The Siege of Sinope A Tragedy |
PROLOGUE.
Written by the Rev. Mr. COLLIER, And spoken by Mr. HENDERSON.
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 | The Siege of Sinope |  |
PROLOGUE. Written by the Rev. Mr. COLLIER, And spoken by Mr. HENDERSON.
In
vain would satire, with misguided rage,
Defame the manners of a polish'd age;
As if, attach'd to dissipation's wheel,
Our hearts had lost both power and wish to feel:
When passion's shafts with intermingled flight,
From pleasing pain produce severe delight;
When sorrow weeps, with present woes opprest,
Or joy for terrors past rears high its crest,
Nature triumphant will uphold her sway,
And all submissive her command obey.
Defame the manners of a polish'd age;
As if, attach'd to dissipation's wheel,
Our hearts had lost both power and wish to feel:
When passion's shafts with intermingled flight,
From pleasing pain produce severe delight;
When sorrow weeps, with present woes opprest,
Or joy for terrors past rears high its crest,
Nature triumphant will uphold her sway,
And all submissive her command obey.
Thus, on perfection's height we gaze intent,
But who shall dare to climb the steep ascent?
When hope so frequent mourns its own disgrace,
And checks our ardor in th' adventurous race?
But who shall dare to climb the steep ascent?
When hope so frequent mourns its own disgrace,
And checks our ardor in th' adventurous race?
With doubting step, and agitated mien,
Our bard advances on the stormy scene;
Rejects the succour of pretended art,
And builds no flattering hope, but on the heart.
Our bard advances on the stormy scene;
Rejects the succour of pretended art,
And builds no flattering hope, but on the heart.
Nor will I longer spread the thin disguise,
A woman here the plaintive tale supplies;
On virtue's base she rears the female throne,
Calls forth your feelings, as she paints her own:
Whate'er in wedded love the breast can warm,
Or give to filial bonds their highest charm;
Whate'er emotions through the bosom dart,
For pangs which keenest pierce a parent's heart;
Here shall her feeble hand attempt to raise.
Give us your tears, we ask no truer praise.
A woman here the plaintive tale supplies;
On virtue's base she rears the female throne,
Calls forth your feelings, as she paints her own:
Whate'er in wedded love the breast can warm,
Or give to filial bonds their highest charm;
For pangs which keenest pierce a parent's heart;
Here shall her feeble hand attempt to raise.
Give us your tears, we ask no truer praise.
What though the gentler sex of late have shown
At least a right to share the poet's crown,
Still has imperious man assum'd the claim
Round merit's brow to bind the wreath of fame;
Assert yourselves, ye fair! this chosen night,
And prove your powers to judge as well as write:
Thus man, with pride reluctant, shall confess,
Each Muse may justly wear a woman's dress:
To your indulgence shall his rigour bend,
Nor dare to censure what your tears commend.
At least a right to share the poet's crown,
Still has imperious man assum'd the claim
Round merit's brow to bind the wreath of fame;
Assert yourselves, ye fair! this chosen night,
And prove your powers to judge as well as write:
Thus man, with pride reluctant, shall confess,
Each Muse may justly wear a woman's dress:
To your indulgence shall his rigour bend,
Nor dare to censure what your tears commend.
| The Siege of Sinope | |