Rescue, like courteous knights, the nymph His simple, plain sublime, to which is given [stranger. To strike the soul with darted flame from
from danger; And kindly treat, like well-bred men, the
82. Epilogue to the same. STEELE. BRITONS, who constant war, with factious rage,
For liberty, against each other wage,
From foreign insults save this English stage.
No more th' Italian squalling tribe admit,
In tongues unknown; 'tis popery in wit.
The songs (themselves confess) from Rome
[sing.
And 'tis high-mass, for aught you know, they
Husbands, take care; the danger may come
nigher;
The women say their eunuch is a friar.
But is it not a serious ill to see
Europe's great arbiters so mean can be ;
Passive, with an affected joy to sit,
Suspend their native taste of manly wit;
Neglect their comic humor, tragic rage,
For known defects of nature and of age?
Arise! for shame! ye conqu'ring Britons, rise!
Such unadorn'd effeminacy despise ;
Admire (if you will dote on foreign wit)
Not what Italians sing, but Romans writ;
So shall less works,such as to-night's slight play,
At your command, with justice die away;
Till then forgive your writers, that can't bear
You should such very tramontanes appear,
The nations, which contemn you, to revere.
Let Anna's soul be known for all its charms;
As fam'd for lib'ral sciences as arms:
Let those derision meet, who would advance
Manners, or speech, from Italy or France.
Let them learn you, who would your favor find,
And English be the language of mankind.
83. Prologue to Tancred and Sigismunda.
BOLD is the man, who, in this nicer age,
Presumes to tread the chaste, corrected stage.
Now, with gay tinsel arts we can no more
Conceal the want of nature's sterling ore:
Our spells are vanish'd, broke our magic wand,
That us'd to waft you over sea and land:
Before your light the fairy people fade;
The demons fly-the ghost itself is laid.
In vain of martial scenes the loud alarms;
The mighty Prompter thund'ring out to arms,
The playhouse posse clattering from afar,
The close-wedg'd battle, and the din of war:
Now e'en the senate seldom we convene;
The yawning fathers nod behind the scene.
Your taste rejects the glitt'ring false sublime,
To sigh in metaphor, and die in rhyme.
High Rant is tumbled from his gallery throne:
Description, dreams-nay, similes are gone.
What shall we then? to please you how de-
vise,
Whose judgment sits not in your ears and eyes?
Thrice happy, could we catch great Shak-
speare's art,
To trace the deep recesses of the heart;
Could we awake soft Otway's tender woe;
The pomp of verse, and golden lines of Rowe.
We to your hearts apply; let them attend:
Before their silent, candid bar we bend.
If warm'd they listen, 'tis our noblest praise,—
If cold, they wither all the muse's bays.
84. Epilogue to the same. THOMSON. CRAMM'D to the throat with wholesome moral stuff;
Alas! poor audience! you have had enough.
Was ever hapless heroine of a play
In such a piteous plight as ours to-day?
Was ever woman so by love betray'd?
Match'd with two husbands, and yet die a
maid!
But, bless me !-hold-what sounds are these
I hear?-
I see the Tragic Muse herself appear!
[The back scene opens, and discovers a
romantic sylvan landscape, from which
Sigismunda, in the character of the
Tragic Muse, advances slowly to music,
and speaks the following lines:
Hence with your flippant epilogue, that
tries
To wipe the virtuous tears from British eyes;
That dares my moral, tragic scene profane,
With strains-at best, unsuiting, light, and
vain.
[play Hence from the pure, unsullied beams, that In yon fair eyes, where virtue shines-Away!
Britons, to you, from chaste Castalian groves,
Where dwelt the tender, oft unhappy Loves;
Where shades of heroes roam, each mighty
name,
And court my aid, to rise again to fame;
To you I come; to Freedom's noblest seat;
And in Britannia fix my last retreat.
In Greece, and Rome, I watch'd the public
The purple tyrant trembled at my steel;
Nor did I less o'er private sorrows reign,
And mend the melting heart with softer pain.
On France and you then rose my bright'ning
With social ray-The Arts are ne'er at war.
O! as your fire and genius stronger blaze;
As yours are gen'rous Freedom's bolder lays;
Let not the Gallic taste leave yours behind,
In decent manners and in life refin'd;
Banish the motley mode, to tag low verse,
The laughing ballad, to the mournful hearse.
When through five acts your hearts have
learn'd to glow,
Touch'd with the sacred force of honest woe,
O keep the dear impression on your breast,
Nor idly lose it for a wretched jest!
$85. Epilogue to Zara. AARon Hill.
HERE, take a surfeit, sirs, of being jealous, And shun the pains that plague those Turkish fellows:
Where Love and Death joined hands, their darts confounding!
Save us, good Heaven! from this new way of [woman Curs'd climate!-where to cards a lone-left Has only one of her black guards to summon ! Sighs, and sits mop'd, with her tame beast to gaze at:
And that cold treat is all the game she plays at! For should she once some abler hand be trying, [dying! Poiniard's the word! and the first deal is'Slife! should the bloody whim get round in Britain, [sit on; Where women's freedom has such heights to Daggers, provok'd, would bring on desolation, And murder'd belles unpeople half the nation! Fain would I hope this play to move compassion
And live to hunt suspicion out of fashion.Four motives strongly recommend to lovers, Hate of this weakness, that our scene discovers. First, then A woman will or won't-depend on't: [on't. If she will do't, she will-and there's an end But, if she won't-since safe and sound your trust is,
Fear is affront, and jealousy injustice. Next: He who bids his dear do what she pleases,
Blunts wedlock's edge, and all its torture eases. For-not to feel your suff'rings is the same As not to suffer-all the diff'rence-name. Thirdly: The jealous husband wrongs his honor; [her: No wife goes lame, without some hurt upon And the malicious world will still be guessing, Who oft dines out dislikes her own cook's dressing.
Fourthly, and lastly, to conclude my lecture: If you would fix th' inconstant wife-respect her.
She who perceives her virtues over-rated, Will fear to have th' account more justly stated; And, borrowing from her pride the good wife's seeming,
Grow really such-to merit your esteeming.
86. Epilogue to the Comedy of Better Late than Never. ANDREWS.
THE drama done, and all its int'rest over,
Content the husband, and secure the lover,
Our timid bard, who dreads the critic ire,
And thinks my little tongue can never tire,
Would have me re-assume the wig and gown,
To plead his goose-quill cause before the town.
"Lord, sir," says I, "some better counsel
bring,
For females in a wig are not the thing.
Your bearded barrister, if smartly made, is
A surer advocate among the ladies."
"Madam," he cried, "or periwigg'd or bare,
So you but talk, I never need despair."
Suppose, ye fair, as I'm so smooth a prater, I take a line so consonant to nature;
Give up the vain attempt your hearts to warm, And 'gainst the men with female weapon arm.
Oft have the wits, unmindful whom they vex, Expos'd the foibles of the softer sex, Laugh'd at their dress, their well-shap'd cork, their feathers,
Their steady bloom, unchanging in all weath
Swore locks were grey, that seem'd a comely brown,
And, though all paid for, deem'd them not their own.
Why not retort, avenge th' insulted fair, And show these men what wondrous things they are?
Now don't be frighten'd-poor eccentric elves!
I orly show what most you like-yourselves.
How! tremble at a woman? shame betide!
Though I look fierce, like you-I'm all outside;
Yet, ere my efforts your attention call
To that dear portrait which should hit you all,
Let me delineate what was once a beau,
The Band-box Billy of some years ago.
Sweet image of mamma in every feature, The youth came forth a most delicious creature, With full-dress'd skirts, not quite unlike a hoop,
Hat under arm, fine button, and gilt loopStiff stock, long sword still dangling in the way, He sometimes ventur'd to a first-night play; Tripp'd through the lobby, most completely curl'd;
Nor did a paw-paw thing for all the world! Thus he discours'd: "Sir Dilberry, ods so, Dear, dear, good luck! have you a place below? Dem it, don't crowd so, fellow!-O, how shocking! [ing."
He's spoil'd my hair, and dirtied all my stockSuch was the smart our grandmammas would praise,
Rather unlike the smart of present days:
For I defy all history to show
One thing in nature like a modern beau;
Hat slouch'd, short stick, knee-trappings that
bring back
The memory of renown'd Sixteen-String Jack; Eternal boots, and collar you'd suppose
Cut in kind contact with his buckship's nose. Thus trimly deck'd, each night among the
To such our play not sues: but you, ye fair, Ye wise, whom nature form'd with happier care, Whose tender bosoms, though by passions rent, Feel the soft virtues in their full extent, Cherish our author's plan, which aims to prove Life's best exertions spring from virtuous love. 87. Epilogue to the Liar; between Miss Grantham and Old Wilding.
Our plot concluded, and strict justice done,
Let me be heard, as counsel for your son.
Acquit I can't; I mean to mitigate;
Proscribe all lying, what would be the fate
Of this and every other earthly state?
Consider, sir, if once you cry it down,
You'll shut up every coffee-house in town;
The tribe of politicians will want food,
Even now half-famish'd-for the public good;
All Grub-Street murderers of men and sense,
And every office of intelligence,
All would be bankrupts, the whole lying race, And no Gazette to publish their disgrace.
O. Wild. Too mild a sentence! Must the good and great
Still in this nether world! no seraph yet-
Nor walks my spirit when the sun is set,
With troubled step to haunt the fatal board
Where I died last-by poison or the sword;
And blanch each honest cheek with deeds of
night,
Done here so oft by dim and doubtful light.
To drop all metaphor, that little bell
Call'd back reality, and broke the spell.
No heroine claims your tears with tragic tone
A very woman-scarce restrains her own!
Can she, with fiction, charm the cheated mind,
When to be grateful is the part assign'd?
Ah, no! she scorns the trappings of her art;
No theme but truth, no prompter but the heart.
But, ladies, say, must I alone unmask?
Is here no other actress, let me ask?
Know, every woman studies stage-effect:
Believe me, those, who best the heart dissect.
She moulds her manners to the part she fills,
As instinct teaches, or as humor wills;
And, as the grave or gay her talent calls,
Acts in the drama, till the curtain falls.
First, how her little breast with triumph
swells,
Patriots be wrong'd, that booksellers may eat? When the red coral rings its silver bells!
M. Gr. Your patience, sir; yet hear another To play in pantomime is then the rage
Turn to that hall where Justice wields her Along the carpet's many-color'd stage;
Think in what narrow limits you would draw, Now here, now there in noise and mischief
Or lisp her merry thoughts with loud endeavor,
By this proscription, all the sons of law:
For 'tis the fix'd, determin'd rule of courts,
(Viner will tell you-nay,even Coke's Reports,) All pleaders may, when difficulties rise, To gain one truth, expend a hundred lies.
O. Wild. To curb this practice I am somewhat loath;
A lawyer has no credit but on oath.
A school-girl next-she curls her hair in pa-
And mimics father's gout, and mother's vapors ;
Discards her doll, bribes Betty for romances,
Playful at church,and serious when she dances;
Tramples alike on customs and on toes,
And whispers all she hears to all she knows;
M. Gr. Then to the softer sex some favor Terror of caps and wigs and sober notions!
A romp! that longest of perpetual motions! Till, tam'd and tortur'd into foreign graces, allow-She sports her lovely face at public places, And, with blue laughing eyes, behind her fan, First acts her part with that great actor-man.
On this rejoinder, then, I rest my cause:
Should all pay homage to truth's sacred laws,
Let us examine what would be the case;
Why, many a great man would be out of place.
O. Wild. 'Twould many a virtuous charac-
ter restore.
M. Gr. But take a character from many more.
O. Wild. Strong are your reasons; yet, ere
I submit,
I mean to take the voices of the pit.
Is it your pleasures that we make a rule,
That ev'ry liar be proclaim'd a fool,
Fit subject for our author's ridicule ?
§88. Verses written to be spoken by Mrs. Sid-
dons, at her Benefit, April 27, 1795.
ROGERS.
YES, 'tis the pulse of life! my fears were vain!
I wake, I breathe, and am myself again,
VOL. VI. Nos. 97 & 98.
Too soon a flirt-approach her and she flies; Frowns when pursued, and when entreated sighs;
Plays with unhappy men as cats with mice, Her prudence dictates what her pride dis Till fading beauty hints the late advice.
And now she sues to slaves herself had chain'd,
Then comes that good old character, a wife With all the dear distracting cares of life; A thousand cards a-day at doors to leave, And, in return, a thousand cards receive; Rouge high, play deep; to lead the ton aspire, With nightly blaze set Portland-Place on fire; Snatch half a glimpse at concert, opera, ball, A meteor trac'd by none, though seen by all; And when her shatter'd nerves forbid to roam, In very spleen-rehearse the girl at home.
Last-the gray dowager in ancient flounces, With snuff and spectacles the age denounces; Boasts how the sires of this degenerate isle Knelt for a look, and duell'd for a smile;
The scourge and ridicule of Goth and Vandal,
Her tea she sweetens, as she sips, with scandal;
With modern belles eternal warfare wages,
Like her own birds, that clamor from their
cages;
And shuffles round to bear her tale to all,
Like some old ruin "nodding to its fall."
Thus woman makes her entrance and her exit,
Then most an actress when she leasts suspects
it.
Yet nature oft peeps out, and mars the plot;
Each lesson lost, each poor pretence forgot;
Full oft with energy that scorns control,
At once lights up the features of the soul;
Unlocks each thought chain'd down by coward
art,
And to full day the latent passions start.
E'en beauty's portrait wears a softer prime,
Touch'd by the tender hand of mellowing time.
The patient sculptor owns an humbler part,
A ruder toil, and more mechanic art;
Content with slow and timorous stroke to trace
The ling'ring line, and mould the tardy grace:
But once achiev'd, though barb'rous wreck
o'erthrow
The sacred fane, and lay its glories low,
Yet shall the sculptur'd ruin rise to-day,
Grac'd by defect, and worshipp'd in decay;
Th' enduring record bears the artist's name,
Demands his honors, and asserts his fame.
Superior hopes the poet's bosom fire,
O, proud distinction of the sacred lyre!
Wide as th' inspiring Phœbus darts his ray,
Diffusive splendor gilds his votary's lay.
But she, whose first, best wish is your ap- Whether the song heroic woes rehearse
Herself exemplifies the truth she draws.
Born on the stage, through ev'ry shifting scene,
Obscure or bright, tempestuous or serene,
Still has your smile her trembling spirit fir'd;
And can she act, with thoughts like these in-
spir'd?
Thus from her mind all artifice she flings,
All skill, all practice, now unmeaning things!
To you, uncheck'd, each genuine feeling flows,
For all that life endears-to you she owes.
89. Verses to the Memory of Mr. Garrick.
Spoken as a Monody by Mrs. Yates, at the
Theatre Royal in Drury-Lane. SHERIDAN.
Ir dying excellence deserves a tear,
If fond remembrance still is cherish'd here,
Can we persist to bid our sorrows flow
For fabled suff'rers and delusive woe;
Or with quaint smiles dismiss the plaintive
strain,
Point the quick jest-indulge the comic vein-
Ere yet to buried Roscius we assign
One kind regret, one tributary line?
His fame requires we act a tend'rer part:
His memory claims the tear you gave his art.
The gen'ral voice, the meed of mournful
verse,
The splendid sorrows that adorn'd his hearse,
The throng that mourn'd as their dead fav'rite
'pass'd,
The grac'd respect that claim'd him to the last;
While Shakspeare's image, from its hallow'd
base,
[place:
Seem'd to prescribe the grave, and point the
Nor these, nor all the sad regrets that flow
From fond fidelity's domestic woe, [due,
So much are Garrick's praise-so much his
As, on this spot-one tear bestow'd by you.
Amid the arts which seek ingenuous fame,
Our toil attempts the most precarious claim;
To him, whose mimic pencil wins the prize,
Obedient fame immortal wreaths supplies:
Whate'er of wonder Reynolds now may raise,
Raphael still boasts contemporary praise :
Each dazzling light and gaudier bloom subdued,
With undiminish'd awe his works are view'd:
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With epic grandeur, and the pomp of verse;
Or, fondly gay, with unambitious guile
Attempt no prize but fav'ring beauty's smile;
Or bear dejected to the lonely grove
The soft despair of unprevailing love; [clime,
Whate'er the theme, through ev'ry age and
Congenial passions meet the according rhyme,
The pride of glory, pity's sigh sincere,
Youth's earliest blush, and beauty's virgin tear.
Such is their meed-their honors thus secure, Whose arts yield objects, and whose works endure:
The actor only shrinks from time's award;
Feeble tradition is his memory's guard;
By whose faint breath his merits must abide,
Unvouch'd by proof, to substance unallied!
E'en matchless Garrick's art, to heaven re-
sign'd,
No fix'd effect, no model leaves behind.
The grace of action, the adapted mien,
Faithful as nature to the varied scene;
Th' expressive glance, whose subtle comment
draws
Entranc'd attention, and a mute applause;
Gesture that marks, with force and feeling
A sense in silence, and a will in thought;
Harmonious speech, whose pure and liquid tone
Gives verse a music scarce confess'd its own,
As light from gems assumes a brighter ray,
And, cloth'd with orient hues, transcends the
day;
[sense,
Passion's wild break, and frowns that awe the
And ev'ry charm of gentle eloquence,-
All perishable!-like th' electric fire,
But strike the frame, and, as they strike, expire;
Incense too pure a bodied flame to bear, [air.
Its fragrance charms the sense, and blends with
Where then, while sunk in cold decay he lies,
And pale eclipse for ever veils those eyes,
Where is the blest memorial that ensures
Our Garrick's fame ?-whose is the trust ?—
'tis yours.
And, O! by ev'ry charm his art essay'd
To soothe your cares! by ev'ry grief allay'd!
By the hush'd wonder which his accents drew!
By his last, parting tear, repaid by you!
By all those thoughts, which, many a distant Fruits of a genial morn, and glorious noon,
Shall mark his memory with a sad delight!
Still in your hearts' dear record bear his name,
Cherish the keen regret that lifts his fame;
To you it is bequeath'd: assert the trust,
And to his worth-'tis all you can-be just.
What more is due from sanctifying time,
To cheerful wit, and many a favor'd rhyme,
O'er his grac'd urn shall bloom, a deathless
wreath,
[beneath.
Whose blossom'd sweets shall deck the mask
For these, when sculpture's votive toil shall rear
The due memorial of a loss so dear,
O loveliest mourner, gentle Muse! be thine
The pleasing woe, to guard the laurell'd shrine.
As Fancy oft, by Superstition led
To roam the mansions of the sainted dead,
Has view'd, by shadowy eve's unfaithful gloom,|
A weeping cherub on a martyr's tomb,
So thou, sweet Muse, hang o'er his sculptur'd
bier,
With patient woe,
that loves the ling'ring tear;
With thoughts that mourn, nor yet desire relief,
With meek regret, and fond, enduring grief;
With looks that speak, He never shall return!
Chilling thy tender bosom, clasp his urn!
And with soft sighs disperse th' irrev'rent dust,
Which Time may strew upon his sacred bust.
§ 90. Monody on the Death of the Right Hon.
R. B. Sheridan. BYRON.
A deathless part of him who died too soon.
But small that portion of the wondrous whole,
These sparkling segments of that circling soul,
Which all embraced-and lighten'd over all,
To cheer, to pierce, to please, or to appal:
From the charm'd council to the festive board,
Of human feelings the unbounded lord;
In whose acclaim the loftiest voices vied,
The praised-the proud-who made his praise
their pride.
When the loud cry of trampled Hindostan
Arose to Heaven in her appeal from man,
His was the thunder-his the avenging rod,
The wrath-the delegated voice of God!
Which shook the nations through his lips-
and blazed
Till vanquish'd senates trembled as they
praised.
And here, oh here, where yet, all young and
The gay creations of his spirit charm:
The matchless dialogue, the deathless wit,—
Which knew not what it was to intermit
The glowing portraits, fresh from life, that bring
Home to our hearts the truth from which they
spring :
These wondrous beings of his Fancy, wrought
To fulness by the fiat of his thought,
Here in their first abode you still may meet,
Bright with the hues of his Promethean heat;
A halo of the light of other days,
Which still the splendor of its orb betrays.
But should there be to whom the fatal blight
Of failing wisdom yields a base delight,
Men who exult when minds of heavenly tone
Jar in the music which was born their own;
WHEN the last sunshine of expiring day In summer's twilight weeps itself away, Who hath not felt the softness of the hour Sink on the heart, as dew along the flower? With a pure feeling which absorbs and awes While Nature makes that melancholy pause-Still let them pause-Ah! little do they know Her breathing moment on the bridge where
Of light and darkness, forms an arch sublime: Who hath not shared that calm so still and deep
That what to them seem'd Vice might be but
Woe.
Hard is his fate on whom the public gaze
Is fix'd for ever to detract or praise;
Repose denies her requiem to his name,
The voiceless thought, which would not speak, And Folly loves the martyrdom of Fame.
A holy concord, and a bright regret—
A glorious sympathy with suns that set ?
"Tis not harsh sorrow, but a tenderer woe-
Nameless, but dear to gentle hearts below;
Felt without bitterness-but full and clear;
A sweet dejection-a transparent tear
Unmix'd with worldly grief or selfish stain;
Shed without shame-and secret without pain.
Even as the tenderness that hour instils,
When summer's day declines along the hills,
So feels the fulness of our heart and eyes
When all of Genius, which can perish, dies.
A mighty Spirit is eclipsed; a Power
Hath pass'd from day to darkness-to whose
Of light no likeness is bequeath'd-no name!
Focus at once of all the rays of Fame.
The secret enemy whose sleepless eye
Stands sentinel, accuser, judge, and spy;
The foe, the fool, the jealous, and the vain,
The envious, (who but breathe in others' pain,)
Behold the host! delighting to deprave,
Who track the steps of Glory to the grave;
Watch every fault that daring Genius owes
Half to the ardor which its birth bestows,
Distort the truth, accumulate the lie,
And pile the pyramid of calumny!
These are his portion-but if, join'd to these,
Gaunt Poverty should league with deep Dis-
ease,
[hour If the high Spirit must forget to soar,
The flash of Wit-the bright Intelligence-
'The beam of Song-the blaze of Eloquence,
Set with their Sun! but still have left behind
The enduring produce of immortal Mind;
And stoop to strive with Misery at the door,
To soothe Indignity-and, face to face,
Meet sordid Rage-and wrestle with Disgrace,
To find in Hope but the renew'd caress,
The serpent-fold of further Faithlessness,-
If such may be the ills which men assail,
What marvel if at last the mightiest fail?
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