 | The tragedy of Sophonisba |  |
PROLOGUE. By a FRIEND. Spoken by Mr. WILLIAMS.
When
learning, after the long Gothic night,
Fair, o'er the western world, renew'd his light,
With arts arising Sophonisba rose:
The tragic muse, returning, wept her woes.
With her th'Italian scene first learnt to glow;
And the first tears for her were taught to flow.
Her charms the Gallic muses next inspir'd:
Corneille himself saw, wonder'd, and was fir'd.
Fair, o'er the western world, renew'd his light,
With arts arising Sophonisba rose:
The tragic muse, returning, wept her woes.
With her th'Italian scene first learnt to glow;
And the first tears for her were taught to flow.
Her charms the Gallic muses next inspir'd:
Corneille himself saw, wonder'd, and was fir'd.
What foreign theatres with pride have shewn,
Britain, by juster title, makes her own.
When freedom is the cause, 'tis hers to fight;
And hers, wken freedom is the theme, to write.
For this, a British Author bids again
The heroine rise, to grace the British scene.
Here, as in life, she breathes her genuine flame:
She asks what bosom has not felt the same?
Asks of the British Youth—Is silence there?
She dares to ask it of the British Fair.
Britain, by juster title, makes her own.
When freedom is the cause, 'tis hers to fight;
And hers, wken freedom is the theme, to write.
For this, a British Author bids again
The heroine rise, to grace the British scene.
Here, as in life, she breathes her genuine flame:
She asks what bosom has not felt the same?
Asks of the British Youth—Is silence there?
She dares to ask it of the British Fair.
To night, our home-spun author would be true,
At once, to nature, history, and you.
Well-pleas'd to give our neighbours due applause,
He owns their learning, but disdains their laws.
Not to his patient touch, or happy flame,
'Tis to his British heart he trusts for fame.
If France excel him in one free-born thought,
The man, as well as poet, is in fault.
At once, to nature, history, and you.
Well-pleas'd to give our neighbours due applause,
He owns their learning, but disdains their laws.
Not to his patient touch, or happy flame,
'Tis to his British heart he trusts for fame.
If France excel him in one free-born thought,
The man, as well as poet, is in fault.
Nature! informer of the poet's art,
Whose force alone can raise or melt the heart,
Thou art his guide; each passion, every line,
Whate'er he draws to please, must all be thine.
Be thou his judge: in every candid breast,
Thy silent whisper is the sacred test.
Whose force alone can raise or melt the heart,
Thou art his guide; each passion, every line,
Whate'er he draws to please, must all be thine.
Be thou his judge: in every candid breast,
Thy silent whisper is the sacred test.
| The tragedy of Sophonisba | |