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PROLOGUE,
Spoken by Mr. AICKIN, in the Character of the Ghost of MASSINGER.
WRITTEN BY W. PEARCE, ESQ.
[A Bell tolls.]
Regardless of yon bell, which strikes mine ear,
I, troubled shade of Massinger, appear!—
[Ghost rises.
What frenzy cou'd impel the daring thought,
To seize the PIECE my lab'ring fancy wrought?
The PICTURE glowing with selected dies?—
O 'tis a deed to make a Spirit rise!
I, troubled shade of Massinger, appear!—
[Ghost rises.
What frenzy cou'd impel the daring thought,
To seize the PIECE my lab'ring fancy wrought?
The PICTURE glowing with selected dies?—
O 'tis a deed to make a Spirit rise!
But why shou'd I meet favor from an age,
That martyrs even Shakespear in its rage?
How late had princely Hamlet cause to rave!—
Depriv'd of clowns to dig Ophelia's grave!
Where was the skull, whose fate remembrance wept?
And where the turf, on which poor Yorick slept?
That martyrs even Shakespear in its rage?
How late had princely Hamlet cause to rave!—
Depriv'd of clowns to dig Ophelia's grave!
Where was the skull, whose fate remembrance wept?
And where the turf, on which poor Yorick slept?
By temp'rance sooth'd, each murmur here shall end:
'Tis dang'rous with a Gownsman to contend;—
One, charter'd over spirits giv'n to riot,
Whose pow'r can lay me in the Red-sea quiet!
For now I'm quite bereft of Magic arms;
And what could Merlin do without his charms!
The Sorc'rers art is lost—And yet this age
Exceeds the feats of Royal James's page!
He wrote of wizzards visiting the moon;—
But what are broomsticks to an air balloon!
Not all the scenes, describ'd by Tasso's verse,
Where Dæmons met, their rituals to rehearse,
Could match the horrors of that crimson day,
When Elliot's machinations were at play!
And the Enchanter, Curtis, whirl'd amain,
By spells of fire, the batteries of Spain!
'Tis dang'rous with a Gownsman to contend;—
One, charter'd over spirits giv'n to riot,
Whose pow'r can lay me in the Red-sea quiet!
For now I'm quite bereft of Magic arms;
And what could Merlin do without his charms!
The Sorc'rers art is lost—And yet this age
Exceeds the feats of Royal James's page!
He wrote of wizzards visiting the moon;—
But what are broomsticks to an air balloon!
Not all the scenes, describ'd by Tasso's verse,
Where Dæmons met, their rituals to rehearse,
Could match the horrors of that crimson day,
When Elliot's machinations were at play!
And the Enchanter, Curtis, whirl'd amain,
By spells of fire, the batteries of Spain!
But soft!—The brazen voice of War is mute;
And sounds of Peace are heard in each salute!
View me, then, as an herald of her way;
And in this wreath, the olive crown survey!
Bend with obedience to her soft'ning strains;
Nor arm against poor Massinger's remains!
And sounds of Peace are heard in each salute!
View me, then, as an herald of her way;
And in this wreath, the olive crown survey!
Bend with obedience to her soft'ning strains;
Nor arm against poor Massinger's remains!
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