"As when th' autumnal morne with ruddy hue The fluttering bird betrays; with thondring rore "Yet still the queint excuse is at command; "On Dissipation still this treachor waits, "Deep in the wyldes of Faerie Lond it lay; "All by the gate, beneath a pine shade bare, "And oft, disgustfull of their various cares, his head. "Yet round his gloomy cell, with chalk he scrawls; Ships, couches, crownes, and eke the gallow tree All that he wishd or feard his ghastlie walls; Present him still, and mock his miserie. And there, self-doomd, his cursed selfe to flee, "Near the dreare gate, beneath the rifted rock, "Yet not himselfe, but Heavens great king he blamd, "Near by there stood an hamlet in the dale, "To this fell carle gay Dissipation led, "Yet, ever as he reard his slombering head, "Thou hast no friend !-still on the worthlesse traine Thy kindnesse flowd, and still with scorne repaid; Ah, wretched syre!'-But ever from this scene And in the bowls wylde fever shuns his teene. So pass his dayes, while what he might have beene "But boast not of superiour shrewd addresse, Bale, harm, sorrow. dicative imperfect of the verb to be. Beseene, becoming. Geer, furniture, tackle. Gin, gan, begin, began. Glen, a dell, a hollow between two hills. Han, preterite plural of the verb to have. Imp, infant, child. Jolliment, merriment. Ken, v. to see. Knare, a knotty arm of a tree. Dryd. Nathlesse, nevertheless, nathles. Sax. Beene, frequently used by the old poets for the in- Native, natural. Ne, nor. The letter y in all the old English poets is frequently prefixed to verbs and verbal adjectives, but without any particular signification. The use of it is purely Saxon, though after the conquest the ge gave place to the Norman y. It is always to be pronounced as the pronoun ye. Spenser has also frequently followed the Saxon formation, in adding the letter n to his verbs, as tellen, worken, &c. When affixed to a substantive, it forms the plural number, as eyen, eyes, &c. ON THE NEGLECT OF POETRY. AN IMITATION OF SPENSER. HENCE, Vagrant Minstrel, from my thriving farm; Such ruin withers the neglected soil When to the song the ill-starr'd swain attendsAnd well thy meed repays thy worthless toil; Upon thy houseless head pale want descends In bitter shower: and taunting scorn still rends, "And is it thus," the heart-stung minstrel cry'd, While indignation shook his silver'd head; "And is it thus, the groos-fed lordling's pride, And hind's base tongue the gentle bard upbraid? And must the holy song be thus repaid By sun-bask'd ignorance, and churlish scorn? While listless drooping in the languid shade Of cold neglect, the sacred bard must mourn, Though in his hallow'd breast Heaven's purest ardours burn. Yet how sublime, O bard, the dread behest, The awful trust to thee by Heaven assign'd! "T is thine to humanize the savage breast, And form in virtue's mould the youthful mind; Where lurks the latent spark of generous kind, 'T is thine to bid the dormant ember blaze: Heroic rage with gentlest worth combin'd Wide through the land thy forming power displays: So spread the olive boughs beneath Dan Phoebus' rays. When Heaven decreed to soothe the feuds that tore And fits it you, ye sons of hallow'd power, And shall the warbled strain or sweetest lyre, Eternal silence in her cold deaf ear From Bashan and the desert shore Lo! Egypt's kings and wisest men But, awful sov'reign! who can stand How mild thy mercies shine! AN EPITHALAMIUM. WRITTEN IN HEBREW BY ABRAM DEPAS, ON THE MARRIAGE OF JACOB FRANCO, ESQ. TO MISS ABIGAIL D'AGUILAR, DAUGHTER OF THE LATE BARON D'AGUILAR. THE voice of joy this happy day demands; Resound the song and in our God confide: Beneath his canopy the bridegroom stands, In all her beauty shines the lovely bride. O may their joys still blossom, ever new, Fair as a garden to the ravish'd view! Rejoice, O youth, and if thy thoughts aspire To Heaven's pure bliss, the sacred law revere; The stranger's wants, the needy soul's desire Supply, and humbly with thy neighbour bear: So shall thy father's grateful heart rejoice, And thy fair deeds inspire thy people's voice. Sing from your bowers, ye daughters of the song, Behold the bride with star-like glory shine; May each succeeding day still glide along Fair as the first, begirt with grace divine: Far from her tent may care and sorrow fly, While she o'erjoy'd beholds her numerous progeny. Ye happy parents, shout with cheerful voice, See, o'er your son the canopy unfold; And thou, O hoary rev'rend sire, rejoice, May thy glad eyes thy grandson's son behold. The song of joy, ye youthful kindred raise, And let the people join, the living God to praise! SONNET TO VASCO DE GAMA. FROM TASSO. Vasco le cui felici, &c. VASCO, whose bold and happy bowsprit bore Against the rising morn; and homeward fraught, Whose sails came westward with the day, and The wealth of India to thy native shore; [brought Ne'er did the Greek such length of seas explore, The Greek, who sorrow to the Cyclops wrought; And he, who, victor, with the Harpies fought, Never such pomp of naval honours wore. Great as thou art, and peerless in renown, SONNET. FROM PETRARCH. AH! how, my friend, has foul gorg'd luxurie, And bloated slumber on the slothful down, From the dull world all manly virtue thrown, And slaved the age to custom's tyrannie. The blessed lights so lost in darkness be, "Philosophy, ah! thou art cold and poor," THE SIEGE OF MARSEILLES. A TRAGEDY. THE AUTHOR'S PREFACE. He who offers his writings to the public, tacitly confesses that he believes them to deserve its attention. Though to deny this were an affectation of modesty which would obtain no credit, yet it will easily be allowed, that at a time when the stage is so indulgent to dramatic writers, no man would venture to publish a rejected play without some better test of its value than his own judgment. The author of The Siege of Marseilles may truly assert, that in this publication he is influenced and guided by some who hold no ordinary rank in the republic | of letters. From their favourable opinion (a circumstance not unknown to Mr. Garrick) he had once every reason to hope that his play would be honoured with representation. He also flattered himself, that the novelty of a drama, no part whereof was borrowed from a foreign stage, and a moral, designedly pointed against a vice, which at present may be said to characterise the age, might have proved circumstances in his favour. But he now finds that an author, in writing a play, however well he may execute it, has done very little: that if he meant to write for the stage, his most necessary qualification was an acquaintance with the politics and temporary arts of the green-room. It is not long since that a friend of mine, having an inclination to write a tragedy, applied himself for some instruction to a gentleman who had often composed for the theatre. "My dear sir," says the author, "you conceive not half the trouble and vexation you must undergo to bring your play upon the stage. Believe a man who has learned, by too much experience, that Between the acting of a tragedy And the first writing, all the interim is Like a phantasma, or a hideous dream. "You must cabal with the players, you must attend upon the manager, you must flatter him, and perhaps write verses upon him; you must suffer a hundred little indignities besides, and after all your play may be rejected. For you are mistaken if you think that literary merit is a passport to representation. The manager must serve himself first, and he has always some pieces on his hands, seldom so few as half a dozen, which are his own property. Besides, you are a stranger to the management of the theatre: do you know what is the trim of the stage?"-"So far from it," replied my friend," that I do not remember to have heard the phrase before, nor am I able to comprehend what it means."" The meaning," says the old author, " contains nothing critical, has nothing to do with the unities; but however the scholar may affect to despise it, let me assure you, that unless you are acquainted with the character and capacity of each actor and actress in the house, and know something too of the scenery and dresses, you can't write a play worth a farthing." The unequalled abilities of Mr. Garrick, as an actor, fill us at once with pleasure and admiration; which, improved by the feelings of the generous mind, rise into a sort of general esteem and prepossession in his favour. When I bear this testimony to Mr. Garrick's excellence, I trust the public will not take offence, and that Mr. Garrick himself will forgive me, if I say that, as a manager, he has been generally unhappy or ill-advised in his choice of the dramas exhibited in Drury Lane. But I cannot speak of the pieces themselves. It is cruel to insult the memory of the departed; it is ungenerous to attack the dead. These, alas! have no patron, no defender. Mr. Garrick, their friend, as long as he could keep them alive, even Garrick bas deserted them. Let them rest in their obscurity; and let me assure their sometime protector, that I have too much humanity to drag them thence, with any view of comparison or competition. Not that I mean to impute to Mr. Garrick's want of taste, all the despised and forgotten plays which have appeared on his stage. Some of them he was obliged to introduce through gratitude, through friendship, sometimes through generosity; and though he could not give them a lasting reputation, the indulgence of the public usually favoured the representation. But gratitude, friendship, and even generosity, however favourite virtues, cannot have been with Mr. Garrick his only principle of action. His judgment, unbiased by any interest, must frequently have directed his choice. Yet by some, not unaccountable, ill fortune, these select pieces have generally shared the fate of the others; and at this day you may as well hope to trace them in the closets of the ingenious, as you may the former in the memory of the playhouse critic. |