When lab'ring paffions, in his bofom pent, Convulfive rage, and ftruggling heave for vent; Spectators, with imagin'd terrors warm, Anxious expect the bursting of the ftorm: But, all unfit in fuch a pile to dwell, His voice connes forth, like Echo from her cell; To fwell the tempeft needful aid denies, And all a-down the ftage in feeble murmurs dies. What man, like Barry, with fuch pains, can er In elocution, action, character?
What man could give, if Barry was not here, Such well-applauded tenderness to Lear? Who elte can fpeak fo very, very fine, That fente may kindly end with ev'ry line? Some dozen fires before the ghoft is there, Behold him for the folenin icens prepare. See how he frames his sycs, poifes each limb, Puts the whole body into proper trim.- [art, From whence we learn, with no great ftretch of Five lines hence comes a ghott, and, ha! a fiat.) When he appears moit perfeét, ftill we find Something which jars upon, and hurts the mind. Whatever lights upon a part are thrown, We fee too plainly they are not his own. No flame from nature ever yet he caught; Nor knew a feeling which he was not taught; He rais'd his trophies on the bafe of art, And con'd his pallions as he conn'd his part. Quin, from afar lur'd by the fcent of fanie, A ftage Lettathan, put in his claim, Faph of Betterton and Booth. Alone, Sullen he walk'd, and deem'd the chair his own. For how thould moderns, mushrooms of the day. Whone'er thofe malters knew, know how toplay? Grey-bearded vet rans, who, with partial tongue, Extol the times when they themfelves were young, Who having foft all relifh for the stage, See not their own defects, but lath the age, Receiv'd with joyful muriners of applaute Their darling chief, and lin'd his fav'rite caufe. Far be it from the candid mufe to tread Infulting o'er the ashes of the dead, But, just to living merit, the maintains, And dares the teft, whilft Garrick's genius reigns; Ancients in vain endeavour to excel, Happily prais'd, if they could act as well. But though prefeription's force we difallow, Nor to antiquity fubmiffive bow; Though we deny imagmary grace, Founded on accidents of time and place; Yet real worth of ev'ry growth fhail bear Due praife, nor muft we, Quin, forget thee there. His words bore fterling weight, nervous and In manly tides of fenfe they roll'd along. [ftrong Happy in art, he chiefly had pretence To keep up numbers, yet not forfeit fenfe. No actor ever greater heights could reachi In all the labour'd a tifice of speech. Speech! Is that all And half an actor found An univerfal fame on partial ground › Parrots themfelves fpeak properly by rote, And, in fix months, my dog fhall howl by note. I laugh at thofe, who, when the ftage they tread, Neglect the heart, to compliment the head;
With ftrict propriety their care's confin'd To weigh our words, while paffion halts behind. To fyllable-diffe&tors they appeal,
Allow them accent, cadence,--fools may feel; But, fpite of all the criticiling cives,
Thofe who would make us feel, muft feel them- felves.
His eyes, in gloomy focket taught to roll, Proclaim'd the fullen habit of his foul. Heavy and phlegmatic he trod the ftage, Too proud for tenderness, too doll for rage. When Hector's lovely widow fhines in tears, Or Rowe's gay rake dependant virtue jeers, With the fine caft of features he is feen To chide the libertine, and court the queen. From the tame feene, which without paffion ilows, With juft defert his reputation refe;
Nor lefs he pleas'd, when, on fome farly plan, He was, at once, the actor and the man.
In Brute he thone unequall'd: all agree Garrick's not half fo great a brute as he. When Cato's labour'd fcenes are brought to view, With equal praife the actor labour'd too; For fill you'll find, trace paflions to their root, Small differce twixt the Stoic and the brute. la faucied fcenes, as in life's real plan, He could not for a mement fink the man. In whate'er caft his character was laid, Self ftili, ke oil, upon the fun face play'd. Nature, in fpite of all his fkill, crept in : Horatio, Dorax, Falftaff,-Bill 'twas Quin.
Next follows Sheridan-a doubtful name, As yet unfettled in the rank of fame. This, fondly lavith in his praifes grown, Gives him all merit: That allows him nore. Between them both we'll fteer the middle courfe, Nor, loving praife, rob judgment of her force. Jutt his conceptions, naural and great: His feelings fiong, his words enforc'd with weight.
Was fpeech-fan'd Quin him felf rohear him speak, Envy ould drive the colour from his check: But tep-dame nature, niggard of her grace, Deny'd the focial pow'rs of voice and face. Fix'd in one frame of features, glare of eye, Patlions, like chaos, in confufion lie: In vain the wonders of his skill are trv'd To form diftinctions nature hath deny'd. His voice no touch of harmony admits, Irregularly deep and thrill by fits: The two extremes appear like man and wife, Coupled together for the fake of ftrife.
His action's alwats ftrong, but fometimes fuck, That candour must declare he acts too much. Why muft impatience fall three paces back? Why paces three return to the attack? Why is the right-leg too forbid to ftir, Unlfs in motion femicircular? Why moft the hero with the Nailor vic, And hurl the clofe-clench'd fift at nofe or eye! In royal John, with Philip angry grown, I thought he would have knock'd poor Davies Inhuman tyrant was it not a fhame, [down. To fright a king fo harmless and fo tame?
But, fpite of all defects, his glories rife; And art, by judgment form'd, with nature vics: Behold him found the depth of Hubert's foul, Whilft in his own contending paffions roll; View the whole fcene, with critic judgment fcan, And then deny him menit if you can. Where he falls fhort, 'tis nature's fault alone; Where he fucceeds, the merit's all his own. Laft Garrick came.--Behind him throng a train Of fnarling critics, ignorant as vain.
One finds out, He's of ftature fomewhat low,
"Your hero always fhould be tall, you know.— "True natural greatnefs all confifts in height."
And, in their fentence happily agreed, In name of both, Great Shakespear thus decreed: "If manly fenfe; if nature link'd with art; If thorough knowledge of the human heart; If pow'rs of acting vaft and unconfind; If feweft faults with greatest beauties join'd; If ftrong expreflion, and ftrange pow'rs which lig Within the magic circle of the eye;
if feelings which few hearts, like his, can know, And which no face to well as his can thew; Deferve the pref 'rence;-Garrick, take the chair; Nor quit it-till thou place an equal there."
WITH what attractive charms this goodly
Produce your voucher, critic." Serjeant Kite." 35. The Pleasures of Imagination. AKENSIDE. Another can't forgive the paltry arts By which he makes his way to allow hearts; Mere pieces of fineffe, traps for applaufe- "Avaunt, unnatural ftart, affected paule." Forme,by nature forin'd to judge with phlegm, I can't acquit by wholefale, nor condemn. The beft things carried to excefs are wrong: The tart may be too frequent, paufe too long: But, only us'd in proper time and place, Severeft judgment must allow them grace.
If bunglers, form'd on imitation's plan, Jutt in the way that monkies mimic man, Their copied feene with mangled arts difgrace, And pause and start with the fame vacant face; We join the critic laugh; thofe tricks we scorn, Which fpoil the fcenes they mean them to adorn. But when, from nature's pure and genuine fource, Thefe ftrokes of acting flow with gen'rous force; When in the features all the foul's pourtray'd, And patlions, fuch as Garrick's, are display'd; To me they feem from quickeft feelings caught: Each start is nature; and cach paufe is thought.
When reafon yields to paffion's wild alarms, And the whole ftate of man is up in arms; What but a critic could condemn the player, For pausing here, when cool fenfe pauies there? Whilft, working from the heart, the fire I trace. And mark it strongly flaming to the face; Whilft, in each found, I hear the very man; I can't catch words, and pity thofe who can. Let wits, like spiders, from the tortur'd brain Fine-draw the critic-web with curious pain; The gods, a kindness! with thanks must pay,Have form'd me of a courfer kind of clay; Nor ftung with envy, nor with fpleen difeas'd, A poor dull creature, ftill with nature pleas'd; Hence to thy praifes, Garrick, I agree, And, pleas'd with nature, must be pleas'd with
Of nature touches the confenting hearts Of mortal men; and what the pleasing stores Which beauteous imitation thence derives To deck the poet's, or the painter's toil; My verfe unfolds. Attend, ye gentle powers Of mufical delight! and while I fing Your gifts, your honours, dance around my strain. Thou, finiling queen of ev'ry tuneful breast, Indulgent Fancy from the fruitful banks Of Avon, whence thy rofy fingers cull Fresh flowers and dews to fprinkle on the turf Where Shakespear lies, be present: and with thee Let Fiction come, u; on her vagrant wings Wafting ten thousand colours through the air, Wh ch, by the glances of her magic eye, She blends and fhifts at will, through countless forms,
Her wild creation. Goddefs of the lyre, Which rules the accents of the moving sphere, Wilt thou, eternal Harmony! descend And join this feftive train for with thee comes The guide, the guardian of their lovely sports, Majestic Truth; and where Truth deigns to come, Her fifter Liberty will not be far.
Be prefent, all ye Genii, who conduct The wandering footsteps of the youthful bard, New to your fprings and fhades: who touch his
With finer founds: who heighten to his eye The bloom of nature, and before him turn The gayeft, happieft attitude of things.
Oft have the laws of each poetic train The critic-verfe employ'd; yet ftill unlung Lay this prime fubject, though importing inoft A poet's name: for fruitlefs is the attempt, By dull obedience and by creeping toil Obleure to conquer the fevere afcent
Of high Parnaffus. Nature's kindling breath Muft fire the chofen genius; nature's hand Muft ftring his nerves, and imp his cagle wings Impatient of the painful fteep, to foar High as the fumipit, there to breathe at large Ætherçal air; with bards and fages old, Immortal fons of praife. Thefe flattering scenes To this neglected labour court my fong; Yet not unconscious what a doubtful task Даз
To paint the finest features of the mind, And to moft fubtile and myfterious things Give colour, strength, and motion. But the love Of nature and the mutes bids cplore, Through fecret paths erewhile untrod by man, The fair poetic region, to detect
Untafted fprings, to drink infpiring draughts, And fhade my temples with unfading flowers Cull'd from the laureate vale's profound recefs, Where never poct gain'd a wreath before. From heaven my ftrains begin: from heaven defcends
The flame of genius to the human breast, And love and beauty, and poetic joy And infpiration. Ere the radiant fun Sprang from the eaft, or 'mid the vault of night The moon fufpended her ferener lamp; Ere mountains, woods, or ftreams adorn'd the globe,
Or Wildom taught the fons of men her lore; Then liv'd the Almighty One: then, deep-retir'd In his unfathom'd effence, view'd the forms, The forms eternal of created things; The radiant fun, the moon's nocturnal lamp, The mountains, woods and streams, the rolling globe,
And wildom's mien celeftial. From the first Of days, on them his love divine he fix'd, His admiration: till in time complete, What he admir'd and lov'd, his vital fmile Unfolded into being. Hence the breath Of life informing each organic frame, Hence the green earth, and wild refounding waves; Hence light and shade alternate; warmth and cold: And clear autumnal fkies and vernal fhowers, And all the fair variety of things.
But not alike to every mortal eye
Is this great fcene unveil'd. For fince the claims Of focial life to different labours urge The active powers of man; with wife intent The hand of Nature on peculiar minds Imprints a different bias, and to each Decrees its province in the common toil. To fome the taught the fabric of the sphere, The changeful moon, the circuit of the stars, The golden zones of heaven: to fome she gave To weigh the moment of eternal things, Of time, and space, and fate's unbroken chain, And will's quick impulfe: others by the hand She led o'er vales and mountains, to explore What healing virtue fwells the tender veins Of herbs and flowers; or what the beams of morn Draw forth, diftilling from the clifted rind In balmy tears. But fome to higher hones Were deftin'd; fome within a finer mould She wrought, and temper'd with a purer flame. To thefe the Sire omnipotent unfolds The world's harmonious volume, there to read The tranfcript of himself. On every part They trace the bright impreffions of his hand : In earth or air, the meadow's purple stores, The moon's mild radiance, or the virgin's form Blooming with rofy fimiles, they fee portray'd That uncreated beauty, which delights
The mind fupreme. They alfo feel her charms Enamour'd; they partake the eternal joy.
For as old Memnon's image, long renown'd By fabling Nilus, to the quivering touch Of Titan's ray, with each repulfive string Confenting, founded through the warbling air Unbidden trains; even fo did Nature's hand To certain fpecies of external things, Attune the finer organs of the mind; So the glad impulfe of congenial powers, Or of tweet found, or fair proportion'd form, The grace of motion, or the bloom of light, Thrills through Imagination's tender frame, From nerve to nerve: all naked and alive They catch the fpreading rays: till now the foul At length difclofes every tuneful fpring,
To that harmonious movement from without Refponfive. Then the inexpreffive ftrain Diffufes its enchantment: Fancy dreams Of facred fountains and Elyfian groves, And vales of blifs: the intellectual power Bends from his awful throne a wondering ear, And imiles: the paffions, gently footh'd away, Sink to divine repofe, and love and joy Alone are waking; love and joy, ferene As airs that fan the fummer. O attend, Whoe'er thou art, whom thefe delights can touch, Whole candid bofom the refining love Of Nature warms, O! liften to my fong; And I will guide thee to her favourite walks, And teach thy folitude her voice to hear, And point her lovelieft features to thy view.
Knowthen, whate'er of nature's pregnant stores, Whate'er of mimic art's reflected forms With love and admiration thus inflame The powers of fancy, her delighted fons To three illuftrious orders have referr'd; Three fifter-graces, whom the painter's hand, The poet's tongue confeffes; the fublime, The wonderful, the fair. I fee them dawn! I fee the radiant vifions, where they rife, More lovely than when Lucifer difplays His beaming forehead through the gates of morn, To lead the train of Phoebus and the fpring. Say, why was man fo eminently rais'd Amid the vaft creation; why ordain'd Through life and death to dart his piercing eye, With thoughts beyond the limit of his frame; But that the Omnipotent might fend him forth In fight of mortal and immortal powers, As on a boundlefs theatre, to run The great career of juftice; to exalt His generous aim to all diviner deeds; To chafe cach partial purpofe from his breaft; And through the mifts of paffion and of fenfe, And through the tolling tide of chance and pain, To hold his couric unfaltering, while the voice of truth and virtue, up the fteep afcent Of nature, calls him to his high reward, The applauding fimile of heaven? Elfe wherefore burns
In mortal bofoms this unquenched hope, That breathes from day to day fublimer things, And mocks poffeffion? wherefore darts the mind,
Or, yok'd with whirlwinds and the northern blaft,
Sweeps the long tract of day. Then high the foars The blue profound, and hovering round the fun Behoids him pouring the redundant stream Of light; beholds his unrelenting fway Bend the reluctant planets to abloive The fated rounds of time. Thence far effus'd She darts her fwiftnefs up the long career Of devious comets; through its burning figns Exulting measures the perennial wheel Of nature, and locks back on all the ftars, Whole blended light, as with a milky zone, Invetts the orient. Now amaz'd the views The empyreal wafte, where happy fpirits hold, Beyond this concave heaven, their calm abcde; And fields of radiance, whofe unfading light Has traveli'd the profound fix thousand years, Nor yet arrives in fight of mortal things. Even on the barriers of the world untir'd She meditates the eternal depth below; Till half recoiling down the headlong fteep She plunges; foon o'erwhelm'd and fwallow'd up In that immenfe of being. There her hopes Reft at the fated goal. For from the birth Of mortal man, the fov'reign maker faid, That not in humble nor in brief delight, Not in the fading echoes of renown, Power's purple robes, nor pleature's flowery lap, The foul fhould find enjoyment: but from thefe Turning difdainful to an equal good, Through all the afcent of things inlarge her view, Till every bound at length should disappear, And infinite perfection close the scene.
Call now to mind what high capacious powers Lie folded up in man: how far beyond The praife of mortals, may the eternal growth Of nature to perfection half divine, Expand the blooming foul? What pity then Should floth's unkindly fogs deprefs to earth Her tender bloffom; choak the ftreams of life, And blaft her fpring! Far otherwife defign'd Almighty wifdom; nature's happy cares
The obedient heart far otherwife incline, Witnefs the sprightly joy when aught unknown Strikes the quick fente, and wakes each active power
To brifker measures: witnefs the neglect Of all familiar profpects, though beheld With tranfport once; the fond attentive gaze of young aftonishment; the fober zeal Of age, commenting on prodigious things. For fuch the bounteous providence of heaven, In every breast implanting this defire Of objects new and firange, to urge us on With unremitted labour to purfue Thole facred stores that wait the ripening foul, In Truth's exhauftlefs bofom. What need words To paint its power? For this the daring youth Breaks from his weeping mother's anxious arms, In foreign climes to rove; the penfive fage, Heedlets of fleep, or midnight's harmful damp, Hangs o'er the fickly taper; and untir'd The virgin follows, with inchanted step, The mazes of fome wild and wondrous tale, From morn to eve; unmindful of her form, Uninindful of the happy drefs that ftole The wifhes of the youth, when every maid With envy pin'd. Hence, finally, by night, The village-matron round the blazing hearth Sufpends the infant-audience with her tales, Breathing astonishment! of witching rhimes, And evil fpirits; of the death-bed call Of him who robb'd the widow, and devour'd The orphan's portion; of unquiet fouls Rifen from the grave to cafe the heavy guilt Of deeds in life conceal'd; of fhapes that walk At dead of night, and clank their chains, and
The torch of hell around the murderer's bed. At every folemn paufe the crowd recoil Gazing each other fpeechlefs, and congeal'd With fhivering fighs; till eager for the event Around the beldame all arrect they hang, Each trembling heart with grateful terrors quell'd. But lo! difclos'd in all her fmiling pomp, Where Beauty onward moving claims the verse Her charms infpire: the freely-flowing verfe In thy immortal praise, O form divine, Smooths her mellifluent ftream. Thee, Beauty,
The regal dome, and thy enlivening ray The moffy roofs adore: thou, better fun! For ever beamelt on the enchanted heart Love, and harmonious wonder, and delight Poetic. Brightest progeny of heaven! How fhall I trace thy features? where felect The rofeate hues to emulate thy bloom? Hafte then, my fong, through nature's wide ex- panfe,
Hafte then, and gather all her comelicft wealth, Whate'er bright fpoils the florid earth contains, Whate'er the waters, or the liquid air, To deck thy lovely labour. Wilt thou fly With laughing Autumn to the Atlantic ities, And range with him the Hefperian field, and fee Where'er his fingers touch the fruitful grove,
The branches fhoot with gold; where'er his ftep | Confefs'd in aught, whose most peculiar ends
Marks the glad foil, the tender clusters grow With purple ripenes, and inveft each hill As with the blushes of an evening sky? Or wilt thou rather floop thy vagrant plume, Where, gliding through his daughter's honour'd fhades,
The fmooth Peneus from his glaffy flood Reflects purpureal Tempe's pleasant scene? Fair Tempe haunt belov'd of fylvan powers, Of nymphs and fauns; where in the golden age They play'd in fecret on the fhady brink With ancient Pan: while round their choral steps Young hours and genial gales with conftant hand Shower'd bloffoms, odours, fhower'd ambrofial dews,
And Spring's Elyfian bloom. Her flowery ftore To thee nor Tempe fhall refufe; nor watch Of winged Hydra guard Heiperian fruits From thy free fpoil. O bear then, unreprov'd, Thy finiling treafures to the green recets Where young Dione ftays. With fweeteft airs Entice her forth to lend her angel-form For Beauty's honour'd image. Hither turn Thy grateful footsteps; hither, gentle maid, Incline thy polith'd forehead: let thy eyes Effufe the mildnefs of their azure dawn; And may the fanning breezes waft afide Thy radiant locks: difclofing, as it bends With airy foftnefs from the marble neck, The cheek fair-blooming, and the roty lip, Where winning finiles and pleasures sweet as love,
With fancity and wifdom, tempering blend Their foft allurement. Then the pleafing force Of nature, and her kind parental care Worthier I'd fing: then all the enamour'd youth, With each admiring virgin, to my lyre Should throng attentive, while I point on high Where Beauty's living image, like the morn That wakes in Zephyr's arms the blushing May, Moves onward; or as Venus, when the food Effulgent on the pearly car, and fmit'd, Fresh from the deep, and confcious of her form, To fee the Tritons tune their vocal shells, And each coerulean fifter of the flood With loud acclaim attend her o'er the waves, To feck the Idalian bower. Ye fmiling band Of youths and virgins, who through all the maze Of young defire with rival-fteps purfue This charm of beauty; if the pleating toil Cau yield a moment's refpite, hither turn Your favourable ear, and trust my words. I do not mean to wake the gloomy form Of Superftition drefs'd in Wildom's garb, 'To damp your tender hopes; I do not mean To bid the jealous thunderer fire the heavens, Or fhapes infernal rend the groaning earth To fright you from your joys; my cheerful fong With better omens calls you to the field, Pleas'd with your generous ardour in the chafe, And warm like you. Then tell me, for ye know, Does Beauty ever deign to dwell where Health And active Ufe are ftrangers? Is her charm
Are lame and fruitlefs? Or did Nature mean This pleafing call the herald of a lie; To hide the fhame of difcord and disease, And catch with fair hypocrify the heart Of idle Faith O no! with better cares The indulgent mother, confcious how infirm Her offspring tread the paths of good and ill, By this illuftrious image, in each kind Still more illuftrious where the object holds Its native powers moft perfect, the by this Illumes the headstrong impulse of Defire, And fanctifies his choice. The generous glebe Whofe bolom fmiles with verdure, the clear tract Of streams delicious to the thirsty foul, The bloom of nectar'd fruitage ripe to sense, And every charm of animated things, Are only pledges of a ftate fincere, The integrity and order of their frame, When all is well within, and every end Accomplish'd.. -Thus was Beauty sent from heav'n;
The lovely miniftrefs of Truth and Good In this dark world: for Truth and Good are one, And Beauty dwells in them, and they in her, With like participation. Wherefore then, O fons of carth! would ye diffolve the tie ? O wherefore, with a rash impetuous aim, Seek ye thofe flowery joys with which the hand Of lavish Fancy paints each flattering scene Where Beauty feems to dwell, nor once inquire Where is the fanction of eternal Truth, Or where the feal of undeceitful Good, To fave your fearch from folly! Wanting these, Lo! Beauty withers in your void embrace, And with the glittering of an idiot's toy Did fancy mock your vows. Nor let the gleam Of youthful hope that fines upon your hearts, Be chill'd or clouded at this awful task, To learn the lore of undeceitful Good, And Truth eternal. Though the poisonous
Of baleful Superftition guide the feet Of fervile numbers, through a dreary way To their abode, through deferts, thorns and mire; And leave the wretched pilgrim all forlorn To mule at laft, amid the ghoftly gloom
Of graves, and hoary vaults, and cloifter'd cells; To walk with spectres through the midnight fhade,
And to the screaming owl's accursed song Attune the dreadful workings of his heart; Yet be not ye difinay'd. A gentler ftar Your lovely fearch iilumines. From the grove Where Wisdom talk'd with her Athenian fons, Could my ambitious hand entwine a wreath Of Plato's olive with the Mantuan bay, Then fhould my powerful verse at once difpel Thofe monkish horrors: then in light divine Difclofe the Elyfian profpect, where the fteps Of those whom nature charms, through blooming walks,
Through fragrant mountains and poetic ftreams, Amid the train of fages, heroes, þards,
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