AN ELEGY,

WRITTEN IN DRURY-LANE THEATRE.

Te sequor, o Grayiæ gentis decus.

The prompter rings the lofty curtain down,
The gaping audience leave the Pit with glee,
Homeward in troops return the weary town,
And leave the house to emptiness and me.

Now fades each glimmering candle on the sight,
And thro' the air a smoky silence reigns,
Save where some lobby hero seeks the fight,
And bravely gets a beating for his pains :

Save that to scare Piazza-haunting flocks,
The moping watchman does in oaths complain,
Of such, as wandering near his secret box,
With clamour loud intrude on his domain.

Their parts perform'd, behind the curtain's shade,
Where stretch the scenes in many a motley heap,
Each in his humble lodging quiet laid,

The chorus-singing tribe securely sleep.

The summons of rehearsal-bringing morn,

The prompter whispering from his wooden shed,
The trumpet, hautboy, clarionet, and horn,
Shall rouse each man to-morrow from his bed.

And yet for them no opera pours its rhyme;
No loud encore rewards their evening care;
No children run to hail their pantomime,

Or crowd the box, the envied laugh to share.

As sailors oft they hail'd Britannia's shore;
As Forty Thieves they spurned the Sultan's yoke ;
Their shoulders oft Peruvian Rolla bore;

How bow'd their heads when mighty Bluebeard spoke!

THEATRICAL MAGAZINE.

71

Let not tragedians mock their useful toil,
Their russet boots by hundreds worn before;
Nor fashion hear, with a disdainful smile,
The lowly annals of our Thespian corps.
The dice of Beverley, the straw of Lear,
And all that Hamlet, all Macbeth e'er gave,
In the fifth act conclude their high career,
For tragic glory leads but to the grave.
Nor you, rich actor, lay on these the blame,
If their poor names no daily journals raise,
Where, through the long drawn column, bent on fame,
The editor resounds the note of praise.

Can studied puffs an actor's fame decide?
Or to a throne a mute attendant carry?

Can praise give powers that nature has denied,
Or make Beau Clincher equal to Sir Harry?

Perhaps in these neglected ranks has stray'd
Some swelling bosom fraught with tragic fire;
Tongues that Othello's vengeance might have stay'd,
Or base lago prov'd a living liar!

But authors to their eyes their ample plays,
Rich in fine acting parts did never bring;
The manager repressed their mental blaze,
And pent them up in chorusses to sing.

Of sonnetteers full many a rhyming moan,
The Monthly Magazines, unread, contain;
Full many a joke is cut, to die unknown,

Lost in the echoing dome of Drury Lane.

Some unknown GARRICK, with advent'rous wing,
Clipp'd by the shears of want and melancholy;
Some low inglorious BRAHAM here may sing,
Some BETTY guiltless of a nation's folly!

Th' applause of wondering boxes to attract,
Their face engrav'd in public shops to boast,

Their lot forbad: nor circumscribed alone,
Their growing talents, but their faults unseen;
Tomit the author's jest, insert their own,

Or woo the boxes while they slight the scene.

By mummery the writer's text to hide,

Their influence o'er the galleries to boast, Or mar the play, and decency deride,

With nonsense purchased at the Muse's cost.

Far from the rattling squares, and fashion's sport,
Their small finances rather bade them stay,
In Russel Street, Long Acre, Martlet Court,
Convenient spots contiguous to the play.

Yet e'en these names from Lethe to protect,
Some lengthened play-bill still erected there,
With letters of all sorts and sizes decked,
Implores the passing tribute of a stare!

Their names, their characters, a motley pack,
Great heroes first, and mute attendants last;
Robbers and senators, in red and black,
To shew the public how the parts are cast.

For who to careless nonchalance a prey,
Of self-importance never gave one hint,
Passed idly by the red bills of the day,

Nor cast one look to see himself in print!

Ambition on our mimic stage will rise;

Truman survives when Barnwell yields his breath; Emilia raves when Desdemona dies;

The bleeding captain emulates Macbeth.

For thee, who mindful of thy brethren dead,
Dost in these lines their useful toils relate,

If chance, by curiosity misled,

Some gentle critic shall inquire thy fate.

Haply the leader of the band may say,
"Oft have I seen him standing there aloof,
"Eager to write, as well as act, a play,

"And wooing Phoebus frowning on the roof.

"Fronting the audience, in a double mood,
"Mutt'ring his dialogue, now brisk, now sad;
"Sometimes, as actor, tolerably good,

66

Always, as bard, intolerably bad.

"One night they hiss'd him in the accustom'd scene,
"I thought the play was damn'd-' ah, wo is me,'
"Another came, with scarce a pause between,
"They hiss'd again-in doleful plight was he!

"The third, with dirges due, in sad array,
"The prompter's sheep bell rang our poet's knell,
"Approach and read (none else will read) the play,
"If not-the Epilogue may do as well."

THE EPILOGUE.

Here rests his head upon the prompter's shelf,
A bard to wisdom and to wit unknown;
THALIA Smil'd not on the scribbling elf,

But gentle Dulness mark'd him for her own.

Coy from his suit the Muses turn'd away,
A Day in London ill his toil requites;
He gave the town-'twas all he had-a play;
The town denied-his only wish-nine nights!

No further seek his writings to deride,

Nor try to mend what sentiment has marr'd;
Oblivion's veil his comedy shall hide,

And shroud in night the actor and the bard!}

The above admirable parody was originally printed in the "Monthly Mirror" for 1807; we think it well deserves re-publishing.

SHAKSPERIANA.

No. XII.

BY G. CREED.

SHAKSPERIAN COINCIDENCIES.

"Parallel passages, or at least a striking similarity of expression, is always worthy of remark.'

COWPER.

Agreeing as I do most strictly with the opinion advanced in the above passage, I have long made it my employment, or rather my amusement, to note down such passages as have occurred to me in a pretty extensive course of miscellaneous reading. My object, therefore, in the present number of my paper is to point out several instances wherein the "dear child of memory" appears to have imitated his own expressions; should any passages of a similar nature occur to the readers of "The Drama," I shall feel indebted if they will communicate them through its medium.

January, 1823.

LIGHTNING.

Lysander. Brief as the lightning in the collied night, Which ere a man hath

power to say, behold!"

The jaws of darkness do devour it up.

Midsummer Night's Dream, Act I. Sc. 1.

Juliet. It is too rash, too unadvised, too sudden, Too like the lightning, which doth cease to be,

Ere one can say, 66 it lightens!"

Romeo and Juliet, Act II. Sc. 2.

CHILDREN.

Capulet. Wife, we scarce thought us blessed,