Could Quin come stalking from Elysian glades,
Or Garrick get a day-rule from the shades,
Where now, perhaps, in mirth which spirits approve,
He imitates the ways of men above,
And apes the actions of our upper coast,
As in his days of flesh he played the ghost:
How might they bless our ampler scope to please,
And hate their own old shrunk-up audiences.
Their houses yet were palaces to those
Which Ben and Fletcher for their triumphs chose.
Shakespeare, who wished a kingdom for a stage,
Like giant pent in disproportioned cage,
Mourned his contracted strengths and crippled rage.
He who could tame his vast ambition down
To please some scattered gleanings of a town,
And if some hundred auditors supplied
Their meagre meed of claps was satisfied,
How had he felt, when that dread curse of Lear's
Had burst tremendous on a thousand ears,
While deep-struck wonder from applauding bands
Returned the tribute of as many hands!
Rude were his guests; he never made his bow
To such an audience as salutes us now.
He lacked the balm of labour, female praise;
Few ladies in his time frequented plays,
Or came to see a youth with awkward art
And shrill sharp pipe burlesque the woman's part.
The very use, since so essential grown,
Of painted scenes, was to his stage unknown.
The air-blest castle, round whose wholesome crest
The martlet, guest of summer, chose her nest-
The forest walks of Arden's fair domain,
Where Jacques fed his solitary vein-
No pencil's aid as yet had dared supply,
Seen only by the intellectual eye.
Those scenic helps, denied to Shakespeare's page,
Our Author owes to a more liberal age.
Nor pomp nor circumstance are wanting here;
'Tis for himself alone that he must fear.
Yet shall remembrance cherish the just pride,
That (be the laurel granted or denied)
He first essayed in this distinguished fane
Severer muses and a tragic strain.
TO THE "WIFE: A TALE OF MANTUA," BY JAMES
SHERIDAN KNOWLES.
WHEN first our bard his simple will expressed
That I should in his heroine's robes be dressed,
My fears were with my vanity at strife,
How I could act that untried part-" a wife."
But Fancy to the Grison hills me drew
Where Mariana like a wildflower grew,
Nursing her garden-kindred so far I
Liked her condition, willing to comply
With that sweet single life: when, with a cranch,
Down came that thundering, craching avalanche,
Startling my mountain-project! "Take this spade,"
Said Fancy then, "dig low, adventurous maid,
For hidden wealth." I did; and ladies, lo!
Was e'er romantic female's fortune so,
To dig a life-warm lover from the snow?
A wife and princess see me next, beset
With subtle toils, in an Italian net,
While knavish courtiers, stung with rage or fear,
Distilled lip-poison in a husband's ear.
I pondered on the boiling Southern vein;
Racks, cords, stilettoes, rushed upon my brain!
By poor, good, weak Antonio, too, disownèd-
I dreamed each night I should be Desdemona'd,
And, being in Mantua, thought upon the shop
Whence fair Verona's youth his breath did stop:
And what if Leonardo, in foul scorn,
Some lean apothecary should suborn
To take my hated life? A "tortoise" hung
Before my eyes, and in my ears scaled "alligators rung."
But my Othello, to his vows more zealous-
Twenty lagos could not make him jealous!
New raised to reputation and to life-
At your commands behold me, without strife,
Well-pleased, and ready to repeat-the "Wife,"
ALBUM VERSES AND OTHER POEMS
DEDICATION TO THE PUBLISHER.
DEAR MOXON,—I do not know to whom a Dedication of these Trifles is more properly due than to yourself. You suggested the printing of them. You were desirous of exhibiting a specimen of the manner in which Publications, entrusted to your future care, would appear. With more propriety, perhaps, the "Christmas," or some other of your own simple, unpretending Compositions, might have served this purpose. But I forget-you have bid a long adieu to the Muses. I had on my hands sundry Copies of Verses written for Albums
Those books kept by modern young ladies for show,
Of which their plain grandmothers nothing did know—
or otherwise floating about in periodicals; which you have chosen in this manner to embody. I feel little interest in their publication. They are simply Advertisement Verses.
It is not for me, nor you, to allude in public to the kindness of our honoured friend, under whose auspices you are become a Bookseller. May that fine-minded Veteran in Verse enjoy life long enough to see his patronage justified! I venture to predict that your habits of industry, and your cheerful spirit, will carry you through the world.— I am, dear Moxon, your Friend and sincere Well-wisher,
IN THE ALBUM OF A CLERGYMAN'S LADY.
AN Album is a Garden, not for show
Planted, but use, where wholesome herbs should grow.
A Cabinet of curious porcelain, where
No fancy enters but what's rich or rare.
A Chapel, where mere ornamental things
Are pure as crowns of saints or angels' wings.
A List of living friends: a holier Room
For names of some since mouldering in the tomb,
Whose blooming memories life's cold laws survive;
And, dead elsewhere, they here yet speak and live.
Such, and so tender, should an Album be;
And, Lady, such I wish this book to thee.
IN THE AUTOGRAPH BOOK OF MRS. SERJEANT W—.
HAD I a power, Lady, to my will,
You should not want Hand Writings. I would fill
Your leaves with Autographs-resplendent names
Of Knights and Squires of old, and courtly Dames,
Kings, Emperors, Popes. Next under these should stand
The hands of famous lawyers-a grave band-
Who in their Courts of Law or Equity
Have best upheld Freedom and Property.
These should moot cases in your book, and vie
To show their reading and their Serjeantry.
But I have none of these; nor can I send
The notes by Bullen to her Tyrant penned
In her authentic hand; nor in soft hours
Lines writ by Rosamund in Clifford's bowers.
The lack of curious Signatures I moan,
And want the courage to subscribe my own.
IN THE ALBUM OF LUCY BARTON.
LITTLE Book, surnamed of white,
Clean as yet, and fair to sight,
Keep thy attribution right.
Never disproportioned scrawl;
Ugly blot, that's worse than all ;
On thy maiden'clearness fall!
In each letter, here designed,
Let the reader emblemed find
Neatness of the owner's mind.
Gilded margins count a sin,
Let thy leaves attraction win
By the golden rules within ;
Sayings fetched from sages old;
Laws which Holy Writ unfold,
Worthy to be graved in gold:
Lighter fancies not excluding;
Blameless wit, with nothing rude in
Sometimes mildly interluding
Amid strains of graver measure:
Virtue's self hath oft her pleasure
In sweet Muses' groves of leisure.
Riddles dark, perplexing sense;
Darker meanings of offence;
What but shades-be banished hence.
Whitest thoughts in whitest dress,
Candid meanings, best express
Mind of quiet Quakeress.
SUCH goodness in your face doth shine,
With modest look, without design,
That I despair, poor pen of mine
Can e'er express it,
To give it words I feebly try;
My spirits fail me to supply
Befitting language for 't, and I
Can only bless it!
But stop, rash verse! and don't abuse
A bashful maiden's ear with news
Of her own virtues. She'll refuse
Praise sung so loudly.
Of that same goodness, you admire,
The best part is, she don't aspire
To praise-nor of herself desire
To think too proudly.
IN THE ALBUM OF A VERY YOUNG LADY.
JOY to unknown Josepha, who, I hear,
Of all good gifts, to Music most is given;
Science divine, which through the enraptured ear
Enchants the soul, and lifts it nearer Heaven.
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