At the Opening of the Theatre Royal, DRURY LANE, 1747

WHEN Learning's triumph o'er her barb'rous foes
First rear'd the stage, immortal Shakspeare rose ;
Each change of many-colour'd life he drew,
Exhausted worlds, and then imagin’d new :
Existence saw him spurn her bounded reign,
And panting Time toil'd after him in vain.
His pow'rful strokes presiding Truth impress’d,
And unrefifted Passion storm'd the breast.

Then Jonson came, instructed from the school,
To please in method, and invent by rule;
His studious patience and laborious art,
By regular approach affail'd the heart :
Cold Approbation gave the ling’ring bays,
For those, who durst not censure, scarce could praise.
A mortal born, he met the gen'ral doom,
But left, like Egypt's kings, a lafting tomb.

The wits of Charles found easier ways to fame, Nor wish'd for Jonson's art, or Shakspeare's flame. Themselves they studied, as they felt they writ; Intrigue was plot, obscenity was wit. Vice always found a sympathetic friend; They pleas'd their age, and did not aim to mend. Yet bards like these aspir’d to lasting praise, And proudly hop'd to pimp in future days. Their cause was gen’ral, their supports were strong, Their faves were willing, and their reign was long :

Till Shame regain’d the post that Sense betray'd
And Virtue call'd Oblivion to her aid.

Then, crush'd by rules, and weaken'd as refin'd,
For years the pow'r of Tragedy declin'd ;
From bard to bard the frigid caution crept,
Till Declamation roar’d whilst Passion Nept;
Yet still did Virtue deign the stage to tread,
Philosophy remain'd, though Nature fled.
But forc’d, at length, her antient reign to quit,
She saw great Faustus lay the ghost of Wit;
Exulting Folly haild the joyful day,
And Pantomime and Song confirm'd her sway.

But who the coming changes can presage, And mark the future periods of the stage ? Perhaps, if skill could distant times explore, New Behns, new Durfeys, yet remain in store ; Perhaps where Lear has ravid, and Hamlet dy'd, On flying cars new sorcerers


ride : Perhaps (for who can guess th' effects of chance ?) Here Hunt may box, or Mahomet *


dance. Hard is his lot that, here by Fortune plac'd, Must watch the wild vicissitudes of taste; With ev'ry meteor of caprice must play, And chase the new-blown bubbles of the day. Ah ! let not Censure term our fate our choice, The stage but echoes back the publick voice ; The drama's laws, the drama's patrons give, For we that live to please, must please to live.

Then prompt no more the follies you decry, As tyrants

doom their tools of guilt to die;

* Hunt, a famous boxer on the stage ; Mahomet, a rope. dancer, who had exhibited at Covent-Garden Theatre the winter before, said to be a Turk.

Tis "Tis yours,

this night, to bid the reign commence Of rescued Nature and reviving Sense; To chase the charms of Sound, the pomp of Show, For useful Mirth and falutary Woe; Bid scenic Virtue form the rising age, And Truth diffuse her radiance from the stage.



T R A G E D Y.

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