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The Jealous Wife! on that thy trophies raise,
Inferior only to the author's praise.

From Dublin, fum'd in legends of romance
For mighty magic of enchanted lance,
With which her heroes arm'd victorious prove,
And like a flood rush o'er the land of Love,
Mossop and Barry came― names ne'er design'd
By Fate in the same sentence to be join'd.
Rais'd by the breath of popular acclaim,
They mounted to the pinnacle of Fame;
There the weak brain, made giddy with the height,
iSpurr'd on the rival chiefs to mortal fight.

S

Thus sportive boys, around some bason's brim,
Behold the pipe-drawn bladders circling swim:
But if from lungs more potent, there arise
Two bubbles of a more than common size,
Eager for honour they for fight prepare,
Bubble meets bubble, and both sink to air.

Mossop, attach'd to military plan,

Still kept his eye fix'd on his right-hand man. Whilst the mouth measures words with seeming skill,

The right-hand labours, and the left lies still;
For he resolv'd on scripture-grounds to go,
What the right doth, the left-hand shall not know.
With studied impropriety of speech,

He soars beyond the hackney critic's reach ;
So epithets allots emphatic state,

Whilst principals, ungrac'd, like lacquies wait;
n ways first trodden by himself excels,
And stands alone in indeclinables;
Conjunction, preposition, adverb join
o stamp new vigour on the nervous line:
n monosyllables his thunders roll,

Iỵ, she, IT, AND, WE, YE, THEY, fright the soul. In person taller than the common size, Behold where Barry draws admiring eyes! When lab'ring passions, in his bosom pent, Convulsive rage, and struggling heave for vent; pectators, with imagin'd terrours warm, nxious expect the bursting of the storm: ut, all unfit in such a pile to dwell, lis voice comes forth, like Echo from her cell; To swell the tempest needful aid denies,

nd all a-down the stage in feeble murmur dies. What man, like Barry, with such pains can err 1 elocution, action, character?

That man could give, if Barry was not here, uch well-applauded tenderness to Lear? Tho else can speak so very, very fine, hat sense may kindly end with ev'ry line? Some dozen lines before the ghost is there, ehold him for the solemn scene prepare. e how he frames his eyes, poises each limb, uts the whole body into proper trim. rom whence we learn, with no great stretch of art, ive lines hence comes a ghost, and ha! a start. When he appears most perfect, still we find omething which jars upon, and hurts the mind. "hatever lights upon a part are thrown, Te see too plainly they are not his own.

o flame from Nature ever yet he caught; or knew a feeling which he was not taught; He rais'd his trophies on the base of art, nd conn'd his passions, as he conn'd his part. Quin, from afar, lur'd by the scent of fame, stage Leviathan, put in his claim, upil of Betterton and Booth. Alone, allen he walk'd, and deem'd the chair his own.

For how should moderns, mushrooms of the day,
Who ne'er those masters knew, know how to play?
Grey-bearded vet'rans, who, with partial tongue,
Extol the times when they themselves were young,
Who, having lost all relish for the stage,
See not their own defects, but lash the age,
Receiv'd with joyful murmurs of applause,
Their darling chief, and lin'd his fav'rite cause.
Far be it from the candid Muse to tread
Insulting o'er the ashes of the dead,
But, just to living merit, she maintains,
And dares the test, whilst Garrick's genius reigns;
Ancients in vain endeavour to excel,
Happily prais'd, if they could act as well.
But though prescription's force we disallow,
Nor to antiquity submissive bow;
Though we deny imaginary grace,
Founded on accidents of time and place;
Yet real worth of ev'ry growth shall bear

Due praise, nor must we, Quin, forget thee there. His words bore sterling weight, nervous and strong,

In manly tides of sense they roll'd along.
Happy in art, he chiefly had pretence
To keep up numbers, yet not forfeit sense.
No actor ever greater heights could reach
In all the labour'd artifice of speech.

Speech! Is that all? - And shall an actor found
An universal fame on partial ground?
Parrots themselves speak properly by rote,
And, in six months, my dog shall howl by note.
I laugh at those, who, when the stage they tread,
Neglect the heart, to compliment the head;
With strict propriety their cares confin'd

To weigh out words, while passion halts behind.
To syllable-dissectors they appeal,
Allow them accent, cadence, - fools may feel;
But, spite of all the criticising elves,

Those who would make us feel, must feel themselves.
His eyes, in gloomy socket taught to roll,
Proclaim'd the sullen habit of his soul.
Heavy and phlegmatic he trod the stage,
Too proud for tenderness, too dull for rage.
When Hector's lovely widow shines in tears,
Or Rowe's gay rake dependant virtue jeers,
With the same cast of features he is seen
To chide the libertine, and court the queen.
From the tame scene, which without passion flows,
With just desert his reputation rose;
Nor less he pleas'd, when, on some surly plan,
He was, at once, the actor and the man.

In Brute he shone unequall'd: all agree
Garrick's not half so great a brute as he.
When Cato's labour'd scenes are brought to view,
With equal praise the actor labour'd too;
For still you 'll find, trace passions to their root,
Small diff'rence 'twixt the stoic and the brute.
In fancied scenes, as in life's real plan,
He could not, for a moment, sink the man.
In whate'er cast his character was laid,
Self still, like oil, upon the surface play'd.
Nature, in spite of all his skill, crept in:
Horatio, Dorax, Falstaff, -still 't was Quin.
Next follows Sheridan - a doubtful name,
As yet unsettled in the rank of Fame.
This, fondly lavish in his praises grown,
Gives him all merit; that allows him none.
Between them both we 'll steer the middle course,
Nor, loving praise, rob Judgment of her force.

Just his conceptions, natural and great:
His feelings strong, his words enforc'd with weight.
Was speech-fam'd Quin himself to hear him speak,
Envy would drive the colour from his cheek:
But step-dame Nature, niggard of her grace,
Deny'd the social pow'rs of voice and face.
Fix'd in one frame of features, glare of eye,
Passions, like chaos, in confusion lie:
In vain the wonders of his skill are try'd
To form distinctions Nature hath deny'd.
His voice no touch of harmony admits,
Irregularly deep and shrill by fits:

The two extremes appear like man and wife,
Coupled together for the sake of strife.

His action 's always strong, but sometimes such,
That candour must declare he acts too much.
Why must impatience fall three paces back?
Why paces three return to the attack?
Why is the right leg too forbid to stir,
Unless in motion semicircular?
Why must the hero with the Nailor vie,

And hurl the close-clench'd fist at nose or eye?
In royal John, with Philip angry grown,

I thought he would have knock'd poor Davies down.

Inhuman tyrant! was it not a shame,

To fright a king so harmless and so tame?
But, spite of all defects, his glories rise;
And Art, by Judgment form'd, with Nature vies:
Behold him sound the depth of Hubert's soul,
Whilst in his own contending passions roll;
View the whole scene, with critic judgment scan,
And then deny him merit if you can.
Where he falls short, 't is Nature's fault alone;
Where he succeeds, the merit 's all his own.
Last Garrick came. — Behind him throng a train
Of snarling critics, ignorant as vain.

One finds out, "He's of stature somewhat

low

Your hero always should be tall, you know. —
True natʼral greatness all consists in height."
Produce your voucher, Critic. — “Sergeant Kite."
Another can't forgive the paltry arts

By which he makes his way to shallow hearts;
Mere pieces of finesse, traps for applause
"Avaunt, unnat'ral start, affected pause."
For me, by Nature form'd to judge with phlegm,
I can't acquit by wholesale, nor condemn.
The best things carried to excess are wrong:
The start may be too frequent, pause too long;

But, only us'd in proper time and place,
Severest judgment must allow them grace.

If bunglers, form'd on Imitation's plan,
Just in the way that monkies mimic man,
Their copied scene with mangled arts disgrace,
And pause and start with the same vacant face;
We join the critic laugh; those tricks we scor,
Which spoil the scenes they mean them to adora
But when, from Nature's pure and genuine source,
These strokes of acting flow with gen'rous force,
When in the features all the soul 's pourtray'd,
And passions, such as Garrick's, are display'd,
To me they seem from quickest feelings caught:
Each start is Nature; and each pause is Thought.

When Reason yields to Passion's wild alarms, And the whole state of man is up in arms; What but a critic could condemn the play'r, For pausing here, when Cool-Sense pauses there? Whilst, working from the heart, the fire I trace, And mark it strongly flaming to the face; Whilst, in each sound, I hear the very man; I can't catch words, and pity those who can.

Let wits, like spiders, from the tortur'd brain, Fine-draw the critic-web with curious pain: The gods, a kindness I with thanks must pay,Have form'd me of a coarser kind of clay; Not stung with envy, nor with pain diseas'd, A poor dull creature, still with Nature pleas'd; Hence to thy praises, Garrick, I agree, And, pleas'd with Nature, must be pleas'd with the

Now I might tell, how silence reign'd throughout, And deep attention hush'd the rabble rout: How ev'ry claimant, tortur'd with desire, Was pale as ashes, or as red as fire: But, loose to fame, the Muse more simply acts, Rejects all flourish, and relates mere facts.

The judges, as the several parties came, [clsin, With temper heard, with judgment weigh'd eac And, in their sentence happily agreed, In name of both, great Shakspeare thus decreed. "If manly sense; if Nature link'd with Art; If thorough knowledge of the human heart; If pow'rs of acting vast and unconfin'd; If fewest faults with greatest beauties join'd; If strong expression, and strange pow'rs which lie Within the magic circle of the eye;

If feelings which few hearts, like his, can know, And which no face so well as his can show, Deserve the pref'rence - Garrick, take the chair; Nor quit it-till thou place an equal there."

And blotted from the year; nor fears to crave
Death, instant death; impatient for the grave,
That seat of peace, that mansion of repose,
Where rest and mortals are no longer foes;
Where counsellors are hush'd, and mighty kings
(Oh happy turn!) no more are wretched things.
His words were daring, and displeas'd his friends;
His conduct they reprove, and he defends;
And now they kindled into warm debate,
And sentiments oppos'd with equal heat;
Fix'd in opinion, both refuse to yield,
And summon all their reason to the field:

So high at length their arguments were wrought,
They reach'd the last extent of human thought:
A pause ensued-When, lo! Heaven interpos'd,
And awefully the long contention clos'd.
Full o'er their heads, with terrible surprise,
A sudden whirlwind blacken'd all the skies:
(They saw, and trembled !) from the darkness broke
A dreadful voice, and thus th' Almighty spoke:
"Who gives his tongue a loose so bold and vain,
Censures my conduct, and reproves my reign;
Lifts up his thought against me from the dust,
And tells the World's Creator what is just?
Of late so brave, now lift a dauntless eye,
Face my demand, and give it a reply:
Where didst thou dwell at Nature's early birth?
Who laid foundations for the spacious Earth?
Who on its surface did extend the line,
Its form determine, and its bulk confine?
Who fix'd the corner-stone? What hand, declare,
Hung it on nought, and fasten'd it on air;
When the bright morning stars in concert sung,
When Heaven's high arch with loud hosannahs
rung,

When shouting sons of God the triumph crown'd,
And the wide concave thunder'd with the sound?
Earth's numerous kingdoms, hast thou view'd them
all?

And can thy span of knowledge grasp the ball? Who heav'd the mountain, which sublimely stands, And casts its shadow into distant lands?

"Who, stretching forth his sceptre o'er the deep, Can that wide world in due subjection keep? I broke the globe, I scoop'd its hollow side, And did a bason for the floods provide; I chain'd them with my word; the boiling sea, Work'd up in tempests, hears my great decree ; Thus far, thy floating tide shall be convey'd; And here, O main, be thy proud billows stay'd.'

"Hast thou explor'd the secrets of the deep, Where, shut from use, unnumber'd treasures sleep? Where, down a thousand fathoms from the day, Springs the great fountain, mother of the sea? Those gloomy paths did thy bold foot e'er tread, Whole worlds of waters rolling o'er thy head?

"Hath the cleft centre open'd wide to thee? Death's inmost chambers didst thou ever see? E'er knock at his tremendous gate, and wade To the black portal through th' incumbent shade? Deep are those shades; but shades still deeper hide My counsels from the ken of human pride. "Where dwells the light? In what refulgent dome?

And where has darkness made her disma. home? Thou know'st, no doubt, since thy large heart is fraught

With ripen'd wisdom, through long ages brought; Since Nature was call'd forth when thou wast by, And into being rose beneath thine eye!

"Thou know'st me not; thy blindness cannot How vast a distance parts thy God from thee. Canst thou in whirlwinds mount aloft? Canst thou In clouds and darkness wrap thy aweful brow? And, when day triumphs in meridian light, Put forth thy hand, and shade the world with night? "Who launch'd the clouds in air, and bid them roll

Suspended scas aloft, from pole to pole?
Who can refresh the burning sandy plain,
And quench the summer with a waste of rain?
Who, in rough deserts far from human toil,
Made rocks bring forth, and desolation smile?
There blooms the rose, where human face ne'er shore,
And spreads its beauties to the Sun alone.

"To check the shower, who lifts his hand on high,
And shuts the sluices of th' exhausted sky,
When Earth no longer mourns her gaping veins,
Her naked mountains, and her russet plains;
But, new in life, a cheerful prospect yields
Of shining rivers, and of verdant fields;
When groves and forests lavish all their bloom,
And Earth and Heaven are fill'd with rich perfume
"Hast thou e'er scal'd my wintry skies, and seen
Of hail and snows my northern magazine?
These the dread treasures of mine anger are,
My funds of vengeance for the day of war,
When clouds rain death, and storms at my com-

mand

Rage through the world, or waste a guilty land.
"Who taught the rapid winds to fly so fast,
Or shakes the centre with his eastern blast?
Who from the skies can a whole deluge pour?
Who strikes through Nature with the solemn roar
Of dreadful thunder, points it where to fall,
And in fierce lightning wraps the flying ball?
Not he who trembles at the darted fires,
Falls at the sound, and in the flash expires.

"Who drew the comet out to such a size,
And pour'd his flaming train o'er half the skies?
Did thy resentment hang him out? Does he
Glare on the nation, and denounce, from thee?

"Who on low Earth can moderate the rein, That guides the stars along th' ethereal plain? Appoint their seasons, and direct their course, Their lustre brighten, and supply their force? Canst thou the skies' benevolence restrain, And cause the Pleiades to shine in vain? Or, when Orion sparkles from his sphere, Thaw the cold season, and unbind the year? Bid Mazzaroth his destin'd station know, And teach the bright Arcturus where to glow? Mine is the night, with all her stars; I pour Myriads, and myriads I reserve in store.

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"Dost thou pronounce where day-light shall b And draw the purple curtain of the morn; Awake the Sun, and bid him come away, And glad thy world with his obsequious ray? Hast thou, enthron'd in flaming glory, driven Triumphant round the spacious ring of Heaven? That pomp of light, what hand so far displays, That distant Earth lies basking in the blaze?

"Who did the soul with her rich powers invest, And light up reason in the human breast? To shine, with fresh increase of lustre bright, When stars and Sun are set in endless night? To these my various questions make reply.' Th' Almighty spoke; and, speaking, shook the sky. What then, Chaldæan sire, was thy surprise! Thus thou, with trembling heart and down-cast eyes:

"Once and again, which I in groans deplore, My tongue has err'd; but shall presume no more. My voice is in eternal silence bound, And all my soul falls prostrate to the ground." He ceas'd: when, lo, again th' Almighty spoke; The same dread voice from the black whirlwind broke.

"Can that arm measure with an arm divine? And canst thou thunder with a voice like mine? Or in the hollow of thy hand contain The bulk of waters, the wide-spreading main, When, mad with tempests, all the billows rise n all their rage, and dash the distant skies? "Come forth, in beauty's excellence array'd; And be the grandeur of thy power display'd; 'ut on omnipotence, and, frowning, make he spacious round of the creation shake; Dispatch thy vengeance, bid it overthrow 'riumphant vice, lay lofty tyrants low,

nd crumble them to dust. When this is done, grant thy safety lodg'd in thee alone; of thee thou art, and mayst undaunted stand ehind the buckler of thine own right-hand. "Fond man! the vision of a moment made! ream of a dream! and shadow of a shade! What worlds hast thou produc'd, what creatures fram'd;

That insects cherish'd, that thy God is blam'd? 'hen pain'd with hunger, the wild raven's brood oud calls on God, importunate for food: ho hears their cry, who grants their hoarse request, nd stills the clamour of the craving nest? "Who in the stupid ostrich has subdued parent's care, and fond inquietude? hile far she flies, her scatter'd eggs are found, ithout an owner, on the sandy ground; ist out on fortune, they at mercy lie, ad borrow life from an indulgent sky: lopted by the Sun, in blaze of day, ey ripen under his prolific ray. mindful she, that some unhappy tread, ay crush her young in their neglected bed.. hat time she skims along the field with speed, e scorns the rider, and pursuing steed. "How rich the peacock! what bright glories run om plume to plume, and vary in the Sun! e proudly spreads them to the golden ray, ves all his colours, and adorns the day; ith conscious state the spacious round displays, id slowly moves amid the waving blaze. "Who taught the hawk to find, in seasons wise, rpetual summer, and a change of skies? hen clouds deform the year, she mounts the wind, oots to the south, nor fears the storm behind; e Sun returning, she returns again, ves in his beams, and leaves ill days to men. "Though strong the hawk, though practis'd well to fly,

n eagle drops her in a lower sky;
n eagle, when, deserting human sight,
e seeks the Sun in her unwearied flight:

535

;

[me,

"Didst thou from service the wild ass discharge,
And break his bonds, and bid him live at large,
Through the wide waste, his ample mansion, roam,
And lose himself in his unbounded home?
By Nature's hand magnificently fed,

His meal is on the range of mountains spread;
As in pure air aloft he bounds along,
He sees in distant smoke the city throng;
Conscious of freedom, scorns the smother'd train,
The threatening driver, and the servile rein.

"Survey the warlike horse! didst thou invest
With thunder his robust distended chest?
No sense of fear his dauntless soul allays;
'Tis dreadful to behold his nostrils blaze;
To paw the vale he proudly takes delight,
And triumphs in the fullness of his might;
High rais'd he snuffs the battle from afar,
And burns to plunge amid the raging war ;
And mocks at death, and throws his foam around,
And in a storm of fury shakes the ground.
How does his firm, his rising heart advance
Full on the brandish'd sword, and shaken lance:
While his fix'd eye-balls meet the dazzling shield,
Gaze, and return the lightning of the field!
He sinks the sense of pain in generous pride,
Nor feels the shaft that trembles in his side;
But neighs to the shrill trumpet's dreadful blast
Till death; and when he groans, he groans his last.
"But, fiercer still, the lordly lion stalks,
Grimly majestic in his lonely walks ;
When round he glares, all living creatures fly;
He clears the desert with his rolling eye.
Say, mortal, does he rouse at thy command,
And roar to thee, and live upon thy hand?
Dost thou for him in forests bend thy bow,
And to his gloomy den the morsel throw,
Where bent on death lie hid his tawny brood,
And, couch'd in dreadful ambush, pant for blood;
Or, stretch'd on broken limbs, consume the day,
In darkness wrapt, and slumber o'er their prey?
By the pale Moon they take their destin'd round,
And lash their sides, and furious tear the ground.
Now shrieks and dying groans the desert fill;
They rage, they rend; their ravenous jaws distil
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