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PRIZE PROLOGUE,

WRITTEN BY LORD BYRON, AND SPOKEN AT THE OPENING OF DRURY-LANE THEATRE, OCTOBER, 1812.

In one dread night our city saw, and sighed—
Bowed to the dust, the Drama's tower of pride,
In one short hour,-beheld the blazing fane,
Apollo sink, and Shakspeare cease to reign.

Ye, who beheld (O sight, admired and mourned,
Whose radiance mocked the ruin it adorned!)
Through clouds of fire, the massy fragments riven,
Like Israel's pillar, chase the night from heaven;
Saw the long column of revolving flames
Shake its red shadow o'er the startled Thames,
While thousands, thronged around the burning dome,
Shrank back appalled, and trembled for their home;
As glared the volumed blaze, and ghastly shone
The skies, with lightnings awful as their own;
Till blackening ashes and the lonely wall
Usurped the Muse's realm, and marked her fall;
Say-shall this new nor less aspiring pile,
Reared, where once rose the mightiest in our isle,
Know the same favour which the former knew,
A shrine for Shakspeare, worthy him and you?

Yes-it shall be-the magick of that name
Defies the scythe of time, the torch of flame,
On the same spot still consecrates the scene,
And bids the Drama be where she hath been:-
This fabrick's birth attests the potent spell,
Indulge our honest pride, and say, How well!
As soars this fane to emulate the last,

Oh! might we draw our omens from the past,
Some hour, propitious to our prayers, may boast
Names such as hallow still the dome we lost.
On Drury first your Siddons' thrilling art
O'erwhelmed the gentlest, stormed the sternest heart-
On Drury, Garrick's latest laurels grew,
Here your last tears retiring Roscius drew,
Sighed his last thanks, and wept his last adieu.
But still for living wit the wreathes may bloom
That only waste their odours o'er the tomb.
Such Drury claimed and claims,-nor you refuse
One tribute to revive his slumbering muse,
With garlands deck your own Menander's head!
Nor hoard your honours idly for the dead!

Dear are the days which made our annals bright,
Ere Garrick fled, or Brinsley ceased to write;
Heirs to their labours, like all high-born heirs,
Vain of our ancestry, as they of theirs,
While thus Remembrance borrows Banquo's glass,
To claim the sceptred shadows as they pass,
And we the mirror hold, where imaged shine
Immortal names, emblazoned on our line:

Pause-ere their feebler offspring you condemn,
Reflect how hard the task to rival them!

Friends of the stage-to whom both players and plays
Must sue alike for pardon or for praise,

Whose judging voice and eye alone direct
The boundless power to cherish or reject,
If e'er frivolity has led to fame,

And made us blush that you forbear to blame,
If e'er the sinking stage could condescend
To sooth the sickly taste it dares not mend,
All past reproach may present scenes refute,
And censure, wisely loud, be justly mute!
Oh! since your fiat stamps the Drama's laws,
Forbear to mock us with misplaced applause-
So pride shall doubly nerve the actor's powers,
And Reason's voice be echoed back by ours!

This greeting o'er,-the ancient rule obeyed,
The Drama's homage by her herald paid,
Receive our welcome too,-whose every tone
Springs from our hearts, and fain would win your own.
The curtain rises-may our stage unfold
Scenes not unworthy Drury's days of old!-
Britons our judges, Nature for our guide,

Still may we please, long-long may you preside.

FAREWELL ADDRESS,

SPOKEN BY MR. KEMBLE, AT THE EDINBURGH THEATRE. WRITTEN BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.

As the worn war-horse, at the trumpet's sound,
Erects his mane, and neighs, and paws the ground,-
Disdains the ease his generous lord assigns,
And longs to rush on the embattled lines,
So I, your plaudits ringing in mine ear,
Can scarce sustain to think our parting near;
To think my scenick hour forever past,
And that those valued plaudits are my last.

But years steal on, and higher duties crave
Some space between the theatre and grave;
That, like the Roman in the Capitol,

I may adjust my mantle ere I fall:

My life's brief act in publick service flown,
The last, the closing scene must be my own.

Here, then, adieu! while yet some well-graced parts May fix an ancient favourite in your hearts,

Not quite to be forgotten, even when

You look on better actors, younger men:

And if your bosoms own this kindly debt
Of old remembrance, how shall mine forget?
Oh, how forget! how oft I hither came

In anxious hope; how oft returned with fame!
How oft around your circle this weak hand
Has waved immortal Shakspeare's magick wand,
Till the full burst of inspiration came,

And I have felt, and you have fanned the flame!
By Memory treasured, while her reign endures,
These hours must live-and all the charms are yours.

O favoured land! renowned for arts and arms,
For manly talent, and for female charms,
Could this full bosom prompt the sinking line,
What fervent benedictions now were thine!
But my last part is played, my knell is rung,
When even your praise falls faltering from my
tongue;

And all that you can hear, or I can tell,

Is-Friends and Patrons, hail, and fare you well!

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