Now, gentle sir, we show but poor attendance — —
In heaviness I'll seek imperfect rest.
O, my good lord,
While, by his malady oppress'd, my brother
Retir'd to seek in solitude repose;
Judge my amazement when, from yonder room,
Deep death-fraught groans assail'd my startled ear
Advancing to the door, left partly open,
I there beheld the beauteous stranger lady,
Of sense berest (or by some envious demon
Sore possest, and urged to deeds of horror),
Plunging a poignard in her lover's breast.
Amazement!
Come, gen'rous Howard, we have no time for thought;
Treason's at work; all woman's art, aided
By more than manly daring, must now be
Warded from our heads by innocence and courage.
My lord, I sought for thee. The banquet waits.
Why walks my lord thus gloomily wrapt up,
With folded arms and eye devoid of pleasure?
There was a time — —
Anon. And where's thy brother Linneric?
Lei'ster, pity my youthful paramour;
His guilt is innocence compar'd to mine.
My brother Linneric will soon be here:
The knowledge of his coming drove me on
To desperate exertion. Oh! I faint.
Quick — stop those ruffians — desend thee, Lei'ster.
Bear me from this scene. — Forgive — forgive — forgive.
The first great object of the scenic art
Is, by fictitious pain, to mend the heart;
To lead the wand'rer to the house of woe;
(Where Sorrow dwells, thence Virtue's precepts flow);
To rear the beacon on Destruction's strand,
And point where safe Life's voyager may land.
This task is to the Tragic Muse assigned:
'Tis her's in Virtue's ways to fix the mind.
This Muse, the deadly foe of every crime,
This Muse has not been courted to our clime;
Her rays have feebly reach'd our land from 'far,
The light, long-ling'ring, of a distant star.
From place to place Melpomene has rov'd,
Still dwelling there where most she is belov'd.
On England's cliffs, she long majestic sate,
Her deep-toned voice the instrument of Fate,
Her blood-stain'd garments floating on the storm,
While fiends and furies cloud-involv'd her form.
"In a fine phrenzy rolling," Shakespeare's eye
Of every passion saw the deepest dye:
His powerful genius seiz'd the varied store,
And to his use the precious treasure bore,
Bright o'er the canvas spread, with magic art,
The tints prismatic of the human heart,
And left untouch'd no shade of joy, or pain:
"We ne'er shall look upon his like again."
Melpomene in Gallia dwelt belov'd;
She mov'd majestic, but in trammels mov'd;
Yet oft her fetters have her glory been,
And by confining, realiz'd the scene.
Now in Germanic fields she most delights,
And looks enraptured on while Schiller writes;
Wings his bold thoughts, seals each poetic page,
And wins through him the tears of many a future age.
In various climes she varies still her hue,
Though still to Nature and to Passion true.
And must our music all from Europe come?
And is there none to strike the lyre at home?
Looks Vice less odious? Less is Virtue lov'd?
Or, are heroic actions less approv'd?
Have we of native heroes had our share?
Look to our annals; read the answer there!
Melpomene, for us, must learn to sing
The blessings that from truth and courage spring;
The effects of freedom on the moral world;
The ills by tyrant Power on freemen hurl'd;
Domestic scenes where guilt is fraught with woe,
Scenes which may force repentant tears to flow,
Or free the heart from thoughts whence deeds of horror grow.
Of every science, and of every art,
Columbia's sons have seiz'd an ample part;
And while they strove to enrich their native soil,
Their country's grateful plaudits cheer'd their toil.
Then sure the adventurous bard who first essays
To tune the lyre to Sorrow's healthful lays;
Here to record, in solemn strains and slow,
Of Europe's sons the folly, guilt, and woe;
Their dread example warning us betimes,
As we would shun the ills, to shun the crimes;
Shall not, neglected by his country, sigh,
And mourn the tears he drew from Pity's eye.