University of Virginia Library

PROLOGUE, BY R. BARLOW, ESQ.

In these blest days, the horrid din of arms
No longer wakes us with its dread alarms;—
Our warriors seek no more the field or flood,
And men have leisure to be wise and good.
Yet we, alas! have scarcely dried the tear,
Which flow'd to consecrate a monarch's bier;—
Who, for those laurels watch'd through years of gloom,
Which only rose to decorate his tomb.—
Whate'er the factions of our giddy throng,
Whatever ills from public woes have sprung;
The veriest wretch that owns a Briton's name,
Had prov'd his shield—the bulwark of his fame.
—No more!—forgive the bard these mournful strains,
Our “Hebrew” of to-night attention claims:—
No longer scoff'd, in peaceful compact blend
Christian and Jew, by turns each other's friend.
—The days of yore are past,—the advent'rous times,
When men were great in virtues as in crimes;
—Such days have left us, yet one master hand,
Hath borne the spell,—they rise at his command;
Triumphant genius bids the past appear,
To wake our terrors or command the tear;—
Unlike the bards of old who hapless pin'd
In want and solitude, your voice combin'd,
Pours the rich bounty of your just applause,
—The Novelist's, your own, and virtue's cause.
—'Tis at this shrine our bard to-night hath lit
His torch obscure—yet he, alas! unfit,
The scenes of “Ivanhoe” to copy here,
Hath sought for safety in a humbler sphere.
If from compiler's dull mechanic ways,
He fearless turns, will you withhold your praise?
Ah, no! who boldly dares will ever find,
A British audience, even in censure, kind;—
If not presumptuous, yet with hope impress'd,
Say will you crush this nursling of his breast?
Think how unlike all other's is the cause
Of our dramatic bards,—no courts—no laws—
No hope—no suffrage, but in your applause;—
Since then your favour's sought, your censure fear'd,
Be just,—be generous,—judge not till you've heard.