Page images
PDF
EPUB

"But more than just to other countries grown, "Must we turn base apostates to our own? "Where do these words of Greece and Rome excel, "That England may not please the ear as well? "What mighty magic's in the place or air, "That all perfection needs must centre there? "In states let strangers blindly be preferr'd, * "In state of letters Merit should be heard.

“Genius is of no country; her pure ray

66

Spreads all abroad, as gen'ral as the day; "Foe to restraint, from place to place she flies, "And may hereafter ev'n in Holland rise. "May not, (to give a pleasing fancy scope, "And cheer a patriot heart with patriot hope)--May not some great extensive genius raise

66

"The name of Britain 'bove Athenian praise,

[ocr errors]

And, whilst brave thirst of fame his bosom warms, "Make England great in letters as in arms? [aspires "There may---there hath---and Shakespeare's Muse Beyond the reach of Greece; with native fires, Mounting aloft, he wings his daring flight,

[ocr errors]
[ocr errors]

"Whilst Sophocles below stands trembling at his height. Why should we then abroad for judges roam, "When abler judges we may find at home?

"Happy in tragic and in comic pow'rs,

"Have we not Shakespeare ?---is not Jonson † ours?
"For them, your nat'ral judges, Britons! vote;
"They'll judge like Britons who like Britons wrote."
He said, and conquer'd-Sense resum'd her sway,
And disappointed pedants stalk'd away :
Shakespeare and Jonson, with deserv'd applause,
Joint judges were ordain'd to try the cause.
Meantime the stranger ev'ry voice employ'd
To ask or tell his name-Who is it ?-Lloyd. ‡
Thus when the aged friends of Job stood mute,
And tamely prudent gave up the dispute,
Elihu, with the decent warmth of youth,
Boldly stood forth the advocate of Truth,

*The future political satirist seems to break forth in this line. † Ben Jonson.

The Critical Reviewers, in their wisdoms, informed the world who was the author of The Rosciad by transcribing the latter half of this line-"Who is it?-Lloyd."

Confuted Falsehood, and disabled Pride,
Whilst baffled Age stood snarling at his side.
The day of trial's fix'd, nor any fear
Lest day of trial should be put off here.
Causes but seldom for delay can call

In courts where forms are few, fees none at all.
The morning came, nor find I that the sun,
As he on other great events hath done,
Put on a brighter robe than what he wore
To go his journey in the day before.

Full in the centre of a spacious plain,
On plan entirely new, where nothing vain,
Nothing magnificent, appear'd, but Art
With decent modesty perform'd her part,
Rose a tribunal; from no other court
It borrow'd ornament or sought support:
No juries here were pack'd to kill or clear,
No bribes were taken, nor oaths broken here;
No gownsmen, partial to a client's cause,
To their own purpose turn'd the pliant laws :
Each judge was true and steady to his trust,
As Mansfield wise, and as old Foster just.

In the first seat, in robe of various dyes, A noble wildness flashing from his eyes, Sat Shakespeare-in one hand a wand he bore, For mighty wonders fam'd in days of yore, The other held a globe, which to his will Obedient turn'd, and own'd the master's skill; Things of the noblest kind his genius drew, And look'd thro' Nature at a single view; A loose he gave to his unbounded soul, And taught new lands to rise, new seas to roll, Call'd into being scenes unknown before, And passing Nature's bounds was something more. Next Johnson sat, in ancient learning train'd, His rigid judgment fancy's flights restrain'd, Correctly prun'd, each wild luxuriant thought Mark'd out her course, nor spar'd a glorious fault; The book of Man he read with nicest art, And ransack'd all the secrets of the heart, Exerted penetration's utmost force,

And trac'd each passion to its proper source,

Then, strongly mark'd, in liveliest colours drew,
And brought each foible forth to public view;
The coxcomb felt a lash in ev'ry word,

And fools hung out their brother fools deterr'd;
His comic humour kept the world in awe,
And Laughter frighten'd Folly more than Law.
But hark!-the trumpet sounds, the crowd gives way,
And the procession comes in just array.

Now should I, in some sweet poetic line,
Offer up incense at Apollo's shrine,
Invoke the Muse to quit her calm abode,
And waken Mem'ry with a sleeping ode; *
For how should mortal man in mortal verse
Their titles, merits, or their names, rehearse ?
But give, kind Dulness! memory and rhyme,
We'll put off genius till another time.

First Order came-with solemn step and slow,
In measur❜d time his feet were taught to go;
Behind from time to time he cast his eye,
Lest this should quit his place, that step awry;
Appearances to save his only care;

So things seem right no matter what they are;
In him his parents saw themselves renew'd,
Begotten by Sir Critic on Saint Prude.

Then came Drum, Trumpet, Hautboy, Fiddle, Flute,
Next Snuffer, Sweeper, Shifter, Soldier, Mute;
Legions of Angels all in white advance,
Furies, all fire, come forward in a dance;
Pantomime figures then are brought to view,
Fools hand in hand with fools go two by two;
Next came the Treasurer of either House,
One with full purse, t'other with not a sous;
Behind a group of figures awe create,
Set off with all th' impertinence of state,
By lace and feather consecrate to fame,
Expletive kings and queens without a name.

Here Havard, all serene, in the same strains
Loves, hates, and rages, triumphs, and complains;
His easy vacant face proclaim'd a heart
Which could not feel emotions nor impart.

* Mason, at whom our Author's satire is leveled in almost all his writings, had published an Ode to Memory. See Mason's Poems.

With him came mighty Davies; on my life
That Davies hath a very pretty wife;-
Statesman all over!-in plots famous grown!
He mouths a sentence as curs mouth a bone.

Next Holland came.-With truly tragic stalk
He creeps, he flies.-A hero should not walk.
As if with Heav'n he warr'd, his eager eyes
Planted their batteries against the skies;
Attitude, action, air, pause, start, sigh, groan,
He borrow'd, and made use of as his own.
By Fortune thrown on any other stage
He might perhaps have pleas'd an easy age,
But now appears a copy and no more
Of something better we have seen before.
The actor who would build a solid fame
Must imitation's servile arts disclaim,
Act from himself, on his own bottom stand;
I hate ev'n Garrick thus at second-hand.

Behind came King. Bred up in modest lore,
Bashful and young, he sought Hibernia's shore,
Hibernia! fam'd, 'bove ev'ry other grace,
For matchless intrepidity of face;

From her his features caught the gen'rous flame,
And bid defiance to all sense of shame;
Tutor❜d by her all rivals to surpass,

'Mongst Drury's sons he comes, and shines in brass.
Lo, Yates!-Without the least finesse of art
He gets applause; I wish he'd get his part.
When hot impatience is in full career

How vilely "Hark'e! Hark'e!" grates the ear?
When active fancy from the brain is sent,
And stands on tiptoe for some wish'd event,
I hate those careless blunders which recall
Suspended sense, and prove it fiction all.

In characters of low and vulgar mould,
Where Nature's coarsest features we behold,
Where, destitute of ev'ry decent grace,
Unmanner'd jests are blurted in your face,
There Yates with justice strict attention draws,
Acts truly from himself, and gains applause;
But when to please himself or charm his wife
He aims at something in politer life,

When blindly thwarting Nature's stubborn plan,
He treads the stage by way of gentleman,
The clown, who no one touch of breeding knows,
Looks like Tom Errand dress'd in Clincher's* clothes.
Fond of his dress, fond of his person grown,
Laugh'd at by all, and to himself unknown,
From side to side he struts, he smiles, he prates,
And seems to wonder what's become of Yates.
Woodward, endow'd with various tricks of face,
Great master in the science of grimace,
From Ireland ventures, favʼrite of the Town,
Lur'd by the pleasing prospect of renown;
A speaking Harlequin, made up of whim,
He twists, he twines, he tortures, every limb,
Plays to the eye with a mere monkey's art,
And leaves to sense the conquest of the heart;
We laugh indeed, but on reflection's birth
We wonder at ourselves, and curse our mirth.
His walk of parts he fatally misplac'd,
And inclination fondly took for taste;
Hence hath the Town so often seen display'd
Beau in burlesque, high life in masquerade.

But when bold wits, not such as patch up plays,
Cold and correct, in these insipid days,
Some comic character strong-featur'd urge
To probability's extremest verge,

Where modest Judgment her decree suspends,
And for a time nor censures nor commends,
Where critics can't determine on the spot
Whether it is in nature found or not,

There Woodward safely shall his pow'rs exert,
Nor fail of favour where he shows desert;
Hence he in Bobadil such praises bore,
Such worthy praises, Kitely scarce had more.
By turns transform'd into all kind of shapes,
Constant to none, Foote laughs, cries, struts, and scrapes;
Now in the centre, now in van or rear,

The Proteus shifts, bawd, parson, auctioneer.
His strokes of humour and his bursts of sport
Are all contain'd in this one word, Distort.
Doth a man stutter, look a-squint, or halt?
Mimics draw humour out of Nature's fault,
* See Farquhar's Constant Couple.

« PreviousContinue »