 | Iphigenia |  |
PROLOGUE
Spoke by Mr Verbruggen.The Genius of England rises to a Warlike Symphony.
See , Brittons, see, before your ravish'd eyes,
See England's lofty Guardian Genius rise.
Admiring see that formidable mien,
That is by Gods with veneration seen;
That from great Neptune due Respect can draw,
And keep the watry trembling world in awe.
I, who your Souls with all that's great inspire,
With soaring thoughts, and each sublime desire;
'Tis I, my Brittons, who vouchsafe t'appear,
And view my God like Sons assembled here.
And I am charm'd to see you assembled all,
At the known sound of my Majestic call.
Hither in pomp the Tragick Muse I have led,
Who had twenty rolling Moons been from you fled,
Forlorn, forsaken, the Celestial Maid
In Solitudes disconsolately straid:
Wild as a Bacchanal I saw her rove,
This Buskin'd Child of Memory and Jove.
Her once victorious eye now look'd Despair,
With miserable cries she rent the air,
Beat her Immortal Breasts, and tore her golden Hair.
Am I by all forsaken then! said she,
Oh is my Brittain faln to that degree,
As for effeminate Arts t'abandon me?
I left the enslav'd Italian with disdain,
And servile Gallia, and dejected Spain:
Grew proud to be confin'd to Brittain's shore,
Where Godlike Liberty had fix'd before;
Where Liberty thrives most, I most can soar.
Once more I thought t'inspire Athenian flights,
And once more towr to Sophoclean heights.
But oh, she cry'd, I feel a Ruder care,
And I have chang'd Ambition for Despair
And leaves no room for my exalted strains.
Those Arts now rule that softend foreign Braves,
And sunk the Southern Nations into Slaves.
This said the Muse, my Brittons, against you:
Oh Supreme Jove! And is th'Indictment true?
It is; so wanton are your Stages grown,
That my Degenerate Sons I have not known,
Or what is worse, ye Gods, have blush'd to own.
Oh what wou'd my magnanimous Henry say,
Or Edward's Soul returning to the day;
To see a Bearded more than Female throng
Dissolv'd and dying by an Eunuchs Song.
To give you wholesome true severe delight,
With me the Tragick Muse returns to night.
To your soft neighbours Sound and Show resign,
But listen you to her great voice and mine.
'Tis true, the Organ's weak we now inspire,
But what can weaken our Celestial Fire?
Where cannot we exert our boundless pow'rs?
Yet from his mortal voice distinguish ours.
Whatever in the following Scenes is low,
Whate'er may from corrupted Customs flow,
That's his, from that your generous Breasts defend;
But to what's ours with silent dread attend;
And ours is all that's brave and truly great,
And which can raising you, exalt the State.
Friendship's the virtue which we recommend,
He makes a Patriot too who makes a Friend.
Who freely for his Friend resigns his breath,
Would for his Country meet a glorious Death.
With silent awe, my Brittons, then attend,
View the great Action of a Grecian Friend,
And learn degenerate selfish thoughts t'amend.
From Grecian fire let English hearts take flame,
And grow deserving of that noble name:
For not the boundless Main which I controul,
Can so delight my Eyes, or charm my Soul,
As I am pleas'd when my brave Sons I see
Worthy of Godlike Liberty and me.
He sinks to the same Symphony that he rose
| Iphigenia | |