What tho' unfeeling of the nervous line,
Who but allows his attitude is fine?

While a whole minute equipoiz'd he stands,
"Till praife difinifs him with her echoing hands.
Refolv'd, tho' nature hate the tedious paufe,
By perfeverance to extort applaufe.

When Romeo forrowing at his Juliet's doom,
With eager madness burfts the canvas tomb,
The fudden whirl, ftretch'd leg, and lifted staff,
Which please the vulgar, make the critic laugh.
To point the paflion's force, and mark it well,
The proper action nature's felf will tell.
No pleafing pow'r diftortions e'er exprefs,
And nicer judgment always loaths excefs.
In fock or butkin who o'erleaps the bounds,
Difgufts our reafon, and the tafte confounds.
Of all the evils which the Stage moleft,
I hate your fool who overacts his jeft;
Who murders what the Poet finely writ,,
And like a bungler haggles all his wit,

With fhrug, and grin, and gefture out of place,
And writes a foolish comment with his face.
Old Johnfon one, tho' Cibber's perter vein
But meanly groups him with a num'rous train,
With steady face, and fober hum'rous mien,
Fill'd the ftrong outlines of the comic fcene.
What was writ down, with decent utterance spoke,
Betray'd no fymptom of the confcious joke;
The very man in look, in voice, in air,
And tho' upon the Stage, he feem'd no Player.
The word and action thould conjointly fuit,

But acting words is labour too minute.
Grimace will ever lead the judgment wrong,
While fober humour marks th' impreffion ftrong.
Her proper traits the fixt attention hit,
And bring me clofer to the Poet's wit;

With her delighted o'er each Scene I go,
Well pleas'd, and not afham'd of being fo.

"Tis not enough the voice be found and clear,

'Tis modulation that muft charm the ear:

When defperate heroines grieve with tedious moan,
And whine their forrows in a fee-faw tone;
The fame foft founds of unimpaffion'd woes,
Can only make the yawning hearers doze.

The voice all modes of paflion can exprefs,
That marks the proper word with proper ftrefs.

But

But none emphatic can that Actor call,
Who lays an equal emphasis on all.

Some o'er the tongue the labour'd measures roll
Slow and delib'rate as the parting toll,

Point ev'ry ftop, mark ev'ry paufe fo ftrong,
Their words, like ftage-proceffions, ftalk along.
All affectation but creates difguft,

And e'en in fpeaking we may feem too juft.
Nor proper, Thornton, can those founds appear,
Which bring not numbers to thy nicer ear;
For them in vain the pleasing measure flows
Whofe recitation runs it all to profe;
Repeating what the Poet fets not down,
The verb disjointing from its friendly noun.
While paufe, and break, and repetition join
To make a difcord in each tuneful line.

Some placid, natures fill th' allotted Scene
With lifeless drone, infipid and ferène;
While others thunder ev'ry couplet o'er,
And almoft crack your ears with rant and roar.
In fo much noife but little fenfe is found,
As empty barrels make the greatest found.

More nature oft and finer ftrokes are fhewn,
In the low whisper than tempeftuous tone.
And Hamlet's hollow voice and fixt amaze,
More powerful terror to the mind conveys,
Than he, who fwol'n with big impetuous rage,
Bullies the bulky phantom off the stage.

The modes of grief are not included all
In the white handkerchief and mournful drawl;
A fingle look more marks th' internal woe,
Than all the windings of the lengthen'd Oh.

Up to the face the quick fenfation flies,
And darts its meaning from the speaking eyes;
Love, tranfport, madnefs, anger, fcorn, defpair,
And all the paffions, all the foul is there.

In vain Ophelia gives her flow'rets round,
And with her fraws fantaftic tiréws the ground;
In vain now fings, now heaves the defp'rate figh,
If phrenzy fit not in the troubled eye.
In Cibber's look commanding forrows fpeak,
And call the tear faft trickling down my cheek.
He who in earneft ftudies o'er his part.
Will find true nature cling about his heart,
All from their eyes impulfive thought reveal,
And none can want expreflion who can feel.
There is a fault which ftirs the critic's rage,
A want of due attention on the stage.

There

There have been Actors, and admir'd ones too,
Whofe tongues wound up fet forward from their cue,
In their own specch who whine, or roar away,
Yet unconcern'd at what the reft may say;
Whofe eyes and thoughts on diffrent objects roam
Until the prompter's voice recal them home.
Divett yourself of hearers if you can,
And ftrive to fpeak, and be the very man.
Why thould the well-bred Actor with to know
Who fits above to-night, or who below?
So 'mid th' harmonious tones of grief or rage,
Italian fquallers oft difgrace the ftage:
When with a fimp'ring leer, and bow profound,
The fqueaking Cyrus greets the boxes round:
Or proud Mandane of imperial race,
Familiar drops a curtfey to her grace.

To fuit the drefs demands the Actor's art,
Yet there are those who over-drefs the part.
To fome preferiptive right gives fettled things,
Black wigs to murd'rers, feather'd hats to kings;
But Michael Caffio might be drunk enough,
Tho' all his features were not grim'd with fnuff.
Why thou'd Pol Peachum fhine in fatin cloaths?
Why ev'ry devil dance in fcarlet hofe?

But in ftage-cuftoms what offends me moft
Is the flip-door, and flowly-rifing ghoft.
Tell me, nor count the queftion too fevere,
Why need the difmal powder'd forms appear?

When chilling horrors fhake th' affrighted king,
And guilt torments him with her scorpion fting;
When keeneft feelings at his bofom pull,
And fancy tells him that the feat is full,
Why need the ghoft ufurp the monarch's place,
To frighten children with his mealy face?
The king alone fhould form the phantom there,
And talk and tremble at the vacant chair.

If Belvidera her lov'd lofs deplore,.
Why for twin fpeétres burfts the yawning floor?
When with diforder'd starts, and horrid cries,
She paints the murder'd forms before her eyes,
And ftill pursues them with a frantic ftare,
"Tis pregnant madnefs brings the vifion there;
More inftant horror would enforce the fcene,
If all her thudd'ring were at thapes unfeen.

Poet and Actor thus with blended ikill,
Mould all their actions to their inftant will;
'Tis thus, when feeling Garrick treads the fiage,
(The fpeaking comment of his Shakespear's page)

Oft

Oft as I drink the words with greedy ears,
I fhake with horror, or diffolve with tears.

O ne'er may folly feize the throne of taste,
Nor dulnefs lay the realms of genius wafte,
No bouncing crackers ape the thund'rer's fire,
No tumbler float upon the bending wire.
More natural ufes to the Stage belong,
Than tumblers, monfters, pantomine, or fong.
For other purpose was that spot defign'd;
To purge the paffions and reform the mind,
To give to nature all the force of art,

And, while it charms the ear, to mend the heart.
Thornton, to thee I dare with truth commend
The decent Stage, as virtue's natural friend.
Tho' oft debas'd with fcenes profane and loofe,
No reafon weighs againft its proper ufe.
Tho' the lewd prieft his facred function fhame,
Religion's perfect law is ftill the fame.

Shall they who trace the paffions from their rife,
Shew Scorn her features, her own image Vice;
Who teach the mind its proper force to fcan,
And hold the faithful mirror up to man;
Shall their profeffion e'er provoke difdain,
Who ftand the foremost in the moral train?
Who lend reflection all the grace of art,
And ftrike the precept home upon the heart?
Yet, hapless artist, tho' thy fkill can raife
The bursting peal of univerfal praise,
Tho' at thy beck, Applaufe delighted ftands,
And lifts, Briareus-like, her hundred hands;
Know fame awards thee but a partial breath,

Not all thy talents brave the ftroke of death.

Poets to ages yet unborn appeal,

And latest times th' eternal nature feel.

Tho' blended here the praife of Bard and Play'r,
While more than half becomes the Actor's thare,
Relentless death untwists the mingled fame,

And finks the Player in the Poet's name.

The pliant mufcles of the various face,

The mien that gives each fentence ftrength and grace,
The tuneful voice, the eye that spoke the mind,
Are gone, nor leave a fingle trace behind,

ELE

1

ST

ELEGY. Written at the approach of Spring.

TERN Winter hence with all his train removes ;
And chearful fkies and limpid ftreams are feen;
Thick-fprouting foliage decorates the groves;
Reviving herbage robes the fields in green,
Yet lovelier fcenes fhall crown th' advancing year,
When blooming Spring's full bounty is display'd;
The fmile of beauty ev'ry vale fhall wear;

The voice of fong enliven ev'ry shade.

O Fancy, paint not coming days too fair!

Oft for the profpects fprightly May fhould yield,
Rain-pouring clouds have darken'd all the air,"
Or inows untimely whiten'd o'er the field:
But fhould kind Spring her wonted bounty fhow'r,
The smile of beauty and the voice of fong;
If gloomy thought the human mind o'erpow'r,
Ev'n vernal hours glide unenjoy'd along.

I fhun the fcenes where madd'ning paflion raves,
Where Pride and Folly high dominion hold,
And unrelenting Avarice drives her flaves

O'er proftrate Virtue, in purfuit of gold:

The graffy lane, the wood-furrounded field,

The rude ftone fence with fragrant wall-flow'rs gay,
The clay-built cot, to me more pleafure yield
Than all the pomp imperial domes difplay:

And yet ev'n here amid thefe fecret fhades,
Thefe fimple fcenes of unreprov'd delight,
Affli&tion's iron hand my breast invades,

And death's dread dart is ever in my fight.

While genial funs to genial fhowers fucceed;

(The air all mildnets, and the earth all bloom ;) While herds and flocks range sportive o'er the mead, Crop the sweet herb, and fnuff the rich perfume:

O why alone to hapless man deny'd

To tafte the blifs inferior beings boast?

O why this fate, that fear and pain divide

His few fhort hours on earth's delightful coaft?

Ah ceafe-no more of Providence complain!
"Tis fenfe of guilt that wakes the mind to woe,
Gives force to fear, adds energy to pain,

And palls each joy by heav'n indulg'd below:

Why