 | Zenobia |  |
PROLOGUE:
Spoken by Mr. HOLLAND.
Of old,—when Rome in a declining age
Of lawless pow'r had felt the barb'rous rage,
This was the tyrant's art:—He gave a prize
To him, who a new pleasure should devise.
Of lawless pow'r had felt the barb'rous rage,
This was the tyrant's art:—He gave a prize
To him, who a new pleasure should devise.
Ye tyrants of the Pit, whose cold disdain.
Rejects and nauseates the repeated strain;
Who call for rarities to quicken sense,
Say, do you always the reward dispense?
Rejects and nauseates the repeated strain;
Who call for rarities to quicken sense,
Say, do you always the reward dispense?
Ye bards,—to whom French wit gives kind relief,
Are ye not oft the first—to cry STOP THIEF!
Say,—to a brother do you e're allow
One little sprig, one leaf to deck his brow?
No;—fierce invective stuns the play-wright's ears,
Wits, Poets corner, Ledgers, Gazetteers?
'Tis said, the Tartar,—e're he pierce the heart,
Inscribes his name upon his poison'd dart.
That scheme's rejected by each scribbling spark;
—Our Christian system—stabs you in the dark.
Are ye not oft the first—to cry STOP THIEF!
Say,—to a brother do you e're allow
One little sprig, one leaf to deck his brow?
No;—fierce invective stuns the play-wright's ears,
Wits, Poets corner, Ledgers, Gazetteers?
'Tis said, the Tartar,—e're he pierce the heart,
Inscribes his name upon his poison'd dart.
That scheme's rejected by each scribbling spark;
—Our Christian system—stabs you in the dark.
And yet the desp'rate author of to-night
Dares on the muses wing another flight;
Once more a dupe to fame forsakes his ease,
And feels th' ambition—here again to please.
Dares on the muses wing another flight;
Once more a dupe to fame forsakes his ease,
And feels th' ambition—here again to please.
He brings a tale from a far distant age,
Enobled by the grave historic page!*
Zenobia's woes have touch'd each polish'd state;
The brightest eyes of France have mourn'd her fate.
Harmonious Italy her tribute paid,
And sung a dirge to her lamented shade.
Enobled by the grave historic page!*
Zenobia's woes have touch'd each polish'd state;
The brightest eyes of France have mourn'd her fate.
Harmonious Italy her tribute paid,
And sung a dirge to her lamented shade.
Yet think not that we mean to mock the eye
With pilfer'd colours of a foreign dye.
Not to translate our bard his pen doth dip;
He takes a play, as Britons take a ship;
They heave her down;—with many a sturdy stroke,
Repair her well, and build with Heart of Oak.
To ev'ry breeze set Britain's streamers free,
New-man her, and away again to sea.
With pilfer'd colours of a foreign dye.
Not to translate our bard his pen doth dip;
He takes a play, as Britons take a ship;
They heave her down;—with many a sturdy stroke,
Repair her well, and build with Heart of Oak.
To ev'ry breeze set Britain's streamers free,
New-man her, and away again to sea.
This is our author's aim;—and if his art
Waken to sentiment the feeling heart;
If in his scenes alternate passions burn,
And friendship, love, guilt, virtue take their turn;
If innocence oppress'd lie bleeding here,
You'll give—'tis all he asks—one VIRTUOUS TEAR.
Waken to sentiment the feeling heart;
If in his scenes alternate passions burn,
And friendship, love, guilt, virtue take their turn;
If innocence oppress'd lie bleeding here,
You'll give—'tis all he asks—one VIRTUOUS TEAR.
| Zenobia | |