisses blow.
And in each motion of that chasten'd mien
The pure irradiant Intellect is seen,
Without whose bright intelligence, the form
Of S---y's beauteous self, would faintly warm.
With more than common attributes endow'd,
And far exalted from the female crowd,
Litchfield demands the tributary song:
Of quick idea, her conception strong,
Lends to each line that animated glow,
Which breasts unfeeling never can bestow.
Ev'n Cooke no undivided palm must claim,
While she improves his plenitude of fame,
And from Discernment's serious sentence, draws
An equal portion of unfeign'd applause.
And far exalted from the female crowd,
Litchfield demands the tributary song:
Of quick idea, her conception strong,
Lends to each line that animated glow,
Which breasts unfeeling never can bestow.
Ev'n Cooke no undivided palm must claim,
While she improves his plenitude of fame,
And from Discernment's serious sentence, draws
An equal portion of unfeign'd applause.
A Sylph-like Semblance, pensive Murray moves,
Ever attended by the sighing Loves,
Soft Pity's pupil! I enraptur'd, hear
Her lulling accents languish on my ear!
And hope, few years elaps'd, I may behold
A finish'd Actress, in perfection bold.
Ever attended by the sighing Loves,
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Her lulling accents languish on my ear!
And hope, few years elaps'd, I may behold
A finish'd Actress, in perfection bold.
When Mattocks wears the wildly-witching leer,
What formal Stoic dares to be severe?
Delighted Wisdom joins the laughing rogue,
And Wit approves her poignant Epilogue.
What formal Stoic dares to be severe?
Delighted Wisdom joins the laughing rogue,
And Wit approves her poignant Epilogue.
Unparagon'd in one peculiar cast,
Long, Martyr, may thy pow'rs of pleasing last!
Endow'd with simple sweetness, all thy own,
Ev'n in thy Madge what excellence is shewn.
Long, Martyr, may thy pow'rs of pleasing last!
Endow'd with simple sweetness, all thy own,
Ev'n in thy Madge what excellence is shewn.
So smart her shape, so delicate her air,
Atkins is passing pretty, I declare;
And, oft, she leads my willing soul along,
When Sympathy attunes Rosina's song.
Atkins is passing pretty, I declare;
And, oft, she leads my willing soul along,
When Sympathy attunes Rosina's song.
Tho' Music's most prevailing charm is hung,
Storace! on thy sweet, seducing tongue:
Tho' ev'ry wild note vibrates to the heart,
And Envy owns th' enchantment of thy art;
Yet Waters no inferior joy can raise,
Unspoil'd by foreign trick, tho' sure of praise.
Storace! on thy sweet, seducing tongue:
Tho' ev'ry wild note vibrates to the heart,
And Envy owns th' enchantment of thy art;
48
Unspoil'd by foreign trick, tho' sure of praise.
Thy gay rusticity, and playful whims,
Bewitch my throbbing breast, delightful Sims!
Son of Simplicity, I ne'er appeal
Beyond her test, but glory that I feel.
Bewitch my throbbing breast, delightful Sims!
Son of Simplicity, I ne'er appeal
Beyond her test, but glory that I feel.
Would Glover, still obeying Nature's bent,
Be with the Comic walk, alone, content;
(Fine strokes, tho' few, in Beatrice I find,
And louder still, applaud her Rosalind,)
She might, without one bashful doubt proceed:
But oh! her tragedy is sad, indeed!
Be with the Comic walk, alone, content;
(Fine strokes, tho' few, in Beatrice I find,
And louder still, applaud her Rosalind,)
She might, without one bashful doubt proceed:
But oh! her tragedy is sad, indeed!
St. Leger's talents thrown into the shade
So long, methinks, deserve to be display'd;
Tho' masculine her voice, untun'd to woe,
It suits the haughty Heroine of Rowe;
And to her features tho' small force belong,
Those features are attracting if not strong.
So long, methinks, deserve to be display'd;
Tho' masculine her voice, untun'd to woe,
It suits the haughty Heroine of Rowe;
And to her features tho' small force belong,
Those features are attracting if not strong.
49
Thee, Gibbs, I must not, too severely slight,
Thou little, rose-lip'd minion of delight!
Such dear emotion can thy wiles impart,
They call soft blushes from the conscious heart;
Such blushes, as my Mary's cheek array,
Deep-glowing with the fervid flush of May,
When from each love-glance purer light'nings play;
And rapt'rous Hope, and unrestrain'd Desire
Bathe in her brilliant eye-beam's fluid fire.
Thou little, rose-lip'd minion of delight!
Such dear emotion can thy wiles impart,
They call soft blushes from the conscious heart;
Such blushes, as my Mary's cheek array,
Deep-glowing with the fervid flush of May,
When from each love-glance purer light'nings play;
And rapt'rous Hope, and unrestrain'd Desire
Bathe in her brilliant eye-beam's fluid fire.
Lo! Howells, with Ausonian myrtle crown'd,
And Dixon, daughter of cœlestial Sound!
Nor slight sensation thro' my bosom thrills,
Tho' near my last review, I mention Mills.
And Dixon, daughter of cœlestial Sound!
Nor slight sensation thro' my bosom thrills,
Tho' near my last review, I mention Mills.
Something of Chapman, too, I must commend,
Else such ungracious Silence may offend;
Yet ladies, sure, with that should be content,
'Tis their own maxim,—Silence gives consent.
Else such ungracious Silence may offend;
Yet ladies, sure, with that should be content,
'Tis their own maxim,—Silence gives consent.
Powell and Davenport full well sustain
The Nurse's part, nor give the audience pain;
And I allow, tho' deem'd of manners rough;
That Dibdin's Chambermaids are pert enough;
But, as for Mesdames
Watts, Leserve, and Cox,
Furious, who rush upon my sight in flocks,
As tho' their legions never should be ended;
I only add—“Least said is soonest mended.”
The Nurse's part, nor give the audience pain;
And I allow, tho' deem'd of manners rough;
That Dibdin's Chambermaids are pert enough;
50
Furious, who rush upon my sight in flocks,
As tho' their legions never should be ended;
I only add—“Least said is soonest mended.”
So much of Players:—they, no more, may fear
That blood-hound, Satire, foaming in their rear;
All bills of Creditor and Debtor paid,
No wrath shall wake another Histrionade,
Yet ere I, tranquil, sheathe the satiate sword,
May not Myself be granted a Last Word?
And doom'd, for evermore, to dread repose,
The long Accompt, 'twixt me and Authors, close.
Full many a weary day, have I supprest
The honest vengeance, slumb'ring in my breast;
Full many a sleepless night, that vengeance plan'd
Fell schemes, to sweep the vermin from the land;
T'exterminate, with one decisive blow,
The Dunces who remorseless wrought me woe;
At length, so fast the worthless reptiles breed,
Alas! I find it useless to proceed,
At length, to Folly's powerful reign resign'd,
Too wise or weak, to combat with the blind,
And wage vain war with all the Scribbling Kind,
'Gainst Modern Goths my quill is drawn no more,
So often drench'd in their unhallow'd gore;
From this blest moment, Poetry and Sense,
Shall yield to Opera and pert Pretence;
Exulting Dulness fling her poppies round,
And Blockheads, only, with the bays be crown'd.
That blood-hound, Satire, foaming in their rear;
All bills of Creditor and Debtor paid,
No wrath shall wake another Histrionade,
Yet ere I, tranquil, sheathe the satiate sword,
May not Myself be granted a Last Word?
And doom'd, for evermore, to dread repose,
The long Accompt, 'twixt me and Authors, close.
Full many a weary day, have I supprest
The honest vengeance, slumb'ring in my breast;
Full many a sleepless night, that vengeance plan'd
Fell schemes, to sweep the vermin from the land;
T'exterminate, with one decisive blow,
The Dunces who remorseless wrought me woe;
At length, so fast the worthless reptiles breed,
Alas! I find it useless to proceed,
At length, to Folly's powerful reign resign'd,
Too wise or weak, to combat with the blind,
And wage vain war with all the Scribbling Kind,
'Gainst Modern Goths my quill is drawn no more,
So often drench'd in their unhallow'd gore;
51
Shall yield to Opera and pert Pretence;
Exulting Dulness fling her poppies round,
And Blockheads, only, with the bays be crown'd.
Now, may each vapid Print my verse defame,
And find, or feign, my country, and my name;
Blest in their blunders, let the ideots doze,
And make my rhimes as stupid as their prose;
For to the fire, in pity, I consign
“Quills” darted from the “fretful Porcupine!”—
Now, B---, may thy cloud-cap'd Muse essay
The kindred raptures of a Rainy Day;
Her front may, now, be wreath'd with frowzy fogs,
And her song charm prognosticating hogs;
Tho' sure some Tragic Dev'l bewitch'd thy brain,
To bring forth embryo Plays, in idle pain,
Whose sober comprehension ne'er should climb
Beyond the Compter, or a Pantomime.
And find, or feign, my country, and my name;
Blest in their blunders, let the ideots doze,
And make my rhimes as stupid as their prose;
For to the fire, in pity, I consign
“Quills” darted from the “fretful Porcupine!”—
Now, B---, may thy cloud-cap'd Muse essay
The kindred raptures of a Rainy Day;
Her front may, now, be wreath'd with frowzy fogs,
And her song charm prognosticating hogs;
Tho' sure some Tragic Dev'l bewitch'd thy brain,
To bring forth embryo Plays, in idle pain,
Whose sober comprehension ne'er should climb
Beyond the Compter, or a Pantomime.
While spectred Scenes thy mimic pomp maintain,
Wild Mushrooms! springing from a dearth of brain!
In dull delirium, thou may'st boldly cry,
“By G---, I give Old Billy the go-by!”
And, to confirm each marvellous design,
Print that extravagant, queer head of thine!
Safe rest thy writings, soft repose thy head,
Thank Heav'n! at least, “I war not with the “Dead.”—
Wild Mushrooms! springing from a dearth of brain!
52
“By G---, I give Old Billy the go-by!”
And, to confirm each marvellous design,
Print that extravagant, queer head of thine!
Safe rest thy writings, soft repose thy head,
Thank Heav'n! at least, “I war not with the “Dead.”—
Of kicks, and cuffs, and c---ps, sublimely vain,
(For Pleasure still conducts that ruffian, Pain,)
Now may gaunt H---r's pimp-like pen display
The martial glories of each midnight fray,
To new-fledg'd rakes, conveniently impart
The unresisted wonders of his Art,
While the Great Mother drops a lib'ral smile,
And Bond-Street Sapphos praise his luscious style:—
Let Bavius, now, in mock-satyric rage,
Of Juvenal profane the sacred page,
To some fraternal Tryphon's shop repair,
Where booted loungers at the Bard may stare,
“Shrin'd in his cloudy tabernacle,” sit
Mid Lords, and Pall-Mall Wits, himself a Wit,
And con, and quote, and comment, at a heat,
And rise a Scaliger in self-conceit:—
Let D---, still, from his harmonious store,
Supply the vagrant minstrel's mellow roar,
Thrice lucky, sure, that celebrated Square,
Ordain'd the Poet, and his Song, to share,
For, certes, seldom doth the lofty lay
Beyond it's native flags, excursive, stray,
There, haply, may it soothe, in penthouse-shade,
The am'rous anguish of some pining maid,
Ease the fierce throb, the secret torture tame,
Or feed, in lieu of Gin, the gen'rous flame:—
Let T---, now, translate with all his might,
Blund'ring from true to false, thro' wrong or right,
For who from darkness can elicit light?
Yet, sometimes, lend, with much laborious sweat,
To the rude lump, a faint and feeble heat.
So red-nos'd urchins mould their balls of snow,
'Till ev'n the frozen fluid learns to glow;
So vilest substance, stricken in the dark,
Flint-stone, or rotten-wood, emits a spark.—
Let P---, a jackdaw on eagle-wings,
Bask in the blaze of Emperors and Kings,
Blest Emperors! to whom the growl of Bears
Was sweeter than the silver-sounding spheres;
Yes by the force of paper and of print,
Let him outshine old Grub-Street or the Mint
Fam'd for his hate of farce, and love of fight,
Let dauntless D---, that heroic knight,
Fresh from the dangers of th' immortal day,
His prowess in triumphant puffs display,
Bomb-proof to bullet, and congenial lead,
Sublimer lift th' impenetrable head;
Th' impenetrable head, for strength renown'd,
Well-cas'd with brass, with creeping ivy bound,
And, in Censorial Chaos shrouded still,
Securely murder with his venal quill:—
Let lisping fops, best arbiters of verse!
Torment their tender tongues with rumbling Erse,
Call barb'rous Highland dialect divine,
And all, they understand not, set down fine;
Ev'n Burns, whose breast th' apparent Muse inspir'd;
Is for his diction, not his sense admir'd,
In Edenbro', anew, auld Pindus springs,
And lo! a Shakespeare in each Sawney sings!
(For Pleasure still conducts that ruffian, Pain,)
Now may gaunt H---r's pimp-like pen display
The martial glories of each midnight fray,
To new-fledg'd rakes, conveniently impart
The unresisted wonders of his Art,
While the Great Mother drops a lib'ral smile,
And Bond-Street Sapphos praise his luscious style:—
Let Bavius, now, in mock-satyric rage,
Of Juvenal profane the sacred page,
To some fraternal Tryphon's shop repair,
Where booted loungers at the Bard may stare,
53
Mid Lords, and Pall-Mall Wits, himself a Wit,
And con, and quote, and comment, at a heat,
And rise a Scaliger in self-conceit:—
Let D---, still, from his harmonious store,
Supply the vagrant minstrel's mellow roar,
Thrice lucky, sure, that celebrated Square,
Ordain'd the Poet, and his Song, to share,
For, certes, seldom doth the lofty lay
Beyond it's native flags, excursive, stray,
There, haply, may it soothe, in penthouse-shade,
The am'rous anguish of some pining maid,
Ease the fierce throb, the secret torture tame,
Or feed, in lieu of Gin, the gen'rous flame:—
Let T---, now, translate with all his might,
Blund'ring from true to false, thro' wrong or right,
For who from darkness can elicit light?
Yet, sometimes, lend, with much laborious sweat,
To the rude lump, a faint and feeble heat.
So red-nos'd urchins mould their balls of snow,
'Till ev'n the frozen fluid learns to glow;
So vilest substance, stricken in the dark,
Flint-stone, or rotten-wood, emits a spark.—
Let P---, a jackdaw on eagle-wings,
Bask in the blaze of Emperors and Kings,
54
Was sweeter than the silver-sounding spheres;
Yes by the force of paper and of print,
Let him outshine old Grub-Street or the Mint
Fam'd for his hate of farce, and love of fight,
Let dauntless D---, that heroic knight,
Fresh from the dangers of th' immortal day,
His prowess in triumphant puffs display,
Bomb-proof to bullet, and congenial lead,
Sublimer lift th' impenetrable head;
Th' impenetrable head, for strength renown'd,
Well-cas'd with brass, with creeping ivy bound,
And, in Censorial Chaos shrouded still,
Securely murder with his venal quill:—
Let lisping fops, best arbiters of verse!
Torment their tender tongues with rumbling Erse,
Call barb'rous Highland dialect divine,
And all, they understand not, set down fine;
Ev'n Burns, whose breast th' apparent Muse inspir'd;
Is for his diction, not his sense admir'd,
In Edenbro', anew, auld Pindus springs,
And lo! a Shakespeare in each Sawney sings!
“Critics! to you I make my last appeal,
Who hide my beauties, but my faults reveal,
If, lost in Error's maze, my fancy ran,
Approv'd your censures, or appeas'd your clan,
Think not I shrunk to meet your dread decree,
My hand was guilty; but my heart was free,”
For, from that heart, sincerely, I detest
Each monthly catalogue of flippant jest;
Nor more detest, than scorn:—in vain, you strive,
Sore-stung, to plunder the Parnassian Hive,
Merit's indignant Sons you wish, in vain,
Madly, to level with your dirty train;
Thus, lately, when eloping from their shop,
Smit with the love of a St. Giles's Hop,
Millers and Mealmen, drest in white so gay,
And powder'd without Licence, danc'd the Hay,
The envious Sweeps rush'd, dismal, thro' the crowd,
And shook their sooty stumps; and yell'd aloud,
“If we in whiteness cannot match those elves,
“By G---, we'll make them dingy as Ourselves!”
Who hide my beauties, but my faults reveal,
55
Approv'd your censures, or appeas'd your clan,
Think not I shrunk to meet your dread decree,
My hand was guilty; but my heart was free,”
For, from that heart, sincerely, I detest
Each monthly catalogue of flippant jest;
Nor more detest, than scorn:—in vain, you strive,
Sore-stung, to plunder the Parnassian Hive,
Merit's indignant Sons you wish, in vain,
Madly, to level with your dirty train;
Thus, lately, when eloping from their shop,
Smit with the love of a St. Giles's Hop,
Millers and Mealmen, drest in white so gay,
And powder'd without Licence, danc'd the Hay,
The envious Sweeps rush'd, dismal, thro' the crowd,
And shook their sooty stumps; and yell'd aloud,
“If we in whiteness cannot match those elves,
“By G---, we'll make them dingy as Ourselves!”
Proceed, sage Sirs! with unregarded hate,
To pluck each prop from the Poetic State,
To quench of Wit the ineffectual fire,
While, sick to death of dulness, I retire.
For who would be a W---? still to bear
The cruel burthen of your praise severe?
Still gape to catch your magisterial rules,
And gulp the nauseous eulogy of fools?
Who would not rather, with a bow, receive
The grossest censure brainless spite can give?
Yet let not those illustrious Few, who toil
To cultivate, and clear a stubborn soil,
The saucy weed, unsparingly, consume,
But cherish and support the bashful bloom,
This harsh invective to their task apply:
Nor idly proud, nor obstinate am I,
Glad, I embrace Severity, when just,
Nor rashly to my own opinion trust;
For much alas! is requisite, to frame
The song that would survive it's author's name,
And fly to distant days upon the wings of Fame.
Not tinsel phrase, nor turgid swell of thought;
Nor metaphor in foreign regions sought;
Nor lulling languish of luxurious rhyme;
Nor vaultings of extravagant Sublime;
Nor fever-fits of fancy, e'er may hope
To lend succeeding Time a Dryden or a Pope.
To pluck each prop from the Poetic State,
To quench of Wit the ineffectual fire,
While, sick to death of dulness, I retire.
56
The cruel burthen of your praise severe?
Still gape to catch your magisterial rules,
And gulp the nauseous eulogy of fools?
Who would not rather, with a bow, receive
The grossest censure brainless spite can give?
Yet let not those illustrious Few, who toil
To cultivate, and clear a stubborn soil,
The saucy weed, unsparingly, consume,
But cherish and support the bashful bloom,
This harsh invective to their task apply:
Nor idly proud, nor obstinate am I,
Glad, I embrace Severity, when just,
Nor rashly to my own opinion trust;
For much alas! is requisite, to frame
The song that would survive it's author's name,
And fly to distant days upon the wings of Fame.
Not tinsel phrase, nor turgid swell of thought;
Nor metaphor in foreign regions sought;
Nor lulling languish of luxurious rhyme;
Nor vaultings of extravagant Sublime;
Nor fever-fits of fancy, e'er may hope
To lend succeeding Time a Dryden or a Pope.
| The Histrionade | |