 | Alfred |  |
PROLOGUE.
To furnish a new Prologue for each Play,To dress the self-same dish, a different way;
Exhausts the poet's art. And every year,
Palat es grow nicer, rarities more dear.
The cabinet, who in the green room sit,
The secret junto of the realm of wit;
In these hard times, resolved their stock to spare,
And crib the Prologue from the bill of fare.
Alfred on English ground alone may stand,
The darling hero of his native land:
No, no, our Poet cry'd—this is no time,
Nor is it prudent now to save your rhime;
Fir'd with my subject I have rashly dar'd,
And you in Prologue should protect your bard:
When my adventurous muse, indulg'd before,
Now vent'ring further, needs indulgence more;
She dares to trace the workings of a mind,
The greatest and the best of human kind;
Adjust its movements to dramatic plan,
And blend the god-like hero with the man.
The greater Alfred's fame, our bard risks more;
Such weight the flying courser never bore.
Alfred! whose life such strange events adorn,
That history beholds romance with scorn;
Him to present, here in his native land,
Where still his genius, and his laws command,
Is an attempt like his, who rashly tried,
The burning chariot of the sun to guide!
Yet this attempt from admiration rose,
Nor should he find in Alfred's kingdom, foes:
He, who by temper led, not love of fame,
Is the fond eccho of your hero's name.
| Alfred | |