 | Virginius |  |
60
PROLOGUE, BY J. H. REYNOLDS, ESQ. SPOKEN BY MISS BOOTH.
[Speaking behind.]
Nay, Mr. Fawcett, give me leave, I pray:
The audience wait, and I must have my way.
[Enters.
What! curb a woman's tongue!—as I'm alive,
The wretch would mar our old prerogative!
Ladies! by very dint of pertinacity,
Have I preserved the glory of loquacity.
Nay, Mr. Fawcett, give me leave, I pray:
The audience wait, and I must have my way.
[Enters.
What! curb a woman's tongue!—as I'm alive,
The wretch would mar our old prerogative!
Ladies! by very dint of pertinacity,
Have I preserved the glory of loquacity.
Oh! could you gaze, as I am gazing now,
And see each man behind with gather'd brow,
And clenchéd hand (though nought my spirit damps),
Beckoning, with threats, my presence from the lamps:
Each, as I broke my way, declared how well
His art could woo you—to be peaceable!
One is well robed—a second greatly shines,
In the nice balance—of cast-iron lines;
A third can sing—a fourth can touch your tears—
A fifth—“I'll see no more!”—a fifth appears,
Who hath been once in Italy, and seen Rome;
In short—there's quite a hubbub in the Green-Room.
But I—a very woman—careless, light—
Fleet idly to your presence, this fair night;
And, craving your sweet pardon, fain would say
A kind word for the poet and his play.
And see each man behind with gather'd brow,
And clenchéd hand (though nought my spirit damps),
Beckoning, with threats, my presence from the lamps:
Each, as I broke my way, declared how well
His art could woo you—to be peaceable!
One is well robed—a second greatly shines,
In the nice balance—of cast-iron lines;
A third can sing—a fourth can touch your tears—
A fifth—“I'll see no more!”—a fifth appears,
Who hath been once in Italy, and seen Rome;
In short—there's quite a hubbub in the Green-Room.
But I—a very woman—careless, light—
Fleet idly to your presence, this fair night;
And, craving your sweet pardon, fain would say
A kind word for the poet and his play.
To-night, no idle nondescript lays waste
The fairy and yet placid bower of taste:
No story, piled with dark and cumbrous fate,
And words, that stagger under their own weight;
But one of silent grandeur—simply said,
As though it were awaken'd from the dead!
It is a tale—made beautiful by years;—
Of pure, old Roman sorrow—old in tears!
And those you shed o'er it in childhood may
Still fall—and fall—for sweet Virginia!
The fairy and yet placid bower of taste:
No story, piled with dark and cumbrous fate,
And words, that stagger under their own weight;
But one of silent grandeur—simply said,
As though it were awaken'd from the dead!
It is a tale—made beautiful by years;—
Of pure, old Roman sorrow—old in tears!
And those you shed o'er it in childhood may
Still fall—and fall—for sweet Virginia!
Nor doth a crownéd poet of the age
Call the sweet spirits from the historic page!
No old familiar dramatist hath spun
This tragic, antique web, to-night—but one,
An unknown author, in a sister land,
Waits, in young fear, the fiat of your hand.
Call the sweet spirits from the historic page!
No old familiar dramatist hath spun
This tragic, antique web, to-night—but one,
An unknown author, in a sister land,
Waits, in young fear, the fiat of your hand.
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