 | The Christian Hero |  |
79
Prologue spoken by Mr. Cibber
Sacred
to Virtue, Liberty, and Truth,
The Muses bloom in Everlasting Youth.
Press'd, like the Palm, they rise beneath their Weight,
And soar above the Reach of Time, or Fate.
When Brass, or Marble, faithless to their Trust,
No longer bear the Name, nor guard the Dust
Of Kings, or Heroes, to their Charge consign'd,
But yield to Age, and leave no Track behind;
The Poet's Pen, with never dying Lays;
Preserves their Fame and celebrates their Praise.
The Muses bloom in Everlasting Youth.
Press'd, like the Palm, they rise beneath their Weight,
And soar above the Reach of Time, or Fate.
When Brass, or Marble, faithless to their Trust,
No longer bear the Name, nor guard the Dust
Of Kings, or Heroes, to their Charge consign'd,
But yield to Age, and leave no Track behind;
The Poet's Pen, with never dying Lays;
Preserves their Fame and celebrates their Praise.
Let Artful Maro, or bold Lucan tell,
How regal Troy, or Rome, more awfull, fell;
Nations destroy'd revive, lost Empires shine,
And Freedom glows in each immortal Line.
In vain would Faction, War, or lawless Power,
Which marr the Patriot's Scheme, his Fame devour;
When Bards, by their Superior Force, can save,
From dark Oblivion and defeat the Grave.
Say, Britons, must this Art forsake your Isle,
And leave to vagrant Apes, her native Soil?
Must She, the dearest Friend that Freedom knows,
Driv'n from her Seat, seek Refuge with her Foes?
Forbid so great a Shame, and save the Age
From such Reproach, You Patrons of the Stage.
How regal Troy, or Rome, more awfull, fell;
Nations destroy'd revive, lost Empires shine,
And Freedom glows in each immortal Line.
In vain would Faction, War, or lawless Power,
Which marr the Patriot's Scheme, his Fame devour;
When Bards, by their Superior Force, can save,
From dark Oblivion and defeat the Grave.
Say, Britons, must this Art forsake your Isle,
And leave to vagrant Apes, her native Soil?
Must She, the dearest Friend that Freedom knows,
Driv'n from her Seat, seek Refuge with her Foes?
Forbid so great a Shame, and save the Age
From such Reproach, You Patrons of the Stage.
Since well we know, there's not a Theme so dear,
As virtuous Freedom, to a British Ear;
T' indulge so just a Taste, to Night we sing
A Pious Hero, and a Patriot King;
By Nature form'd, by Providence design'd
To Scourge Ambition, and to right Mankind:
Such Castriot was. O might it but appear,
That he retains the least Resemblance here!
Should but the smallest Portion of that Fire,
Which fill'd his ample Breast our Scenes inspire:
The abject Slave, to his Reproach, shall see,
That such as dare deserve it, may be free:
And conscious Tyranny confess, with Shame,
That blind Ambition wanders from her Aim;
While Virtue leads her Votaries to Fame.
As virtuous Freedom, to a British Ear;
T' indulge so just a Taste, to Night we sing
A Pious Hero, and a Patriot King;
By Nature form'd, by Providence design'd
To Scourge Ambition, and to right Mankind:
Such Castriot was. O might it but appear,
That he retains the least Resemblance here!
Should but the smallest Portion of that Fire,
Which fill'd his ample Breast our Scenes inspire:
The abject Slave, to his Reproach, shall see,
That such as dare deserve it, may be free:
And conscious Tyranny confess, with Shame,
That blind Ambition wanders from her Aim;
While Virtue leads her Votaries to Fame.
| The Christian Hero | |