University of Virginia Library

PROLOGUE TO THE HISTORICAL PLAY OF EARL GOODWIN.

This night, from nature's wildest scene, appears
A Muse abash'd, and trembling with her fears:
No pow'r she brings to break your critic laws,
No witless patron thunders in her cause;
Yet truth and nature on their pinions wait,
To guide your judgment, and decide her fate.
'Mid yon deep vale Lactilla rov'd unknown,
With fancy'd joy and real woe her own;
There linger'd oft in the rough path of care,
While torpid anguish bade her soul despair.
Sudden the light'ning of bright fancy came;
The hills, the hoary desarts, seem'd to flame;
The rocks, the vales, old Avon's restless stream,
Illumin'd, caught the heav'n-directed beam.
But ah! in silence must those raptures die?
Must nature's child in shades of darkness lie?
No kindred mind to nurse the spark that glows,
Unfed by art, unquench'd by wint'ry snows?
—Perish the thought! Here manly sense shall stand,
Here beauty's tear obey the heart's command;
Here public candour, lifting genius high,
Shall prove that Bristol is her friendly sky.
The scenes of Goodwin op'ning on your sight,
Prove active virtue only can be right.
Complainings breathe the fearful wretch's woe,
But godlike spirits in exertion glow.
—And now, ye judges of the tuneful lyre,
Whose smile or frown can joy or fear inspire,
Protect the Muse, who flies the gloomy grove,
To seek the bosom warm'd by social love.
—Hark! on the winds I hear the distant sound—
Go on, Lactilla! tread the etherial round,
Where Shakespeare holds, from his unmeasur'd height,
The talisman of fancy to thy sight.
Ah! 'tis the voice of gentle friendship lures;
That voice, ye patrons of the Muse, is yours:
But if e'en there her airy visions fail,
Her last best refuge is her—milking pail.