With her th' Italian scene first learn'd to glow, And the first tears for her were taught to flow: Her charms the Gallic Muses next inspir'd; Corneille himself saw, wonder'd, and was fir'd.
What foreign theatres with pride have shown, Britain, by juster title, makes her own. When freedom is the cause, 'tis hers to fight, And hers, when freedom is the theme, to write. For this a British Author bids again
The Heroine rise, to grace the British scene: Here, as in life, she breathes her genuine flame, She asks, what bosom has not felt the same? Asks of the British Youth—is silence there? She dares to ask it of the British Fair.
To-night our homespun Author would be true,
At once to Nature, History, and you.
Well pleas'd to give our neighbours due applause,
He owns their learning, but disdains their laws,
Not to his patient touch, or happy flame,
"Tis to his British heart he trusts for fame.
If France excel him in one freeborn thought,
The Man, as well as Poet, is in fault.
Nature! informer of the poet's art,
Whose force alone can raise or melt the heart,
Thou art his guide; each passion, every line,
Whate'er he draws to please, must all be thine.
Be thou his judge: in every candid breast
By silent whisper is the sacred test.
TO A PLAY FOR MR. DENNIS'S BENEFIT, IN 1733, WHEN
HE WAS OLD, BLIND, AND IN GREAT DISTRESS,
A LITTLE BEFORE HIS DEATH.
As when that hero, who in each campaign
Had brav'd the Goth, and many a Vandal slain,
Lay fortune-struck, a spectacle of woe!
Wept by each friend, forgiven by every foe;
Was there a generous, a reflecting mind,
But pitied Belisarius old and blind?
Was there a chief but melted at the sight?
A common soldier but who clubb'd his mite?
Such, such emotions should in Britons rise,
When press'd by want and weakness Dennis lies;
Dennis! who long had warr'd with modern Huns,
Their quibbles routed, and defied their puns;
A desperate bulwark, sturdy, firm, and fierce,
Against the gothic sons of frozen verse:
How chang'd from him who made the boxes groan,
And shook the stage with thunders all his own!
Stood up to dash each vain pretender's hope,
Maul the French tyrant, or pull down the Pope!
If there's a Briton then, true bred and born,
Who holds dragoons and wooden shoes in scorn;
If there's a critic of distinguish'd rage;
If there's a senior who contemns this age;
Let him to-night his just assistance lend,
And be the critic's, Briton's, old man's friend.
WHEN SImpic Macer, now of high renown,
First sought poet's fortune in the town,
*Twas al. ti.' ambition his high soul could feel
I wear red stockings, and to dine with Steele:
Some ends of verse his betters might afford,
And gave the harmless fellow a good word.
Se ur with these ne ventur'd on the town,
And with. & horrow'd play outdid poor Crowne.?
Then he stony ċ short, nor since has writ a tittle,
Furt has the wit to make the most of little;
Like stunted, hide-bound trees, that just have got
Sufficient sar at once to bear and rot.
Now he begs verse, and what he gets commends,
No off the was ns foes, but fools his friends.
Se some coarse country wench, almost decay'd, Trudges T Low, and first turns chambermaid; Avawart and sunnie each devoir to pay, She fazers her good lady twice a day;
Thought wondrous honest, though of mean degree, And strangery for her simplicity:
* Exner James More Smith, ar, more probably, Ambrose
1 Crowne, the author of various dramas, contempo
In a translated suit then tries the town,
With borrow'd pins and patches not her own;
But just endur'd the winter she began,
And in four months a batter'd harridan:
Now nothing left, but wither'd, pale, and shrunk,
To bawd for others, and go shares with punk.
SONG, BY A PERSON OF QUALITY.
WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1733.
FLUTTERING spread thy purple pinions,
Gentle Cupid, o'er my heart;
I a slave in thy dominions;
Nature must give way to art.
Mild Arcadians, ever blooming,
Nightly nodding o'er your flocks,
See my weary days consuming
All beneath yon flowery rocks.
Thus the Cyprian goddess weeping,
Mourn'd Adonis, darling youth :
Him the boar, in silence creeping,
Gor'd with unrelenting tooth.
Cynthia! tune harmonious numbers;
Fair Discretion, string the lyre;
Soothe my ever-waking slumbers;
Bright Apollo, lend thy choir.
Gloomy Pluto, king of terrors,
Arm'd in adamantine chains,
Lead me to the crystal mirrors
Watering soft Elysian plains.
Mournful cypress, verdant willow,
Gilding my Aurelia's brows,
Morpheus hovering o'er my pillow,
Hear me pay my dying vows.
Melancholy smooth Mæander
Swiftly purling in a round,
On thy margin lovers wander,
With thy flowery chaplets crown'd.
Thus when Philomela drooping
Softly seeks her silent mate,
See the bird of Juno stooping;
Melody resigns to fate.
ON A CERTAIN LADY AT COURT.'
I KNOW the thing that's most uncommon; (Envy, be silent, and attend!)
I know a reasonable woman,
Handsome and witty, yet a friend :
Not warp'd by passion, aw'd by rumour,
Not grave through pride, nor gay through folly,
An equal mixture of good humour,
And sensible soft melancholy.
1 Mrs. Howard, afterwards Countess of Suffolk.
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