Our cheeks shall glow, our heaving bosoms rise,
And martial ardours sparkle in our eyes;
Much we shall triumph in our battles past,
And yet consent those battles prove our last,
Lest, while in arms for brighter fame we strive,
We lose the means to keep that fame alive.
In silent groves the birds delight to sing,
Or near the margin of a secret spring:
Now all is calm, sweet music shall improve,
Nor kindle rage, but be the nurse of love.
But what's the warbling voice, the trembling string,
Or breathing canvass, when the Muses sing?
The Muse, my Lord, your care above the rest,
With rising joy dilates my partial breast.
The thunder of the battle ceas'd to roar,
Ere Greece her godlike poets taught to soar;
Rome's dreadful foe, great Hannibal! was dead,
And all her warlike neighbours round her bleed:
For Janius shut her Iö Poeans rung,
Before an Ovid or a Virgil sung.
A thousand various forms the Muse may wear,
(A thousand various forms become the fair)
But shines in none with more majestic mien,
Than when in state she draws the purple scene,
Calls forth her monarchs, bids her heroes rage,
And mourning Beauty melt the crowded stage;
Charms back past ages, gives to Britain's use
The noblest virtues time did e'er produce;
Leaves fam'd historians' boasted art behind;
They keep the soul alone, and that's confin'd,
Sought out with pains, and but by proxy speaks;
The hero's presence deep impression makes;
The scene his soul and body re-unite,
Furnish a voice, produce him to the sight;
Make our contemporary him that stood
High in renown, perhaps before the flood;
Make Nestor to this age advice afford,
And Hector for our service draw his sword.
More glory to an author what can bring,
Whence nobler service to his country spring,
Than from those labours which, in man's despight,
Possess him with a passion for the right?
With honest magic make the knave inclin'd
To pay devotion to the virtuous mind;
Thro' all her toils and dangers bid him rove,
And with her wants and anguish fall in love?
Who hears the godlike Montezuma groan,
And does not wish the glorious pain his own?
Lend but your understanding, and their skill
Can domineer at pleasure o'er your will:
Nor is the short-liv'd conquest quickly past;
Shame, if not choice, will hold the convert fast.
How often have I seen the gen'rous bowl
With pleasing force unlock a secret soul,
And steal a truth, which ev'ry sober hour
(The prose of life) had kept within her pow'r ?
The grape victorious often has prevail'd,
When gold and beauty, racks and tortures, fail'd;
Yet when the spirit's tumult was allay'd,
She mourn'd, perhaps, the sentiment betray'd;
But mourn'd too late, nor longer could deny,
And on her own confession charge the lie.
Thus they, whom neither the prevailing love
Of goodness here, or mercy from above,
Or fear of future pains, or human laws,
Could render advocates in Virtue's cause,
Caught by the scene, have unawares resign'd
Their wonted disposition of the mind':
By slow degrees prevails the pleasing tale,
As circling glasses on our senses steal,
Till thoroughly by the Muses' banquet warm'd,
The passions tossing, all the soul alarm'd,
They turn mere zealots, flush'd with glorious rage,
Rise in their seats, and scarce forbear the stage,
Assistance to wrong'd innocence to bring,
Or turn the poniard on some tyrant king.
How can they cool to villains? how subside
To dregs of vice, from such a godlike pride?
To spoiling orphans how to-day return,
Who wept last night to see Monimia mourn?
In this gay school of virtue whom so fit
To govern and control the world of wit
As Talbot, Lansdown's friend, has Britain known?
Him polish'd Italy has call'd her own;
He in the lap of Elegance was bred,
And trac'd the Muses to their fountain-head;
But much we hope he will enjoy at home
What's nearer ancient than the modern Rome,
Nor fear I mention of the court of France,
When I the British genius would advance:
There, too, has Shrewsbury improv'd his taste,
Yet still we dare invite him to our feast,
For Corneille's sake I shall my thoughts suppress
Of Oroonoko, and presume him less:
What tho' we wrong him? Isabella's woe
Waters those bays that shall for ever grow.
Our foes confess, nor we the praise refuse,
The drama glories in the British Muse.
The French are delicate, and nicely lead
Of close intrigue the labyrinthian thread.
Our genius more affects the grand than fine;
Our strength can make the great plain action shine: They raise a great curiosity indeed,
From his dark maze to see the hero freed;
We rouse th' affections, and that hero show
Gasping beneath some formidable blow:
They sigh; we weep: the Gallic doubt and care
We heighten into terror and despair;
Strike home the strongest passions boldly touch,
Nor fear our audience should be pleas'd too much.
What's great in Nature we can greatly draw,
Nor thank for beauties the dramatic law.
The fate of Cæsar is a tale too plain
The fickle Gallic taste to entertain;
Their art would have perplex'd, and interwove
The golden arras with gay flow'rs of love:
We know Heav'n made him a far greater man
Than any Cæsar in a human plan;
And such we draw him, nor are too refin'd,
To stand affected with what Heav'n design'd.
To claim attention, and the heart invade,
Shakespeare but wrote the play th' Almighty made:
Our neighbour's stage-art too bare fac'd betrays;
'Tis great Corneille at ev'ry scene we praise:
On Nature's surer aid Britannia calls;
None think of Shakespeare till the curtain falls;
Then, with a sigh, returns our audience home,
From Venice, Egypt, Persia, Greece, or Rome.
France yields not to the glory of our lines,
But manly conduct of our strong designs.
That oft' they think more justly we must own,
Not ancient Greece a truer sense has shown:
Greece thought but justly, they think justly too;
We sometimes err, by striving more to do.
So well are Racine's meanest persons taught,
But change a sentiment you make a fault :
Nor dare we charge them with the want of flame:
When we boast more we own ourselves to blame,
And yet in Shakespeare something still I find That makes me less esteem all humankind;
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