 | Cyrus |  |
PROLOGUE. Spoken by Mr. SMITH.
New to the stage, before this dread array,
Prepar'd to offer here his virgin play,
Our tim'rous Author, diffident of praise,
Grafts his first laurels on another's bays;
Takes from another's breast the gen'rous fire,
And fits to English strains a foreign lyre!
Aspires to please by unsuspected means,
Importing passion from Italian scenes;
Where heroes combate to soft music's note;
And tyrants warble thro' an eunuch's throat:
To symphony despairing lovers sigh;
And struggling traitors by the gamut die
Yet here a living bard, whose fame out-runs
The foremost of the tuneful Drama's sons,
Can ev'n in song his magic pow'r dispense,
At once uniting harmony and sense.
From him our poet now essays to write,
And plans from him the story of to-night;
A well-known tale—who has not heard the name
Of Cyrus, and the rising Median fame?
Each puling school-boy can discuss the theme;
The suff'ring grandson, and the monarch's dream.
Prepar'd to offer here his virgin play,
Our tim'rous Author, diffident of praise,
Grafts his first laurels on another's bays;
Takes from another's breast the gen'rous fire,
And fits to English strains a foreign lyre!
Aspires to please by unsuspected means,
Importing passion from Italian scenes;
Where heroes combate to soft music's note;
And tyrants warble thro' an eunuch's throat:
To symphony despairing lovers sigh;
And struggling traitors by the gamut die
Yet here a living bard, whose fame out-runs
The foremost of the tuneful Drama's sons,
Can ev'n in song his magic pow'r dispense,
At once uniting harmony and sense.
From him our poet now essays to write,
And plans from him the story of to-night;
A well-known tale—who has not heard the name
Of Cyrus, and the rising Median fame?
Each puling school-boy can discuss the theme;
The suff'ring grandson, and the monarch's dream.
O! should his genius catch th'inspiring thought,
And nobly copy what was nobly wrought;
Or where the master's hand but sketch'd the line,
With happy warmth fill up the bold design;
Then ev'ry figure, with full force imprest,
May wake the feelings of th'impassion'd breast;
While each bright eye, amidst this circle, pays
The tribute of involuntary praise.
And nobly copy what was nobly wrought;
Or where the master's hand but sketch'd the line,
With happy warmth fill up the bold design;
Then ev'ry figure, with full force imprest,
May wake the feelings of th'impassion'd breast;
While each bright eye, amidst this circle, pays
The tribute of involuntary praise.
| Cyrus | |