I wonder who the devil he thought to pleafe! pred to mend, Alas! alas! how vain is the pretence ! HE drama done, and all its int'reft over, Content the hufband, and fecure the lover; Our timid bard, who dreads the critic ire, And thinks my little tongue can never tire, do-Would have me re-affume the wig and gown, To plead his goofe-quill caufe before the town. Lord! Sir," fays I," fome better counsel bring; For females in a wig are not the thing. "Your bearded Barrifter, if fmartly made, is . "A furer advocate among the ladies." "Madam," he cried, "or periwigg'd, or bare, "So you but talk, I never need defpair." But, tho' we told him-Faith, 'twill never "Ye gen'rous few! to you our author fues, So long have jingled in your patient cars, Suppofe, ye fan, as I'm fo fmooth a prater, Oft have the wits, unmindful whom they vex, feathers, Their steady bloom, unchanging in all weathers; That now perhaps you'll fearce vouchsafe to fay And flew theft men, what wondrous things they To hear both their apology-and play. Something like this, I heard a friend once fay, Box'd fnug at firft, completely to his mind, arc. Now don't be frighten'd-poor eccentric elves! Sweet image of mamma in ev'ry feature, In reel'd three critics, each the author's friend-Hat under arm, fine button, and gilt loop- Stiff Rock, long fword ftill dangling in the way, Each And! and If! was chafte-correct--danin'd He fometimes venturd to a firft-night play: fine. To tafte fo mark'd my friend of courfe gave way; Dear, dear good luck! have you a place belɔy 66 ing! Fripp'd thro' the loɔby, most completely curl'd; Nor did a paw-paw thing for all the world. But fqueez'd, thump'd, kick’d—still liften'd to the ¦ Thus he difcours'd: “ Sir Dilberry, ods fo, Till by repeated plaudits grown fo fore, [play; Nor fleth nor blood could bear one comment move. Such built'rous friends they furely cannot need, Who with by merit only to fucceed. To-night we offer to the public view A character, you'll own perhaps is new: From Doctor's Commons we the model draw; A promifing eleve of civil law; And civil fure that law which can provide "He's fpoil'd my hair, and dirtied all my stock- One thing in nature like a modern beau; The memory of renown'd Sixteen String Jack; Thus fome are found, by ev'ry act revealing Perfect indifference to fenfe and feeling. To fuch our play not fues-but you, ye fair, Ye wife, whom nature form'd with happier care, Whofe tender bofoms, tho' by pallions rent, Feel the foft virtues in their full extent, Cherish our author's plan, which aims to prove, Life's beft exertions fpring from virtuous love. § 134. Verles written to be joken by Mrs. Siddons, at ber Benefit, April 27, 1795. ROGERS. YES, 'tis the pulfe of life! my fears were vain! I wake, I breathe, and am myself again. Still in this nether world! no feraph yet! Nor walks my firit when the fun is fet, With troubled ftep to haunt the fatal board, Where I died laft-by poison or the fword; And blanch each honeft check with deeds of night, Done here fo oft by dim and doubtful light. To drop all metaphor, that little bell Call'd back reality, and broke the fpell No heroine claims your tears with tragic tone; A very Woman-fcarce reftrains her own! Can ine, with fiction, charm the cheated mind, When to be grateful is the part aflign'd ? Ah, no! the fcorns the trappings of her art; No theme but truth, no prompter but the heart. But, Ladies, fay, muft i alone unmask?.. Is have no other actrefs? let me afk. Believe me, thofe, who beft the heart diffect, Know every woman ftudies ftage effect. She moulds her manners to the parts the fills, As Initinct teaches, or as Humour wills; And, as the grave or gay her talent calls, Acts in the drama, till the curtain falls. First, how her little breaft with triumph fwells, When the red coral rings its filver bells! To play in pantomime is then the rage Along the carpet's many-colour'd stage; Or lifp her merry thoughts with loud endeavour, Now here, now there-in noife and mischiefever! A school-girl next, the curls her hair in papers, And mimics father's gout, and mother's vapours; Difcards her doll, bribes Betty for romances, Playful at church, and ferious when the dances; Tramples alike on customs and on toes, And whispers all the hears to all she knows; 1 Terror of caps and wigs and fober notions! Too foon a flirt; approach her and the lies, fire; Snatch half a glimpse at concert, opera, ball, Lait the grey dowager, in ancient flounces, With modern belles ct.rnal warfare wages, Then molt an actress when the leafts fufpects it. art, And to full day the latent paffions start! But the, whofe firft beft with is your applaufe, Herfelf exemplifies the truth the draws. Born on the ftage-thro' ev'ry fhifting fcene, Obfcure or bright, tempeftuous or ferene, Still has your mile her trembling spirit fir'd!. And can the act, with thoughts like thefe infpir'da Thus from her mind all artifice the flings, All kill, all practice, now unmeaning things To you, uncheck'd, cach genuine feeling flows, For all that life endears-to you the owes. Ere yet to buried Rofcius we affign His fame requires we act a tend'rer part: The grac'd refpect that claim'd him to the laft, So much are Garrick's praife-fo much his due, Amid the arts which feek ingenuous fame, Our toil attempts the most precarious claim! To him, whofe mimic pencil wins the prize, Obedient fame immortal wreaths fupplies: Whate'er of wonder Reynolds now may raife, Raphael ftill boafts cotemporary praise: Each dazzling light and gaudier bloom fubdued, With undiminish'd awe his works are view'd : E'en beauty's portrait wears a softer prime, Touch'd by the tender hand of mellowing time. The patient fculptor owns an humbler part, A ruder toil, and more mechanic art: Content with flow and timorous ftroke to trace The ling'ring line, and mould the tardy grace: But once achiev'd, tho' barb'rous wreck o'erthrow The facred fane, and lay its glories low, Yet fhall the fculptur'd ruin rife to-day, Grac'd by defect, and worship'd in decay; Th' enduring record bears the artift's name, Demands his honours, and afferts his fame. Superior hopes the poet's bofom fire, O proud diftinétion of the facred lyre! Wide as th' infpiring Phœbus darts his ray, Diffufive fplendour gilds his votary's lay. Whether the fong heroic woes rehearse, With Epic grandeur, and the pomp of verse; Or, fondly gay, with unambitious guile Attempt no prize but fav'ring beauty's fmile; Or bear dejected to the lonely grove The foft defpair of unprevailing love; Whate'er the theme, thro' ev'ry age and clime Congenial paffions meet the according rhyme; The pride of glory, pity's figh fincere, Youth's earliest bluth, and beauty's virgin tear. Such is their meed-their honours thus fecure, Whofe arts yield objects, and whofe works endure. The actor only fhrinks from time's award; Feeble tradition is his memory's guard; By whofe faint breath his merits must abide, Unvouch'd by proof, to fubftance unallied! Even matchlefs Garrick's art, to heaven refign'd, No fix'd effect, no model leaves behind. The grace of action, the adapted mien, Faithful as nature to the varied fcene; Th'expreffive glance,whofe fubtle comment draws Entranc'd attention, and a mute applaufe; Gesture that marks, with force and feeling fraught, A fenfe in filence, and a will in thought; Harmonious fpeech, whofe pure and liquid tone Gives verfe a mufic fcarce confefs'd its own; As light from gems affumes a brighter ray, And, cloth'd with orient hues, tranfcends the day! Paffion's wild break, and frown that awes the fenfe, And ev'ry charm of gentle eloquence, All perishable-like th' electric fire But ftrike the frame, and, as they ftrike, expire; Incenfe too pure a bodied flame to bear, Its fragrance charms the fenfe, and blends with air. Where then, while funk in cold decay he lies, And pale eclipfe for ever veils thofe eyes; Where is the bleft memorial that enfures Our Garrick's fame ?—whose is the_trust ?—’Tis yours. And, O! by ev'ry charm his art effay'd To footh your cares! by ev'ry grief allay'd! By the hufh'd wonder which his accents drew! By his laft parting tear, repaid by you! By all thofe thoughts, which many a diftant night Shall mark his memory with a fad delight! Still in your hearts dear record bear his name, Cherish the keen regret that lifts his fame; To you it is bequeath'd, affert the truft, And to his worth-'tis all you can-be juft. What more is due from fanétifying time, To cheerful wit, and many a favour'd rhyine, O'er his grac'd urn fhall bloom, a deathlefs wreath, Whofe bloffom'd fweets fhall deck the mafk be neath. For thefe, when fculpture's votive toil fhall rear The due memorial of a lofs fo dear, O lovelieft mourner, gentle mufe! be thine To roam the manfions of the fainted dead, F IN IS. |