III. 3. Lord of each pang the nerves can feel, Hence with the rack and reeking wheel. Faith lifts the soul above this little ball! While gleams of glory open round, And circling choirs of angels call, Canst thou, with all thy terrors crowned, Hope to obscure that latent spark, Destined to shine when suns are dark? Thy triumphs cease! thro' every land, Hark! Truth proclaims, thy triumphs cease! Her heavenly form, with glowing hand, Benignly points to piety and peace. Flushed with youth, her looks impart Each fine feeling as it flows; Her voice the echo of a heart Pure as the mountain-snows: Celestial transports round her play, She smiles! and where is now the cloud Grim darkness furls his leaden shroud, Shrinking from her glance in vain. Her touch unlocks the day-spring from above, And lo! it visits man with beams of light and love. WRITTEN TO BE SPOKEN BY MRS. SIDDONS.* YES, 'tis the pulse of life! my fears were vain; Called back reality, and broke the spell. No heroine claims your tears with tragic tone; Can she, with fiction, charm the cheated mind, * After a Tragedy, performed for her benefit, at the Theatre Royal in Drury Lane, April 27, 1795. Ah, no! she scorns the trappings of her Art; Believe me, those, who best the heart dissect, First, how her little breast with triumph swells, When the red coral rings its golden bells! To play in pantomime is then the rage, Or lisp her merry thoughts with loud endeavour, A school-girl next, she curls her hair in papers, And mimics father's gout, and mother's vapours; Discards her doll, bribes Betty for romances; Playful at church, and serious when she dances; Tramples alike on customs and on toes, And whispers all she hears to all she knows; Terror of caps, and wigs, and sober notions! A romp! that longest of perpetual motions! -Till tamed and tortured into foreign graces, Last the gray Dowager, in ancient flounces, The scourge and ridicule of Goth and Vandal, Like some old Ruin, " nodding to its fall!" Thus WOMAN makes her entrance and her exit; Not least an actress when she least suspects it. Yet Nature oft peeps out and mars the plot, Each lesson lost, each poor pretence forgot; Full oft, with energy that scorns control, At once lights up the features of the soul; Unlocks each thought chained down by coward Art, And to full day the latent passions start! -And she, whose first, best wish is your applause, Herself exemplifies the truth she draws. you, unchecked, each genuine feeling flows; For all that life endears-to you she owes. |