 | The Carmelite |  |
PROLOGUE By the AUTHOR. Spoken by Mr. PALMER.
Old
Drury's dock prepares a launch this night,
New from the keel, (fair speed The Carmelite!)
True British-built, and from the Tragic slip;
She mounts great guns—tho' not a first-rate ship:
A gallant Knight commands, of ancient fame
And Norman blood, Saint Valori his name;
On his main-top the Christian Cross be bears,
From Holy Land be comes, and Pagan wars:
Twenty long years his lady mourns him dead,
And bathes with faithful tears a widow'd bed;
Our scene presents him ship-wreck'd on her coast—
No sign, we hope, our venture will be lost.
New from the keel, (fair speed The Carmelite!)
True British-built, and from the Tragic slip;
She mounts great guns—tho' not a first-rate ship:
A gallant Knight commands, of ancient fame
And Norman blood, Saint Valori his name;
On his main-top the Christian Cross be bears,
From Holy Land be comes, and Pagan wars:
Twenty long years his lady mourns him dead,
And bathes with faithful tears a widow'd bed;
Our scene presents him ship-wreck'd on her coast—
No sign, we hope, our venture will be lost.
Yet bold the Bard, to mount ambition's wave,
And launch his wit upon a watery grave;
Sharp critic rocks beneath him lie in wait,
And envious quicksands bar the Muse's straight;
Wild o'er his head Detraction's billows break,
Doubt chills his heart, and terror pales his cheek:
Hungry and faint, what cordials can he bring
From the cold nymph of the Pierian spring?
What stores collect from bare Parnassus' head,
Where blooms no vineyard, where no beeves are fed?
And great Apollo's laurels, which impart
Fame to his head, are famine to his heart.—
And launch his wit upon a watery grave;
Sharp critic rocks beneath him lie in wait,
And envious quicksands bar the Muse's straight;
Wild o'er his head Detraction's billows break,
Doubt chills his heart, and terror pales his cheek:
Hungry and faint, what cordials can he bring
From the cold nymph of the Pierian spring?
What stores collect from bare Parnassus' head,
Where blooms no vineyard, where no beeves are fed?
And great Apollo's laurels, which impart
Fame to his head, are famine to his heart.—
Yet on he toils, and eager bends his eyes,
Where Fame's bright temple glitters to the skies.
Ah, Sirs, 'tis easy work, to fit on shore
And tutor him who tugs the labouring oar:
Whilst he amidst the surging ocean steers,
Now here, now there, as fashion's current veers:
Rouse, rouse for his protection! you, who sit
Rang'd in deep phalanx, arbiters of wit!
And you aloft there, keep your beacon bright,
Oh, make your Eddy-stone shew forth it's light;
So shall our Bard steer to its friendly blaze,
And anchor in the haven of your praise.
Where Fame's bright temple glitters to the skies.
Ah, Sirs, 'tis easy work, to fit on shore
And tutor him who tugs the labouring oar:
Whilst he amidst the surging ocean steers,
Now here, now there, as fashion's current veers:
Rouse, rouse for his protection! you, who sit
Rang'd in deep phalanx, arbiters of wit!
And you aloft there, keep your beacon bright,
Oh, make your Eddy-stone shew forth it's light;
So shall our Bard steer to its friendly blaze,
And anchor in the haven of your praise.
| The Carmelite | |