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PROLOGUE. BY THE AUTHOR OF THE PLAY.
The Prologue once, indeed, in days of old,
Some previous facts of the new Drama told:
Pointed your expectation to the scene,
And clear'd obstruction, that might intervene:
Possess'd you with those aids, the Author thought
Were requisite, to judge him as you ought.
Some previous facts of the new Drama told:
Pointed your expectation to the scene,
And clear'd obstruction, that might intervene:
Possess'd you with those aids, the Author thought
Were requisite, to judge him as you ought.
The moderns, previous hints like these despise,
Demand intrigue, and banquet on surprize:
The Prologue, notwithstanding, keeps its station,
A trembling Poet's solemn lamentation.
Cloak'd up in metaphor, it tells of shocks
Fatal to ships new launch'd, from hidden rocks;
Of critic batteries, of rival strife,
The Destinies that slit the thin-spun life.
Demand intrigue, and banquet on surprize:
The Prologue, notwithstanding, keeps its station,
A trembling Poet's solemn lamentation.
Cloak'd up in metaphor, it tells of shocks
Fatal to ships new launch'd, from hidden rocks;
Of critic batteries, of rival strife,
The Destinies that slit the thin-spun life.
Our Author chuses to prepare the way,
With lines at least suggested by his Play.
Caught from the Gothic treasures of Romance,
He frames his work, and lays the scene in France.
The word, I see, alarms—it vibrates here,
And Feeling marks its impulse with a tear.
It brings to thought, a people once refin'd,
Who led supreme the manners of mankind;
Deprav'd by cruelty, by pride inflam'd,
By traitors madden'd, and by sophists sham'd.
Crushing that freedom, which, with gentle sway,
Courted their revolution's infant day,
'Ere giant vanity, with impious hand,
Assail'd the sacred Temples of the Land.
With lines at least suggested by his Play.
Caught from the Gothic treasures of Romance,
He frames his work, and lays the scene in France.
The word, I see, alarms—it vibrates here,
And Feeling marks its impulse with a tear.
It brings to thought, a people once refin'd,
Who led supreme the manners of mankind;
Deprav'd by cruelty, by pride inflam'd,
By traitors madden'd, and by sophists sham'd.
Crushing that freedom, which, with gentle sway,
Courted their revolution's infant day,
Assail'd the sacred Temples of the Land.
Fall'n is that Land beneath oppression's flood;
Its purest sun has set, alas, in blood!
The milder planet drew from him her light,
And when HE rose no more, soon sunk in night:
The regal source of order, once destroy'd,
Anarchy made the fair creation void.
Its purest sun has set, alas, in blood!
The milder planet drew from him her light,
And when HE rose no more, soon sunk in night:
The regal source of order, once destroy'd,
Anarchy made the fair creation void.
Britons, to you, by temperate freedom crown'd,
For every manly sentiment renown'd,
The Stage can have no motive to enforce
The principles, that guide your glorious course;
Proceed triumphant—'mid the world's applause,
Firm to your King, your Altars, and your Laws.
For every manly sentiment renown'd,
The Stage can have no motive to enforce
The principles, that guide your glorious course;
Proceed triumphant—'mid the world's applause,
Firm to your King, your Altars, and your Laws.
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