finplore his aid, in his decisions rest,

Secure, whate'er he gives, he gives the best.
Yet, when the sense of sacred presence fires,
And strong devotion to the skies aspires,
Pour forth thy fervours for a healthful mind,
Obedient passions and a will resign'd;
For love, which scarce collective man can fill;
For patience, sovereign o'er transmuted ill;
For faith, that, panting for a happier seat,
Counts death kind Nature's signal of retreat.
These goods for man the laws of Heaven or-
dain,
[gain;
These goods he grants, who grants the power to
With these celestial Wisdom calms the mind,
And makes the happiness she does not find.

PROLOGUE,

SPOKEN BY MR. GARRICK,

AT THE

Opening of the Theatre-Royal, Drury-Lane, 1747.
WHEN Learning's triumph o'er her barbarous
foes
[rose;
First rear'd the stage, immortal Shakspeare
Each change of many-colour'd life he drew,
Exhausted worlds, and then imagined new :
Existence saw him spurn her bounded reign,
And panting Time toil'd after him in vain.
His powerful strokes presiding Truth impress'd,
And unresisted Passion storm'd the breast.

Then Jonson came, instructed from the school,
To please in method, and invent by rule;
His studious patience and laborious art,
By regular approach assail'd the heart:
Cold approbation gave the lingering bays,
For those, who durst not censure, scarce could
praise.

A mortal born, he met the general doom,
But left, like Egypt's kings, a lasting tomb.
The wits of Charles found easier ways to
fame,

[flame,
Nor wish'd for Jonson's art, or Shakspeare's
Themselves they studied—as they felt they writ;
Intrigue was plot, obscenity was wit.
Vice always found a sympathetic friend;
They pleased their age, and did not aim to mend.
Yet bards like these aspired to lasting praise,
And proudly hoped to pimp in future days.
Their cause was general, their supports were
strong,
[long:
Their slaves were willing, and their reign was
Till Shame regain'd the post that Sense betray'd,
And Virtue call'd Oblivion to her aid.

Then, crush'd by rules, and weaken'd as re-
fined,

For years the power of Tragedy declined;
From bard to bard the frigid caution crept,
Till Declamation roar'd, while Passion slept;
Yet still did Virtue deign the stage to tread,
Philosophy remain'd though Nature fled.
But forced, at length, her ancient reign to quit,
She saw great Faustus lay the ghost of Wit;
Exulting Folly hail'd the joyful day,

And Pantomine and Song confirm'd her sway.
But who the coming changes can presage,
And mark the future periods of the Stage?
Perhaps, if skill could distant times explore,
New Behns, new Durfeys, yet remain in store;
Perhaps, where Lear has raved, and Hamlet
On flying cars new sorcerers may ride: [died,

Perhaps (for who can guess th' effects of

chance?)

[dance. Here Hunt may box, or Mahomet * may Hard is his lot that, here by Fortune placed, Must watch the wild vicissitudes of taste; With every meteor of caprice must play, And chase the new-blown bubbles of the day. Ah! let not Censure term our fate our choice, The stage but echoes back the public voice; The drama's laws, the drama's patrons give, For we that live to please, must please, to live. Then prompt no more the follies you decry. As tyrants doom their tools of guilt to die; 'Tis yours, this night, to bid the reign commence Of rescued Nature and reviving Sense; [Show, To chase the charms of Sound, the pomp or For useful Mirth, and salutary Wo;

Bid scenic Virtue form the rising age,

And Truth diffuse her radiance from the stage.

PROLOGUE,

SPOKEN BY MR. GARRICK, APRIL 5, 1750.

BEFORE THE MASQUE OF COMUS,

ACTED AT DRURY-LANE THEATRE FOR THE BENEFIT OF MILTON'S GRANDDAUGHTER.

YE patriot crowds, who burn for England's fame, [name, Ye nymphs, whose bosoms beat at Milton's Whose generous zeal, unbought by flattering rhymes,

Shames the mean pensions of Augustan times,
Immortal patrons of succeeding days,
Attend this prelude of perpetual praise;
Let wit, condemn'd the feeble war to wage
With close malevolence, or public rage,
Let study, worn with virtue's fruitless lore,
Behold this theatre, and grieve no more.
This night, distinguish'd by your smile, shall
That never Briton can in vain excel;
The slighted arts futurity shall trust,
And rising ages hasten to be just.

[tell

At length our mighty bard's victorious lays Fill the loud voice of universal praise; And baffled spite, with hopeless anguish dumb, Yields to renown the centuries to come: With ardent haste each candidate of fame, Ambitious, catches at his towering name; He sees, and pitying sees, vain wealth bestow, Those pageant honours which he scorn'd below, While crowds aloft the laureat bust behold, Or trace his form on circulating gold, Unknown, unheeded, long his offspring lay, And want hung threatening o'er her slow decay, What though she shine with no Miltonian fire, No favouring Muse her morning dreams inspire; Yet softer claims the melting heart engage, Her youth laborious, and her blameless age; Hers the mild merits of domestic life, The patient sufferer, and the faithful wife. Thus graced with humble virtue's native charms, Her grandsire leaves her in Britannia's arms; Secure with peace, with competence, to dwell, While tutelary nations guard her cell. Yours is the charge, ye fair, ye wise, ye brave ' 'Tis yours to crown desert-beyond the grave.

Hunt a famous boxer on the stage; Mahomet a ropedancer, who had exhibited at Covent-Garden Theatre the winter before, said to be a Turk.

PROLOGUE

TO THE COMEDY OF

hiss.

coat,"

"This day the powder'd curls and golden [vote." Says swelling Crispin, "begg'd a cobbler's "This night our wit," the pert apprentice cries, "Lies at my feet; I hiss him, and he dies." The great, 'tis true, can charm the electing tribe;

The bard may supplicate, but cannot bribe.
Yet, judged by those whose voices ne'er were
sold,

He feels no want of ill-persuading gold;
But, confident of praise, if praise be due,
Trusts without fear to merit and to you.

PROLOGUE

TO THE COMEDY OF

A WORD TO THE WISE.*
Spoken by Mr. Hull.

THIS night presents a play which public rage,
Or right, or wrong, once hooted from the stage.f
From zeal or malice, now no more we dread,
For English vengeance wars not with the dead.
A generous foe regards with pitying eye

The man whom fate has laid where all must lie.
To wit reviving from its author's dust,
Be kind, ye judges, or at least be just,
For no renew'd hostilities invade
The oblivious grave's inviolable shade.
Let one great payment every claim appease,
And him, who cannot hurt, allow to please;
To please by scenes unconscious of offence,
By harmless merriment or useful sense.
Where aught of bright, or fair, the piece displays,
Approve it only 't is too late to praise.
If want of skill, or want of care appear,
Forbear to hiss-the poet cannot hear.
By all, like him, must praise and blame be found,
At best a fleeting gleam, or empty sound.

* Performed at Covent Garden Theatre, May 29, 1777,

Yet then shall calm reflection bless the night,
When liberal pity dignify'd delight;
When pleasure fired her torch at Virtue's flame,
And Mirth was Bounty with an humbler name.

SPRING.

AN ODE.

STERN Winter now, by Spring repress'd,
Forbears the long-continued strife:
And Nature on her naked breast,
Delights to catch the gales of life.
Now o'er the rural kingdom roves
Soft pleasure with the laughing train,
Love warbles in the vocal groves,

And vegetation plants the plain,
Unhappy! whom to beds of pain,
Arthritic tyranny consigns;
Whom smiling nature courts in vain,
Though rapture sings and beauty shines.
Yet though my limbs disease invades,
And bears me to the peaceful shades,
Her wings imagination tries,

Where's humble turrets rise.

Here stop, my soul, thy rapid flight,

Where first great nature charm'd my sight,
Nor from the pleasing groves depart,
Where wisdom first inform'd my heart.
Here let me through the vales pursue
A guide a father-and a friend,
Once more great Nature's works renew,
Once more on Wisdom's voice attend.
From false caresses, causeless strife,

Here let me learn the use of life,
Wild hope, vain fear, alike removed;

When best enjoy'd—when most improved Teach me, thou venerable bower,

Cool meditation's quiet seat,
The generous scorn of venal power,
The silent grandeur of retreat.
When pride by guilt to greatness climbs,
Or raging factions rush to war,
Here let me learn to shun the crimes
I can't prevent, and will not share.
But lest I fall by subtler foes,

Bright Wisdom, teach me Curio's art,
The swelling passions to compose,
And quell the rebels of the heart.

MIDSUMMER.

AN ODE.

O РHEBUS! down the western sky,
Far hence diffuse thy burning ray,
Thy light to distant worlds supply,

And wake them to the cares of day.
Come, gentle Eve, the friend of care,
Come, Cynthia, lovely queen of night!
Refresh me with a cooling air,

Lay me where o'er the verdant ground
And cheer me with a lambent light:

Her living carpet Nature spreads:
Where the green bower, with roses crown'd,
In showers its fragrant foliage sheds,
Improve the peaceful hour with wine,

Let music die along the grove; Around the bowl let myrtles twine, And every strain be tuned to love

*The author being ill of the gout.

Come, born to fill its vast desires!
Thy looks perpetual joys impart,
Thy voice perpetual love inspires.
Whilst all my wish and thine complete,
By turns we languish and we burn,
Let sighing gales our sighs repeat,

Our murmurs-murmuring brooks return. Let me when nature calls to rest,

And blushing skies the morn foretell, Sink on the down of Stella's breast,

And bid the waking world farewell.

AUTUMN.

AN ODE.

ALAS! with swift and silent pace,
Impatient time rolls on the year;
The seasons change, and nature's face

Now sweetly smiles, now frowns severe. "T was Spring, 't was Summer, all was gay, Now Autumn bends a cloudy brow; The flowers of Spring are swept away, And Summer-fruits desert the bough. The verdant leaves that play'd on high, And wanton'd on the western breeze, Now trod in dust neglected lie,

As Boreas strips the bending trees.
The fields that waved with golden grain,
As russet heaths, are wild and bare;
Not moist with dew, but drench'd with rain,
Nor health nor pleasure, wanders there.
No more while through the midnight shade,
Beneath the moon's pale orb I stray,
Soft pleasing woes my heart invade,

As Progne pours the melting lay.
From this capricious clime she soars,
Oh! would some god but wings supply!
To where each morn the Spring restores,
Companion of her flight I'd fly.
Vain wish! me fate compels to bear
The downward season's iron reign,
Compels to breathe polluted air,
And shiver on a blasted plain.
What bliss to life can Autumn yield,

If glooms, and showers, and storms prevail, And Ceres flies the naked field,

And flowers, and fruits, and Phoebus fail? Oh what remains, what lingers yet,

To cheer me in the darkening hour!
The grape remains! the friend of wit,

In love, and mirth, of mighty power.
Haste--press the clusters, fill the bowl
Apollo! shoot thy parting ray:
This gives the sunshine of the soul,

This god of health, and verse, and day.
Still still the jocund strain shall flow,
The pulse with vigorous rapture beat;
My Stella with new charms shall glow,
And every bliss in wine shall meet.

WINTER.

AN ODE.

No more the morn, with tepid rays,
Unfolds the flower of various hue;
Noon spreads no more the genial blaze,
Nor gentle eve distils the dew.
The lingering hours prolong the night,
Usurping Darkness shares the day;
Her mists restrain the force of light,
And Phoebus holds a doubtful sway.

By gloomy twilight half reveal'd, With sighs we view the hoary hill, The leafless wood, the naked field, The snow-topt cot, the frozen rill. No music warbles through the grove, No vivid colours paint the plain; No more with devious steps I rove

Through verdant paths, now sought in vain. Aloud the driving tempest roars,

Congeal'd, impetuous, showers descend;
Haste, close the window, bar the doors,
Fate leaves me Stella, and a friend.
In nature's aid, let art supply
With light and heat

my
little spnere;
Rouse, rouse the fire, and pile it high,
Light up a constellation here.
Let music sound the voice of joy,

Or mirth repeat the jocund tale; Let Love his wanton wiles employ, And o'er the season wine prevail. Yet time life's dreary winter brings, When Mirth's gay tale shall please no more; Nor music charm-though Stella sings;

Nor love, nor wine, the Spring restore.
Catch, then, Oh! catch the transient hour,
Improve each moment as it flies;

Life's a short summer-man a flower:
He dies--alas! how soon he dies!

THE WINTER'S WALK. BEHOLD, my fair, where'er we rove, What dreary prospects round us rise; The naked hill, the leafless grove,

The hoary ground, the frowning skies! Nor only through the wasted plain,

Stern Winter! is thy force confess'd; Still wider spreads thy horrid reign, I feel thy power usurp my breast. Enlivening hope, and fond desire, Resign the heart to spleen and care; Scarce frighted Love maintains her fire, And rapture saddens to despair, In groundless hope, and causeless fear, Unhappy man! behold thy doom; Still changing with the changeful year,

The slave of sunshine and of gloom. Tired with vain joys and false alarms, With mental and corporeal strife, Snatch me, my Stella, to thy arms, And screen me from the ills of life.*

TO MISS *****.

On her playing upon the Harpsichord in a Room hung with Flower Pieces of her own painting.*

WHEN Stella strikes the tuneful string
In scenes of imitated Spring,
Where Beauty lavishes her powers
On beds of never-fading flowers,
And pleasure propagates around
Each charm of modulated sound;
Ah! think not, in the dangerous hour,
The nymph fictitious as the flower;
But shun, rash youth, the gay alcove,
Nor tempt the snares of wily love.

When charms thus press on every sense,
What thought of flight, or of defence?
Deceitful hope, and vain desire,
For ever flutter o'er her lyre,
Delighting as the youth draws nigh,
To point the glances of her eye,
And forming with unerring art
New chains to hold the captive heart.
But on those regions of delight
Might truth intrude with daring flight,
Could Stella, sprightly, fair, and young,
One moment hear the moral song,
Instruction with her flowers might spring,
And wisdom warble from her string.

Mark, when from thousand mingled dyes
Thou seest one pleasing form arise,
How active light, and thoughtful shade,
In greater scenes each other aid;
Mark, when the different notes agree
In friendly contrariety,

How passion's well-accorded strife
Gives all the harmony of life;
Thy pictures shall thy conduct frame,
Consistent still, though not the same;
Thy music teach the nobler art,
To tune the regulated heart.

EVENING.

AN ODE.

TO STELLA.

EVENING now from purple wings
Sheds the grateful gift she brings;
Brilliant drops bedeck the mead,
Cooling breezes shake the reed;
Shake the reed, and curl the stream,
Silver'd o'er with Cynthia's beam:
Near the chequer'd, lonely grove,
Hears, and keeps thy secrets, Love.
Stella, thither let us stray,
Lightly o'er the dewy way.
Phoebus drives his burning car,
Hence, my lovely Stella, far;
In his stead, the Queen of Night
Round us pours a lambent light;
Light that seems but just to show
Breasts that beat, and cheeks that glow.
Let us now, in whisper'd joy,
Evening's silent hours employ,
Silence best, and conscious shades,
Please the hearts that love invades,
Other pleasures give them pain,
Lovers all but love disdain.

Printed among Mrs. Williams's Miscellanies.

TO THE SAME.

WHETHER Stella's eyes are fount
Fix'd on earth, or glancing round
If her face with pleasure glow,
If she sigh at others' wo,
If her easy air express

Conscious worth, or soft distress,
Stella's eyes, and air and face,
Charm'd with undiminish'd grace.
If on her we see display'd
Pendant gems, and rich brocade,
If her chintz with less expense
Flows in easy negligence;
Still she lights the conscious flame,
Still her charms appear the same;
If she strikes the vocal strings,
If she's silent, speaks, or sings,
If she sit, or if she move,
Still we love and still approve.

Vain the casual, transient glance,
Which alone can please by chance,
Beauty, which depends on art,
Changing with the changing heart,
Which demands the toilet's aid,
Pendant gems and rich brocade.
I those charms alone can prize
Which from constant nature rise,
Which not circumstance nor dress
E'er can make, or more, or less.

TO A FRIEND.

No more thus brooding o'er yon heap,
With Avarice painful vigils keep;
Still unenjoy'd the present store,
Still endless sighs are breath'd for more,
Oh! quit the shadow, catch the prize,
Which not all India's treasure buys!
To purchase Heaven has gold the power
Can gold remove the mortal hour?
In life can love be bought with gold?
Are friendship's pleasures to be sold?
No-all that's worth a wish-a thought,
Fair virtue gives unbribed, unbought.
Cease then on trash thy hopes to bind,
Let nobler views engage thy mind.

With science tread the wondrous way,
Or learn the Muses' moral lay;
In social hours indulge thy soul,
Where mirth and temperance mix the bowl
To virtuous love resign thy breast,
And be, by blessing beauty-blest.

Thus taste the feast by nature spread, Ere youth and all its joys are fled; Come taste with me the balm of life, Secure from pomp, and wealth, and strife I boast whate'er for man was meant, In health, and Stella, and content; And scorn-oh! let that scorn be thineMere things of clay that dig the mine.

STELLA IN MOURNING.
WHEN lately Stella's form display'd
The beauties of the gay brocade,

The nymphs, who found their power decline,
Proclaim'd her not so fair as fine.
"Fate! snatch away the bright disguise,
And let the goddess trust her eyes."
Thus blindly pray'd the fretful fair,
And Fate, malicious, heard the prayer;

Nor the soft sighs of vernal gales,
The fragrance of the flowery vales,
The murmurs of the crystal rill,
The vocal grove, the verdant hill;
Not all their charms, though all unite,
Can touch my bosom with delight.

Not all the gems on India's shore,
Not all Peru's unbounded store,
Not all the power, nor all the fame,
That heroes, kings, or poets, claim;
Nor knowledge, which the learn❜d approve;
To form one wish my soul can move.

-Yet Nature's charms allure my eyes,
And knowledge, wealth, and fame I prize;
Fame, wealth, and knowledge I obtain,
Nor seek I Nature's charms in vain ;
In lovely Stella all combine;
And, lovely Stella! thou art mine.

VERSES

Tritten at the request of a Gentleman to whom a
Lady had given a Sprig of Myrtle.*

WHAT hopes, what terrors, does thy gift create;
Ambiguous emblem of uncertain fate!
The myrtle (ensign of supreme command,
Consign'd by Venus to Melissa's hand)
Not less capricious than a reigning fair,
Oft avours, oft rejects, a lover's prayer,
In myrtle shades oft sings the happy swain,
In myrtle shades despairing ghosts complain.
The myrtle crowns the happy lovers' heads,
Th' unhappy lovers' graves the myrtle spreads.
Oh! then, the meaning of thy gift impart,
And ease the throbbings of an anxious heart.
Soon must this bough, as you shall fix its doom,
Adorn Philander's head, or grace his tomb.

то

LADY FIREBRACE.

AT BURY ASSIZES.

Ar length must Suffolk's beauties shine in vain, So long renown'd in B―n's deathless strain?

*These verses were first printed in the Gentleman's Magazine for 1768, p. 439, but were written many years earlier. Elegant as they are, Dr. Johnson assured me, they were composed in the short space of five minutes.

N.

This lady was Bridget, third daughter of Philip Bacon, Esq. of Ipswich, and relict of Philip Evers, Esq. of that town. She became the second wife of Sir Cordell

Firebrace, the last Baronet of that name (to whom she brought a fortune of £25,000), July 26, 1737. Being

again left a widow in 1759, she was a third time married, April 7, 1762, to William Campbell, Esq. uncle to the present Duke of Argyle, and died July 3, 1782.