Forth issued from their dismal dark abodes
The birds attendant upon hideous night,
Shriek-owls and ravens, whose fell croaking bodes
Approaching death to miserable wight:
Did never mind of man behold sike dreadful sight?
Apollo wails his darling done to die
By foul attempt of Envy's fatal bane;
The Muses sprinkle him with dew of Castaly,
And crown his death with many a fiving strain;
Hoary Parnassus beats his aged breast,
Aged, yet ne'er before did sorrow know;
The flowers drooping their despair attest,
Th' aggrieved rivers querulously flow;
All nature sudden groan'd with sympathetic woe.
But, lo! the sky a gayer livery wears,
The melting clouds begin to fade apace,
And now the cloak of darkness disappears,
(May darkness ever thus to light give place!)
Erst griev'd Apollo jocund looks resumes,
The Nine renew their whilom cheerful song,
No grief Parnassus' aged breast consumes,
For from the teeming earth new flowers sprong,
The plenteous rivers flow'd full peacefully along.
The stricken bard fresh vital heat renews,
Whose blood, erst stagnant, rushes through bis
veins;
Life through each pre her spirit doth infuse,
And Fame by Malice unextinguish'd reigns:
And see, a form breaks forth, all heav'nly bright,
Upheld by one of mortal progeny,
A female form, yclad in snowy-white,
Ne half so fair at distance seen as nigh;
Douglas and Truth appear, Envy and Lauder die.
PROLOGUE TO THE JEALOUS WIFE.
SPOKEN BY MR. GARRICK.
THE Jealous Wife! a comedy! poor man!
A charming subject! but a wretched plan.
His skittish wit, o'erleaping the due bound,
Commits flat trespass upon tragic ground.
Quarrels, upbraidings, jealousies, and spleen,
Grow too familiar in the comic scene.
Tinge but the language with heroic chime,
'Tis passion, pathos, character, sublime!
What round big words had swell'd the pompous
A king the husband, and the wife a queen! [scene,
Then might Distraction rend her graceful hair,
See sightless forms, and scream, and gape, and stare.
Drawcansir Death had rag'd without control,
Here the drawn dagger, there the poison'd bowl.
What eyes had stream'd at all the whining woe!
What hands had thunder'd at each Hah, and Oh!
But peace! the gentle prologue custom sends,
Like drum and serjeant, to beat up for friends.
At vice and folly, each a lawful game,
Our author flies, but with no partial aim.
He read the manners, open as they lie
In Nature's volume to the general eye.
Books too he read, nor blush'd to use their store-
He does but what his betters did before.
Shakspeare has done it, and the Grecian stage
Caught truth of character from Homer's page.
If in bis scenes an honest skill is shown,
And borrowing little, much appears his own;
If what a master's happy pencil drew
He brings more forward, in dramatic view;
VOL. XV.
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INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN SPOKEN AT DRURY-
LANE THEATRE, ON HIS MAJESTY'S BIRTH.
DAY, 1761.
GENIUS, neglected, mourns his wither'd bays;
But soars to Heav'n from virtue's generous praise.
When kings themselves the proper judges sit
O'er the blest realms of science, arts, and wit,
Each eager breast beats high for glorious fame,
And emulation glows with active flame.
Thus, with Augustus rose imperial Rome,
For arms renown'd abroad, for arts at home.
Thus, when Eliza fill'd Britannia's throne,
What arts, what learning was not then our own?
Then sinew'd genius strong and nervous rose,
In Spenser's numbers, and in Raleigh's prose;
On Bacon's lips then every science hung, [tongue.
Her patriot smiles fell, like refreshing dews,
And Nature spoke from her own Shakspeare's
To wake to life each pleasing useful Muse,
While every virtue which the queen profess'd,
Beam'd on her subjects, but to make them blest.
O glorious times!-O theme of praise divine!
-Be happy, Britain, then-such times are thine.
Behold e'en now strong science imps her wing,
And arts revive beneath a patriot king.
The Muses too burst forth with double light,
To shed their lustre in a monarch's sight.
His cheering smiles alike to all extend-
Perhaps this spot may boast a royal friend.
And when a prince, with early judgment grac'd,
Himself shall marshal out the way to taste,
Caught with the flame perhaps e'en here may rise
Some powerful genius of uncommon size,
And, pleas'd with Nature, Nature's depth explore,
And be what our great Shakspeare was before.
PROLOGUE TO HECUBA.
SPOKEN BY MR. GARRICK, 1761.
A Grecian bard, two thousand years ago,
Plann'd this sad fable of illustrious woe;
Waken'd each soft emotion of the breast,
And call'd forth tears, that would not be supprest.
Yet, O ye mighty sirs, of judgment chaste,
Who, lacking genius, have a deal of taste,
Can you forgive our modern ancient piece,
Which brings no chorus, tho' it comes from
Greece?
Kind social chorus, which all humours meets,
And sings and dances up and down the streets.
-Oh! might true taste, in these unclassic days,
Revive the Grecian fashions with their plays!
Then, rais'd on stilts, our players would stalk and
age,
And, at three steps, stride o'er a modern stage;
Each gesture then would boast unusual charms,
From lengthen❜d legs, stuff'd body, sprawling arms!
Your critic eye would then no pigmies see,
But buskins make a giant e'en of me.
No features then the poet's mind would trace,
But one black vizor blot out all the face.
O! glorious times, when actors thus could strike,
Expressive, inexpressive, all alike!
Less change of face than in our Punch they saw, For Punch can roll his eyes, and wag his jaw; With one set glare they mouth'd the rumbling verse; Our Gog and Magog look not half so fierce!
'Yet, though depriv'd of instruments like these, Nature, perhaps, may find a way to please; Which, wheresoe'er she glows with genuine flame, In Greece, in Rome, in England, is the same.
Of raillery then, ye modern wits, beware, Nor damn the Grecian poet for the player. Theirs was the skill, with honest help of art, To win, by just degree, the yielding heart. What if our Shakspeare claims the magic throne, And in one instant makes us all his own; They differ only in one point of view, For Shakspeare's nature, was their nature too.
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Of mitred sages, bards divine,
Of patriots, active in their country's cause,
Who plan her councils, or direct her laws.
Oh Memory! how thou lov'st to stray,
Delighted, o'er the flow'ry way
Of childhood's greener years! when simple youth
Pour'd the pure dictates of ingenuous truth!
'Tis then the souls congenial meet,
Inspir'd with friendship's genuine heat,
Ere interest, frantic zeal, or jealous art,
Have taught the language foreign to the heart.
'Twas here, in many an early strain
Dryden first try'd his classic vein,
Spurr'd his strong genius to the distant goal,
In wild effusions of his manly soul;
When Busby's skill, and judgment sage,
Repress'd the poet's frantic rage,
Cropt his luxuriance bold, and blended taught
The flow of numbers with the strength of thought.
Nor, Cowley, be thy Muse forgot! which strays In wit's ambiguous flowery maze, With many a pointed turn and studied art: Though affectation blot thy rhyme, Thy mind was lofty and sublime, And manly honour dignified thy heart: Though fond of wit, yet firm to virtue's plan, The poet's trifles ne'er disgrac'd the man.
Well might thy morals sweet engage Th' attention of the mitred sage, Smit with the plain simplicity of truth. For not ambition's giddy strife,
The gilded toys of public life, Which snare the gay unstable youth,
Could lure thee from the sober charms, Which lapt thee in Retirement's arms, Whence thou, untainted with the pride of state, Could'st smile with pity on the bustling great. Such were Eliza's sons. Her fost'ring care Here bade free genius tune his grateful song, Which else had wasted in the desert air, Or droop'd unnotic'd 'mid the vulgar throng, -Ne'er may her youth degenerate shame The glories of Eliza's name!
But with the poet's phrensy bold,
Such as inspir'd her bards of old,
Pluck the green laurel from the hand of Fame!
THE TEARS AND TRIUMPH OF PAR
See! where Britannia stands
With close infolded hands,
On yonder sea-beat shore!
Behold her languid air!
Lo! her dishevell'd hair!
Majestic now no more!
Still on the sullen wave her eye is bent,
The trident of the main thrown idle by;
Old Thames, his sea-green mantle rent,
Inverts his urn, and heaves a doleful sigh.
Hark! to the winds and waves
Frantic with grief she raves,
And," Cruel gods!" she cries;
Each chalky cliff around,
Each rock returns the sound,
And "Cruel gods!" replies.
Will by the hero now be done
His great career of fame is run, And all the loss deplore.
Lo! Mars, from his beloved land,
Where Freedom long hath fix'd her stand,
Bids ye collect your flowing hair,
And again the laurel wear:
For see! Britannia rears her drooping head;
Again resumes her trident of the main;
Thames takes his urn, and seeks his wat'ry bed,
While gay Content sits smiling on the plain.
Hark! a glad voice,
Proclaims the people's choice.
Proceed great days; lead on th' auspicious years; Such years (for lo! the scene of fate appears!) Such years, the Destinies have said, shall roll: Jove nods consent, and thunder shakes the pole.
ARCADIA. A DRAMATIC PASTORAL'.
SCENE I. A view of the country.
Shepherds and Shepherdesses.
SHEPHERDS, buxom, blithe and free, Now's the time for jollity.
Hither haste, and bring along Merry tale and jocund song, To the pipe and tabor beat Frolic measures with your feet.
1 Performed at Drury-lane theatre, in honour of their present majesties' marriage. The music was composed by Stanley. C
Make the most of proffer'd joy, Pleasure hates the scanty rules Portion'd out by dreaming fools.
Shepherds, buxom, blithe and free,
Now's the time for jollity.
[A dance of shepherds, &c.
Rejoice, ye happy swains, rejoice; It is the heart that prompts the voice. Be sorrow banish'd far away;
Thyrsis shall make it holiday.
Who at his name can joy suppress? Arcadian-born to rule and bless.
And hark! from rock to rock the sound
Of winding horn, and deep-mouth'd hound,
Breaking with rapture on the ear,
Proclaims the blithesome Phoebe near:
See where she hastes with eager pace,
To speak the joys that paint her face.
SCENE 11. Opens to a prospect of rocks. Huntsmen, huntresses, &c. coming down from them.
Hither I speed with honest glee,
Such as befits the mind that's free;
Your cheerful troop, blithe youth to join,
And mix my social joys with thine.
Now may each nymph, and frolic swain,
O'er mountain steep, or level plain,
Court buxom Health, while jocund horn
Bids Echo wake the sluggard Morn.
Up hill, down the valley, by thicket or grove: Then follow with me, where the welkin resounds With the notes of the horns, and the cry of the hounds.
Let the wretched be slaves to ambition and wealth; All the blessing we ask is the blessing of health. So shall innocence self give a warrant to joys No envy disturbs, no dependance destroys: Then follow with me, where the welkin resounds With the notes of the horn, and the cry of the hounds.
O'er hill, dale, and woodland, with rapture we
So may all thy sylvan train,
Dryad, nymph, and rustic faun, To the pipe and merry strain,
Trip it o'er the russet lawn!
May no thorn or bearded grass
Hurt their footsteps as they pass,
Whilst in gambols round and round
They sport it o'er the shaven ground!
Though thy Syrinx, like a dream,
Flying at the face of day,
Vanish'd in the limpid stream,
Bearing all thy hopes away,
If again thy heart should burn,
In caressing,
Blest, and blessing,
May'st thou find a wish'd return.
Now as I trod yon verdant side,
Where Ladon rolls its silver tide,
All gayly deck'd in gorgeous state,
Sail'd a proud barge of richest freight:
Where sat a nymph, more fresh and fair
Than blossoms which the morning air
Steals perfume from; the modest grace
Of maiden blush bespread her face.
Hither it made, and on this strand
Pour'd its rich freight for shepherds' land.
Ladon, for this, smooth flow thy tide!
The precious freight was Thyrsis' bride.
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