And greatly falling with a falling state.
While Cato gives his little senate laws,
What bosom beats not in his country's cause?
Who sees him act, but envies every deed?
Who hears him groan, and does not wish to bleed?
Even when proud Cæsar, 'midst triumphal cars,
The spoils of nations, and the pomp of wars,
Ignobly vain, and impotently great,
Showed Rome her Cato's figure drawn in state:
As her dead father's reverend image passed,
The pomp was darkened, and the day o'ercast;
The triumph ceased, tears gushed from every eye;
The world's great victor passed unheeded by ;
Her last good man dejected Rome adored,
And honoured Cæsar's less than Cato's sword.
Britons, attend; be worth like his approved,
And show you have the virtue to be moved.
With honest scorn the first famed Cato viewed
Rome learning arts from Greece, whom she subdued:
Our scene precariously subsists too long.
On French translation, and Italian song.
Dare to have sense yourselves; assert the stage,
Be justly warmed with your own native rage:
Such plays alone should please a British ear,
As Cato's self had not disdained to hear.
WRITTEN FOR THE OPENING OF DRURY-LANE THEATRE 1747. BY JOHNSON.
When Learning's triumph o'er her barbarous foes
First reared the Stage, immortal Shakspeare rose;
Each change of many-coloured life he drew,
Exhausted worlds, and then imagined new:
Existence saw him spurn her bounded reign,
And panting Time toiled after him in vain ;
His powerful strokes presiding Truth imprest,
And unresisted Passion stormed 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 assayed the heart:
Cold approbation gave the lingering bays;
For those, who durst not censure, scarce could praise. A mortal born, he met the general doom,
But left, like Egypt's kings, a lasting tomb.
The wits of Charles found easier ways to fame,
Nor wished 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 sympathetick friend;
They pleased their age, and did not aim to mend.
Yet bards like these aspired to lasting praise,
And proudly hoped to pimp in future days:
Their cause was general, their supports were strong,
Their slaves were willing, and their reign was long;
Till Shame regained the post that Sense betrayed,
And Virtue called oblivion to her aid.
Then crushed by rules, and weakened as refined,
For years the power of Tragedy declined:
From bard to bard the frigid caution crept,
Till Declamation roared, whilst Passion slept;
Yet still did Virtue deign the stage to tread,
Philosophy remained, though Nature fled.
But forced at length her ancient reign to quit,
She saw great Faustus lay the ghost of wit;
Exulting Folly hailed the joyful day,
And Pantomime and Song confirmed 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 raved, and Hamlet died,
On flying cars new sorcerers may ride;
Perhaps (for who can guess th' effects of chance?)
Here Hunt may box, or Mahomet may dance.
Hard is his lot, that, here by fortune placed,
Must watch the wild vicissitudes of taste:
With every meteor of caprice must play,
And chase the new-blown bubble 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;
'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 salutary wo;
Bid scenick Virtue form the rising age,
And Truth diffuse her radiance from the stage.
ON DEDICATING A BUILDING AND ERECTING A STATUE TO SHAKSPEARE, AT STRATFORD-UPON-AVON.
To what blest genius of the isle
Shall gratitude her tribute pay,
Decree the festive day,
Erect the statue, and devote the pile?
Do not your sympathetic hearts accord,
To own the bosom's Lord?
"Tis he! 'tis he !-that demi-god!
Who Avon's flowery margin trod;
While sportive Fancy round him flew,
Where Nature led him by the hand,
Instructed him in all she knew,
And gave him absolute command!
'Tis he !-'tis he!
The god of our idolatry!
To him the song, the edifice we raise;
He merits all our wonder, all our praise!
Yet ere impatient joy break forth
In sounds that lift the soul from earth;
And to our spell-bound minds impart
Some faint idea of his magick art;
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