YES, 'tis the pulse of life! my fears were vain; *After a Tragedy, performed for her benefit, at the Theatre Royal in Drury Lane, April 27, 1795. M M Blanching each honest check with deeds of night, Done here so oft by dim and doubtful light. -To drop all metaphor, that little bell Called back reality, and broke the spell. No heroine claims your tears with tragic tone; A very woman-scarce restrains her own! Can she, with fiction, charm the cheated mind, When to be grateful is the part assigned ? Ah, no! she scorns the trappings of her Art; No theme but truth, no prompter but the heart! But, Ladies, say, must I alone unmask? Is here no other actress, let me ask. Believe me, those, who best the heart dissect, First, how her little breast with triumph swells, 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, Too soon a flirt, approach her and she flies! Last the grey Dowager, in ancient flounces, With snuff and spectacles the age denounces; Boasts how the Sires of this degenerate Isle Knelt for a look, and duelled for a smile. 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 controul, 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. Born on the stage-thro' every shifting scene, Obscure or bright, tempestuous or serene, Still has your smile, her trembling spirit fired! And can she act, with thoughts like these inspired? No! from her mind all artifice she flings, All skill, all practice, now unmeaning things! To you, unchecked, each genuine feeling flows; For all that life endears-to you she owes. CAGED in old woods, whose reverend echoes wake |