To point what lengths credulity has run ,
What counsels shaken, and what states undone ,
What hellish fury wings the enthusiast's rage ,
And makes the troubled earth one tragic stage ,
What blasphemies imposture dare advance ,
And build what terrors on weak ignorance ,
How fraud alone rage to religion binds ,
And makes a pandemonium of our minds;
Our gallic bard, fired with these glorious views ,
First to his crusade led the tragic muse ,
Her power through France his charming numbers bore ,
But France was deaf — for all her priests were sore.
On english ground she makes a firmer stand ,
And hopes to suffer by no hostile hand:
No clergy here usurp the free born mind ,
Ordain'd to teach, and not enslave mankind;
Religion here bids persecution cease ,
Without all order, and within all peace;
Truth guards her happy pale with watchful care ,
And frauds, though pious, find no entrance there.
Religion to be sacred must be free;
Men will suspect — where bigots keep the key:
Hooded and train'd like hawks the enthusiasts fly ,
And the priests' victims in their pounces die:
Like whelps born blind, by mother church they're bred ,
Nor wake to sight to know themselves misled;
Murder's the game — and to the sport unprest ,
Proud of the sin, and in the duty blest ,
The layman's but the blood bound of the priest.
Whoe'er thou art that dar'st such themes advance ,
To priest rid Spain repair, or slavish France ,
For Juda's hire there do the devil's task ,
And trick up slavery in religion's mask;
England still free no surer means requires
To sink their sottish souls and damp their martial fires.
Britons! these numbers to yourselves you owe;
Voltaire hath strength to shoot in shakspeare's bow;
Fame led him at his Hypocrene to drink ,
And taught to write with nature as to think:
With english freedom english wit he knew ,
And from the inexhausted stream profusely drew:
Cherish the noble bard yourselves have made ,
Nor let the frauds of France steal all our trade.
Now of each prize the winner has the wearing ,
E'en send our english stage a privateering;
With your commission we'll our sails unfold ,
And from their loads of dross import some gold.
The passages marked thus (") are omitted in the representation.
Originally spoken by Mr. Garrick.
Long has the shameful license of the age
With senseless ribaldry disgrac'd the stage;
So much indecencies have been in vogue
They pleaded custom in an epilogue ,
As if the force of reason was a yoke
So heavy — they must case it with joke;
Disarm the moral of its virtuous way ,
Or else the audience go displeas'd away.
How have I blush'd to see a tragic queen
With ill tim'd mirth disgrace the well wrote scene ,
From all the sad solemnity of woe
Trip nimbly forth — to ridicule a beau:
Then, as the loosest airs she had been gleaning ,
Coquette the fan and leer a double meaning!
Shame on those arts that prostitute the bays!
Shame on the bard who this way hopes for praise!
The bold but honest author of to night
Disdains to please you if he please not right;
If, in his well meant scene you chance to find
Aught to ennoble or enlarge the mind ,
If he has found the means, with honest art ,
To fix the noblest wishes in the heart ,
In softer accents to inform the fair
How bright they look when virtue drops the tear ,
Enjoy with friendly welcome the repast ,
And keep the heartself relish to the last.