20 What though we never silence broke, 30 Awake, with it my fancy teems; Alas! again no more we meet, May Heaven so guard my lovely quaker, THE CORNELIAN 40 50 [This prologue was written by Byron, between stages, on his way from Harrowgate to Southwell, in 1806, where he took part in private theatricals.] SINCE the refinement of this polish'd age Has swept immoral raillery from the stage; Since taste has now expunged licentious wit, Which stamp'd disgrace on all an author writ; Since now to please with purer scenes we seek, Nor dare to call the blush from Beauty's cheek; Oh! let the modest Muse some pity claim, And meet indulgence, though she find not fame. Still, not for her alone we wish respect, Clip not our pinions ere the birds can fly: Drooping, alas! we fall to rise no more. 20 Not one poor trembler only fear betrays,` Who hopes, yet almost dreads, to meet your praise; But all our dramatis personæ wait In fond suspense this crisis of their fate. No venal views our progress can retard, Your generous plaudits are our sole reward; For these, each Hero all his power displays, Each timid Heroine shrinks before your gaze. Surely the last will some protection find; None to the softer sex can prove unkind: While Youth and Beauty form the female Pity her dewy wings before him spread, For noble spirits war not with the dead:' His friends, in tears, a last sad requiem gave, As all his errors slumber'd in the grave. He sunk, an Atlas bending 'neath the weight Of cares o'erwhelming our conflicting state: When, lo! a Hercules in Fox appear'd, Who for a time the ruin'd fabric rear'd. 20 He, too, is fall'n, who Britain's loss supplied, With him our fast-reviving hopes have died; Not one great people only raise his urn, All Europe's far-extended regions mourn. 'These feelings wide, let sense and truth unclue, To give the palm where Justice points its due;' Yet let not canker'd Calumny assail, Or round our statesman wind her gloomy veil. Fox! o'er whose corse a mourning world must weep, Whose dear remains in honour'd marble sleep; 30 For whom, at last, e'en hostile nations groan, While friends and foes alike his talents |