LADY JANE GRAY. THIS play has the general characteristics of Rowe's Tragedy; suavity, rather than strength, is the mark of his verse, and his thoughts rather swell with pomp than nature, are much more splendid than great. In pathetic power it is infinitely below his SHORE; yet the resignation of JANE may affect those whose moral rectitude might refuse in the former play their sympathy to the sufferer, stained by illicit conduct, and only expiating ingratitude by penury and pain. The chief praise of character must however be given to GARDINER-He displays the usual feelings of a Churchman; and we could extend a greater portion of applause to Rowɛ for the delineation, if we had not latterly been so much more gratified by a fuller development of the sacerdotal mind in the MYSTERIOUS MOTHER of Horace Walpole. B A PROLOGUE. SENT BY AN UNKNOWN HAND. WHEN waking terrors rouze the guilty breast, And fatal visions break the murd’rer's rest ; When vengeance does ambition's fate decree, And tyrants bleed, to set whole nations free ; Tho' the muse saddens each distressed scene, Unmov'd is ev'ry breast, and ev'ry face serene : The mournful lines no tender heart subdue; Compassion is to suff'ring goodness due. The poet your attention begs once more, T' atone for characters here drawn before; No royal mistress sighs through ev'ry page, And breathes her dying sorrows on the stage: No lovely fair by soft persuasion won, Lays down the load of life, when honour's gone. Nobly to bear the changes of our state, To stand unmov'd against the storms of fate, A brave contempt of life, and grandeur lost : Such glorious toils a female name can boast. Our author draws not beauty's heavenly smile, T' invite our wishes, and our hearts beguile; No soft enchantments languish in her eye, No blossoms fade, nor sick'ning roses die. A nobler passion ev'ry breast must move, Than youthful raptures, or the joys of love, A mind unchang'd, superior to a crown, With gen'rous scorn she lays the sceptre down; The lovely form, through falling drops, will seem' Thus beauty, heaven's sweet ornament, shall prove Forget your charms, fond woman's dear delight, PROLOGUE. To-night the noblest subject swells our scene, And tho' the poet dares not boast his art, To warm the gen'rous soul, and touch the tender heart. William's great hand was doom'd to break that chain, Ye grateful Britons crown the hero's urn; Which, or his own, or following reigns bestow. While you behold the beautiful and brave, gave. |