Cleonice, Princess of Bithynia A Tragedy |
PROLOGUE. Written by a Friend, to have been spoken in the character of the Tragic Muse. Designed for Mrs. Barry.
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 | Cleonice, Princess of Bithynia |  |
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PROLOGUE. Written by a Friend, to have been spoken in the character of the Tragic Muse. Designed for Mrs. Barry.
Judges
of genius! from whose hands a bard
This night awaits the laurel of reward!
To you, the Tragic Muse, in Britain's name,
Comes to announce the merits of his claim.
'Tis I have led him timorous to this field,
And bade him dare his country's gauntlet wield;
Bade him aspire to vault her fiery breed,
Nor humbly stoop to mount the manag'd steed.
Long had I seen his patient merit toil,
In culling chaplets from a foreign soil;
Whilst, here, transplanted, by his skilful hand,
Italia's honours bloom'd in Albion's land.
Long had I mark'd, as such exotic boughs
Content he wove to veil his modest brows,
A spirit that in paths untrod before
Might snatch the nobler foilage of this shore.
Pleas'd with the hopes, that I had now descry'd
A future son, from whom the buskin's pride
To this my favourite isle, again might rise;
I touch'd his ear, and pointed out the prize.—
‘Wither my honours in this clime (I said)
‘Buds here no bounteous leaf to deck thy head?
‘Are these once fostering skies so over-cast,
‘That genius dares not brave th'inclement blast?
‘Come, let me lead thee, where my sons of yore
‘In fancy's fields amass'd their laureate store:
‘With active powers, aloft, bestrode the clouds
‘Inspir'd by kind acclaims of shouting crowds.
‘Turn thee, where Shakspere wav'd the mystic rod,
‘And saw a new creation wait his nod.
‘Behold where terror, with eccentric stride,
‘Bursts, like a torrent from the mountain's side!
‘Behold where gentle pity heaves the sigh,
‘Sluicing the fruitful conduit of the eye!
‘See love, at whose approach, the airy wiles
‘Of mirth and freedom, or the jocund smiles
‘Of sweet content, dispers'd in wild affright,
‘Mount on their silken wings and take their flight.
‘See jealousy his hideous form uprear,
‘Tine the quick brand, and shake the vengeful spear:
‘While, close behind, fell anguish and disdain
‘Stalk sullen by, and swell his gloomy train.
‘Mark where despair points to some distant ground,
‘On blasted yews, where night-birds shriek around,
‘Where yawning tombs add horror to the night,
‘And meteors flash their momentary light.
‘Here mark thyself, what various objects rise,
‘Nor trust the medium of another's eyes.’
This night awaits the laurel of reward!
To you, the Tragic Muse, in Britain's name,
Comes to announce the merits of his claim.
'Tis I have led him timorous to this field,
And bade him dare his country's gauntlet wield;
Bade him aspire to vault her fiery breed,
Nor humbly stoop to mount the manag'd steed.
Long had I seen his patient merit toil,
In culling chaplets from a foreign soil;
Whilst, here, transplanted, by his skilful hand,
Italia's honours bloom'd in Albion's land.
Long had I mark'd, as such exotic boughs
Content he wove to veil his modest brows,
A spirit that in paths untrod before
Might snatch the nobler foilage of this shore.
Pleas'd with the hopes, that I had now descry'd
A future son, from whom the buskin's pride
To this my favourite isle, again might rise;
I touch'd his ear, and pointed out the prize.—
‘Wither my honours in this clime (I said)
‘Buds here no bounteous leaf to deck thy head?
viii
‘That genius dares not brave th'inclement blast?
‘Come, let me lead thee, where my sons of yore
‘In fancy's fields amass'd their laureate store:
‘With active powers, aloft, bestrode the clouds
‘Inspir'd by kind acclaims of shouting crowds.
‘Turn thee, where Shakspere wav'd the mystic rod,
‘And saw a new creation wait his nod.
‘Behold where terror, with eccentric stride,
‘Bursts, like a torrent from the mountain's side!
‘Behold where gentle pity heaves the sigh,
‘Sluicing the fruitful conduit of the eye!
‘See love, at whose approach, the airy wiles
‘Of mirth and freedom, or the jocund smiles
‘Of sweet content, dispers'd in wild affright,
‘Mount on their silken wings and take their flight.
‘See jealousy his hideous form uprear,
‘Tine the quick brand, and shake the vengeful spear:
‘While, close behind, fell anguish and disdain
‘Stalk sullen by, and swell his gloomy train.
‘Mark where despair points to some distant ground,
‘On blasted yews, where night-birds shriek around,
‘Where yawning tombs add horror to the night,
‘And meteors flash their momentary light.
‘Here mark thyself, what various objects rise,
‘Nor trust the medium of another's eyes.’
I spoke—and genius strait began to spread
His ready plumage, and my voice obey'd,
Adventurous, thence, he dares this night aspire
To stamp the vivid scene with native fire.
'Tis yours, ye Britons, then, with kind applause,
To fan the flame I kindled in your cause:
Nor be it said, when on your mercy thrown,
You foster every spark, but what's your own.
From your dread sentence, crown'd with laurels won,
I ardently expect to greet a son:
The palm I have deposited with you,
And trust your hearts to give it where 'tis due.
His ready plumage, and my voice obey'd,
Adventurous, thence, he dares this night aspire
To stamp the vivid scene with native fire.
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To fan the flame I kindled in your cause:
Nor be it said, when on your mercy thrown,
You foster every spark, but what's your own.
From your dread sentence, crown'd with laurels won,
I ardently expect to greet a son:
The palm I have deposited with you,
And trust your hearts to give it where 'tis due.
| Cleonice, Princess of Bithynia | |