An era now had dawned upon the age,
And through this vista, sprung the infant Stage.
The Drama, then, its lovely temple reared,
By virtue cherished, and by taste revered.
This glittering fane the Gothick night illumed,
And vandal pride and insolence entombed.
The Stage! A throne where sceptred Genius rules,
Reclaims the rake, the unlearned rustick schools;
Where Virtue stands the champion of its cause,
Secures the Drama and protects its laws.
Here hoary Wisdom bends to youthful years,
With baliny precepts fills the listening ears,
While sportive Innocence with ardent gaze,
In mimick fancy oft repeats her lays.
Here Slander dies: the scoffing fool, abashed,
Forsakes his follies thus by satire lashed,
And Vice will here, as in a mirror, trace
Each odious feature of her haggard face.
Here Love portrays the feelings of the heart,
And blushing Beauty owns her magick art.
Here Discord's visage beams with peaceful glow,
Her bushy locks in graceful tresses flow;
And black Despair, Revenge, inveterate Hate,
Round Reason's altar join in close debate.
Here green-eyed Jealousy, and pallid Grief,
Find too their comfort, and their sweet relief;
While Mirth's gay smile on every cheek is seen,
And Hope and Pleasure crown the blissful scene.
Immortal Shakspeare! 'tis to thee we raise
This humble trophy to thy peerless praise.
To thee the Drama owes its powerful sway,
Raised by thy genius from its infant day.
Proud Avon's banks shall echo long thy fame,
And lasting as its waters be thy name.
Immortal Bard! the Muses' theme shall be,
To dedicate this night their lays to thee.
Apollo here shall each fond soul inspire
With thrilling accents from his trembling lyre,
And bold Euterpe melt the feeling hearts,
When she thy praises in her song imparts.
The world shall glory in a name like thine,
And offer incense at thy holy shrine.
The western world had now emerged from night,
By coruscations of the orient light;
The sun of science here had lent its ray,
And o'er Columbia dawned a brilliant day.
In this blest spot where Freedom's temples tower,
Long may the Drama find protecting power.
May mild Instruction fill each scenick page,
And Virtue prove the guardian of the stage.
Let reason here with taste and beauty join,
And Wit and Genius round the Drama twine.
May modest Merit, too, with Justice meet,
And drive Intrusion from his usurped seat;
While Truth's bold mirror, held to constant view,
To every passion gives the colour true.
Then Vice, confused, shall quickly shun the place,
When she beholds the features of her face.
While Virtue, then, shall hold her goodly sway,
And man her precepts and her laws obey,
The Stage shall flourish through the world's vast clime,
And stand, unmoved, the powerful test of Time.
When clouds of darkness had o'erspread the world,
And men by ignorance were held in thrall,
When wild fancy brooked not to be ruled,
'Twas then the Tragick Muse, her sable pall
Around her throwing, bade adieu to all
Her loved abodes, where men no more would pay
Her charms due reverence, or obey her call;
For they preferred Romance's rhapsody
To her lyre's notes of sad but sweetest melody.
"Twas then, when all her followers were lost,
Far she retired to a dark and gloomy cell,
Within a cypress-forest deep embossed,
Where nightly dews, in noxious vapours, fell;
There did she lay her down to weep and wail:
And her golden lyre, which so oft had rung
With richest strains, that now did nought avail
(Though on them once in raptures men had hung),
Now by her lay, neglected, and its chords unstrung.
At last she slept! But men, that passed by
And looked into the cell, back shuddering drew;
Ne wist they who she was that there did lie,
With hair dishevelled, wet with chilling dew,
And face so deadly pale, yet fair to view
None dared to touch her lyre where it lay,
And certes of them all there were but few,
Who, with deep terror struck, fled not away,
Or could upon her look withouten deep dismay.
For in her features dark Melancholy
Did lower fearfully; and by her side
There lay (awful sign of deeds unholy!)
A dagger, which a father's blood had died,
Or had been stained in horrid fratricide;
And near it lay a bowl, from which there flowed
Black poison! the drink of some fair bride,
Whom her fierce lord, in fiendlike mood, had vowed
To death, when green jealousy did his heart corrode.
At last came one, who took with trembling hand
The lyre!—restrung its silver chords, and dared
To strike! so ravishing were the sounds and grand,
That then,-(although at first he seemed afeard
Lest his venturous strain should too loud be heard,)
As if by phrensy fired, he struck the chords
With strong and measured hand, as if prepared
To stand the vengeance of her bloody sword:
But still she slept and to his strains paid small regard.
By his example, others, bolder grown,
Their former terror then began to lose,
And now approached to try the lyre's sweet tone:
But they with dreamis vile, in her repose
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