The Secret Tribunal A Play. In Five Acts |
PROLOGUE. Written by John Litchfield, Esq. Spoken by MR. MACREADY. |
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 | The Secret Tribunal |  |
PROLOGUE. Written by John Litchfield, Esq. Spoken by MR. MACREADY.
LONG hath the Tragic Muse, in secret mourn'd
Her pow'r abus'd, her empire overturn'd,
Her sacred laws in mixt confusion tost;
Her rights insulted, and her virtues lost—
Her children long profess'd, dispute her reign,
Deserting her's to hold her Sister's train.
“No griefs sublime now swell th'impassion'd breast,
“Array'd in Truth's, or flowery Fiction's vest;
“No melting tear now swims in sorrow's eye,
“Nor terror screams—nor pity vents the sigh.
“Time was, when Genius struck the plaintive lyre,
“And Fancy lent her intellectual fire,
“When Poets rais'd the sympathetic strain,
“And claim'd Compassion's tear—nor claim'd in vain,”
The changeling Fashion now disdains to pay
Her sullen tribute to the serious lay;
While cold and impotent our Authors move,
And scorn to wake or pity, fear or love,
By secondary means they strive to raise
The paltry meed of meretricious praise;
With flags, spears, helmets and processions rise,
“Pride, pomp and circumstance” of scenic strife,
To storied deeds of bold emprize they lead,
An army conquered—or a nation freed—
Prompters and properties their pow'rs unite
And drum, fife, trumpet, rouse the mimic fight.
Hark! here a charge—the trumpet—there retreat—
A victory here—tattoo—and there defeat.
Thus action bustle is, and passion rage,
As Bards decree, or mightier Chiefs engage;
While as the fight grows warm, the Pit are froze,
The Audience shiver as the Actor glows.
Her pow'r abus'd, her empire overturn'd,
Her sacred laws in mixt confusion tost;
Her rights insulted, and her virtues lost—
Her children long profess'd, dispute her reign,
Deserting her's to hold her Sister's train.
“No griefs sublime now swell th'impassion'd breast,
“Array'd in Truth's, or flowery Fiction's vest;
“No melting tear now swims in sorrow's eye,
“Nor terror screams—nor pity vents the sigh.
“Time was, when Genius struck the plaintive lyre,
“And Fancy lent her intellectual fire,
“When Poets rais'd the sympathetic strain,
“And claim'd Compassion's tear—nor claim'd in vain,”
The changeling Fashion now disdains to pay
Her sullen tribute to the serious lay;
While cold and impotent our Authors move,
And scorn to wake or pity, fear or love,
By secondary means they strive to raise
The paltry meed of meretricious praise;
With flags, spears, helmets and processions rise,
“Pride, pomp and circumstance” of scenic strife,
To storied deeds of bold emprize they lead,
An army conquered—or a nation freed—
And drum, fife, trumpet, rouse the mimic fight.
Hark! here a charge—the trumpet—there retreat—
A victory here—tattoo—and there defeat.
Thus action bustle is, and passion rage,
As Bards decree, or mightier Chiefs engage;
While as the fight grows warm, the Pit are froze,
The Audience shiver as the Actor glows.
“Nor more the Verse has cunning skill to wind
“The secret springs that agitate the mind:
‘High rais'd on stilts, in measur'd Prose, it creeps,
“While judgment sickens, and while fancy sleeps;
“Nor pause of thought nor passion's vivid glow
“Disturb its studied but unmeaning flow—
“Monotonous and dull the periods roll,
“Allure the ear but leave untouch'd the soul.
“Nature, howe'er, is never all the same,
“In multifarious forms she makes her claim,
“Expression varies as the Passion turns,
“Softens with love or with resentment burns.”
“The secret springs that agitate the mind:
‘High rais'd on stilts, in measur'd Prose, it creeps,
“While judgment sickens, and while fancy sleeps;
“Nor pause of thought nor passion's vivid glow
“Disturb its studied but unmeaning flow—
“Monotonous and dull the periods roll,
“Allure the ear but leave untouch'd the soul.
“Nature, howe'er, is never all the same,
“In multifarious forms she makes her claim,
“Expression varies as the Passion turns,
“Softens with love or with resentment burns.”
This night, a Bard, to different views inclin'd,
Demands the tribute of the willing mind;
Happy—if such his enterprizing art,
To waken feeling, and to touch—the heart.
Demands the tribute of the willing mind;
Happy—if such his enterprizing art,
To waken feeling, and to touch—the heart.
What time the policy of German Rule
Fetter'd the native freedom of the soul;
When superstition held her sanguine state,
And dealt, at will, the rapid blow of fate;
The world beheld all pledge of safety gone,
And even Monarchs trembled on the throne.
Judges, with functions unconfin'd and free,
At midnight issued many a dark decree—
The culprit once condemn'd—a numerous Band
Of secret Agents, hunt him through the land;
Nor age, nor character, nor kin have force,
To stay their barbarous unrelenting course;
Bound by an oath th'avenging steel to draw,
Guilt became piety, and murder Law.
Fetter'd the native freedom of the soul;
When superstition held her sanguine state,
And dealt, at will, the rapid blow of fate;
The world beheld all pledge of safety gone,
And even Monarchs trembled on the throne.
Judges, with functions unconfin'd and free,
At midnight issued many a dark decree—
Of secret Agents, hunt him through the land;
Nor age, nor character, nor kin have force,
To stay their barbarous unrelenting course;
Bound by an oath th'avenging steel to draw,
Guilt became piety, and murder Law.
Britain! rejoice—The envied pow'r is thine,
To punish malice, and to thwart design;
Open as day our Courts judicial move,
And Rich or Poor their equal influence prove;
Rejoice! Your upright Juries make you free,
Bulwarks of Fame, of Life and Liberty.
To punish malice, and to thwart design;
Open as day our Courts judicial move,
And Rich or Poor their equal influence prove;
Rejoice! Your upright Juries make you free,
Bulwarks of Fame, of Life and Liberty.
To you, our Author now submits his cause,
Unbiass'd guardians of dramatic laws;
Guilty or not—there rests at once his all,
For by you Verdict—he must stand or fall.
Unbiass'd guardians of dramatic laws;
Guilty or not—there rests at once his all,
For by you Verdict—he must stand or fall.
| The Secret Tribunal | |