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When lab'ring passions, in his bosom pent,
Convulsive rage, and struggling heave for vent,
Spectators, with imagin'd terrors warm,
Anxious expect the bursting of the storm :
But, all unfit in such a pile ao dwell,
His voice comes forth like Echo from her cell;
To swell the tempest needful aid denies,
And all a-down the stage infecble murmurs dies.
What man, like Barry, with such pains can
In elocution, action, character?
What man could give, if Barry was not here,
Such well-applauded tenderness to Lear?
Who else could speak so very, very fine,
That sense may kindly end with ev'ry line?



Some dozen lines before the ghost is there, Behold him for the solema scene prepare. See how he frames his eyes, poises cach limb, Puts the whole body into proper trim. From whence we learn, with no great stretch of Five lines hence comes a ghost, and, ha! a start. When he appears most perfect, still we find Something which jars upon, and hurts the mind. Whatever lights upon a part are thrown,. We see too plainly they are not his own. Na flame from nature ever yet he caught; Nor knew a feeling which he was not taught; He rais'd his trophies on the base of art, And conn'd his passions, as he coun'd his part. Quin, from afar lur'd by the scent of fanie, A stage Leviathan, put in his claim, Pupil of Betterton and Booth. Alone, Sullen he walk'd, and deem'd the chair his own. For how should moderns, mushrooms of the day, Whone'er thosemasters knew,know how to play? Grey-bearded vet'rans, who, with partial tongue, Extol the times when they themselves were Who, having lost all relish for the stage, [young: See not their own defects, but lash the Receiv'd with joyful murmers 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; Antiests in vain endeavour to excel, Happily prais'd, if they coull 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 every growth shall bear Due praise, nor must we, Quin, forget thee there. His words bore sterling weight, nervous and In manly tides of sense they roll'd along. [strong 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 labor'd artifice of speech.


Speech! is that all?-And shall an actor found Au 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 care's 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 then-

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 window 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 thetamescene, whichwithout passionflows, 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 labor'd scenes are brought to view, With equal praise the actor labor'd too; For still you'll find, trace passions to their root, Sinall 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 'twas 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 judgement of her force. Just his conceptions, natural and great.: His feelings strong, his words enforc'd with weight.

Wasspeech-fam'dQuinhimself to hear him speak,
Envy would drive the color from his cheek:
But step-dame nature, niggard of her grace,
Deny'd the 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 dený'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 That candor 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 Inhuman tyrant! was it not a shame, [down. To fright a king so harmless and so tame? Z 4


But, spite of all defects, his glories rise;
And art, by judgement 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 judgementsoan,
And then deny him merit if you can.
Where he falls short, 'tis nature's fault alone;
Where he succeeds, the merit 's all his own.
Last Garrick came. Behind him thronga train,
Of snarling critics, ignorant as vain.
He's of stature somewhat

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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 eve;

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

One finds out,low,"Your hero always should be tall, you know. "True natural greatness all consists in height," 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 shallow hearts;
Mere pieces of finesse, traps for applause--
"Avaunt, unnatural start, affected pause.'

Forme, by nature form'd to judge withphlegm;
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 judgement inust 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,Of
And pause and start with the same vacant face;
We join the critic laugh; those tricks we scorn,
Which spoil the scenes they mean them to adorn.
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 portray'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 player,
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 inan;
I cant '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,The
Have form'd me of a coarser kind of clay;
Nor stung with envy, nor with spleen 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


Now might I tell, how silence reign'd


And deep attention hush'd the rabble rout i
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, With temper heard, with judgement weigh'd each claim,


WITH what attractive charms this goodly frame

Of mortal men; and what the pleasing stores
Of nature touches the consenting hearts
Which beauteous imitation thence derives
My verse unfolds. Attend, ye gentle powers
To deck the poet's, or the painter's toil;
Of musical delight! and, while I sing
Your gifts,your honors, dance. around my strain.
Thou, smiling queen of ev'ry tuneful breast,
Avon, whence thy rosy fingers cull
Indulgent fancy! from the fruitful banks
Where Shakspeare lies, be present: and with thee
Fresh flowers and dews to sprinkle on the turf
Let Fiction come, upon her vagrant wings
Wafting ten thousand colors through the air,
Which, by the glances of her magic eye,
She blends and shifts at will, through countless
Her wild creation. Goddess of the lyre
Which rules the accents of the moving sphere,
Wilt thou, eternal Harmony! descend
And join this festive train? for with thee comes
Majestic Truth;and where Truth deigns to come,
The guide, the guardian of their lovely sports,
Her sister Liberty will not be far.
Be present, all ye Genii, who conduct


wandering footsteps of the youthful bard. New to your springs and shades; who touch his



With finer sounds: who heighten to his eye
bloom of nature, and before him turn
gayest, happiest attitude of things.
The critic-verse employed; yet still unsung
Oft have the laws of each poetic strain
A poet's name; for fruitless is the attempt,
Lay this prime subject, though importing most
through-Obsure, to conquer the severe ascent
By dull obedience and by creeping toil

Of high Parnassus. Nature's kindling breath
Must fire the chosen genius; nature's hand
Must string his nerves, and imp his eagle wings
High as the summit, there to breathe at large
Impatient of the painful steep, to sear
Ethereal air, with bards and sages old,
To this neglected labor court my song;
Immortal sons of praise. These flattering scenes
Yet not unconscious what a doubtful task


The mind supreme. They also feel her charms;
Enamour'd, they partake the eternal joy.

For as old Memnon's image, long renown'd
By fabling Nilus, to the quiv'ring touch

From heaven my strains begin: from heaven

Through secret paths crewhile untrod by man,Of Titan's ray, with each repulsive string
The fair poetic region, to detect
Consenting, sounded through the warbling air
Untasted springs, to drink inspiring draughts, Unbidden strains; even so did Nature's hand
And shade my temples with unfading flowers To certain species of external things
Cull'd from the laureate vale's profound recess, Attune the finer organs of the mind;
Where never poet gain'd a wreath before. So the glad impulse of congenial powers,
Or of sweet sound, 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 spreading rays: till now the soul
At length discloses every tuneful spring
To that harmonious movement from without
Responsive. Then the inexpressive strain
Diffuses its enchantment: Fancy dreams
Of sacred fountains and Elysian groves,
And vales of bliss: the intellectual Power
Bends from his awful throne a wondering car,
And smiles: the passions, gently sooth'd away,
Sink to divine repose, and love and joy
Alone are waking; love and joy, serene
As airs that fan the summer. O! attend,.
Whoe'er thou art, whom these delights can touch,
Whose candid bosom the refining love
Of Nature warms, O! listen to my song;
And I will guide thee to her favorite walks,
And teach thy solitude her voice to hear,
And point her loveliest features to thy view.

Knowthen, whate'er of nature spregnantstores,
Whate'er of wimic art's reflected forms,
With love and adiniration thus inflame
The powers of fancy, her delighted sons
To three illustrious orders have referr'd;
Three sister-graces, whom the painter's hand,
The poet's tongue confesses; the sublime,
The wonderful, the fair. I see them dawn!
I see the radiant visions, where they rise,
More lovely than when Lucifer displays
His beaming forehead through the gates of morn,
To lead the train of Phœbus and the spring.

To paint the finest features of the mind,
And to most subtile and mysterious things
Give color, strength, and motion. But the love
Of nature and the Muses bids explore,

The flame of genius to the human breast,
And love and beauty, and poetic joy
And inspiration. Ere the radiant sun
Sprang from the east, or 'mid the vault of night
The moon suspended her serener lamp;
Ere mountains, woods, or streams adorn'd the

Or Wisdom taught the sons of men her lore;
Then liv'd the Almighty One: then, deep retir'd
In his unfathom'd essence, view'd the forms,
The forms eternal of created things;
The radiant sun, the moon's nocturnal lamp,
The mountains, woods, and streams, the rolling

And Wisdom's mien celestial. 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 smile
Unfolded into being. Hence the breath
Of life informing each organic frame,
Hence the green earth and wild resoundingwaves,
Hence light and shade alternate, warmth andcold,
And clear autumnal skies and vernal showers,
And all the fair variety of things.
But not alike to every mortal

Is this great scene unveil'd. For since the claims
Of social life to different labors urge
The active powers of man; with wise intent
The hand of Nature on peculiar minds
Imprints a different bias, and to each
Decrees its province in the common toil.
To some she taught the fabric of the sphere,
The changeful moon, the circuit of the stars,
The golden zones of heaven: to some she gave
To weigh the moment of eternal things,
Of time, and space, and fate's unbroken chain,
And will's quick impulse: others by the hand
She led o'er vales and mountains, to explore
What healing virtue swells the tender veins
Of herbs and flowers; or what the beams of morn
Draw forth, distilling from the clifted rind
In balmy tears. But some to higher hopes
Were destin'd; some within a finer mould
She wrought, and temper'd with a purer flame.
To these the Sire omnipotent unfolds
The world's harmonions volume, there to read
The transcript of himself. Ou every part
They trace the bright impressions of his hand:
In earth or air, the meadows purple stores,
The moon's mild radiance, or the virgin's form
Blooming with rosy smiles, they ser portray'd
That unerpated beauty which delights

Say, why was man so eminently rais'd
Amid the vast 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 send him forth
In sight of mortal and immortal powers,
As on a boundless theatre, to run
The great career of justice; to exalt
His generous aim to all diviner deeds;
To chase each partial purpose from his breast;
And through the mists of passion and of sense,
And through the tossing tide of chance and pain,
To hold his course unfaltering, while the voice
Of truth and virtue, up the steep ascent
Of nature, calls him to his high reward,
The applauding smile of heaven? Else where

fore burus

In mortal bosoms this unquenched hope,
That breathes from day to day sublimer things,
And mocks possession? wherefore darts the mind

With such resistless ardor, to embrace
Majestic forms, patient to be free,
Spurning the gross control of wilful night;
Proud of the strong contention of her toils;
Proud to be daring? Who but rather turns
To heaven's broad fire his unconstrained view,
That to the glimmering of a waxen flame ?
Who that, from Alpine heights, his laboring eye
Shoots round the wide horizon, to survey
Nilus or Ganges rolling his bright wave'
Through mountains, plains, through empires
black with shade,


And continents of sand; will turn his
To mark the windings of a scanty rill
That murmurs at his feet? The high-born soul
Disdains to rest her heaven-aspiring wing
Beneath his native quarry. Tir'd of earth
And this diurnal scene, she springs aloft
Through fields of air; pursues the flying storm;
Rides on he vollied lightning through the
Or, yok'd with whirlwinds and the northern

Sweeps the long tract of day. Then high she soars
The blue profound, and hovering round the sun
Beholds him pouring the redundant stream
Of light; beholds his unrelenting sway
Bend the reluctant plannets to absolve ́
The fated rounds of time. Thence, far effus'd,
She darts her swiftness up the long catecr
Of devions comets; through its burning signs
Exulting measures the perennial wheel

The obedient heart far otherwise incline: Witness the sprightly joy when aught unknown Strikes the quick sense, and wakes each active power

f nature, and looks back on all the stars, Whose blended light, as with a milky zone, Invests the orient. Now amaz'd she views The emperal waste, where happy spirits hold, Beyond this concave heaven, their calm abode; And fields of radiance, whose unfading light Has travell'd the profound six thousand years, Nor yet arrives in sight of mortal things. Even on the barriers of the world, untir'd, She meditates the eternal depth below; Till, half recoiling, down the headlong steep She plunges; soon o'erwhelm'd, nd swallow'd up In that immense of being. There her hopes Rest at the fated goal. For from the birth Of mortal man, the sov'reign maker said, That not in humble nor in brief delight, Not in the fading echoes of renown, Power's purple robes, nor pleasure's flowery lap, The soul should find enjoyment: but from these Turning disdainful to an equal good, Thro' all the ascent of things enlarge 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 praise of mortals may the eternal growth Of nature to perfection half divine Expand the blooming soul! What pity then Should sloth's unkindly fogs depress to earth Her tender blossom; choke the streams of life, And blast her spring! Far otherwise design'd Almighty wisdom; nature's happy cares

To brisker measures: witness the neglect
Of all familiar prospects though beheld
With transport once; the fond attentive gaze
Of young astonishment; the sober zeal
Of age, commenting on prodigious things.
For such the bounteous providence of heaven,
In every breast implanting this desire
Of objects new and strange, to urge us on
With unremitted labor to pursue

Those sacred stores that wait the ripening soul,
In Truth's exhaustless bosom. 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 pensive sage,
Heedless of sleep, or midnight's harmful damp,
Hangs o'er the sickly taper; and untir'd
The virgin follows, with enchanted step,
The mazes of some wild and wond'rous tale,
From morn to eve, unmindful of her form,
Unmindful of the happy dress that stole
The wishes of the youth, when every maid
With envy pin'd. Hence, finally, by night
The village-matron round the blazing hearth
Suspends the infant-audience with her tales,
| Breathing astonishment! of witching rhymes,
And evil spirits of the death-bed call

Of him who robb'd the widow, and devour'd
The orphan's portion; of unquiet souls
Risen from the grave to ease the heavy guilt
Of deeds in life conceal'd; of shapes that walk
At dead of night, and clank their chains, and


The torch of hell around the murderer's bed.
At every solemn pause, the crowd recoil,
Gazing on each other speechless, and congeal'd
With shivering -ighs; till, eager for the event,
Around the beldam all erect they hang,
Each trembling heart with grateful terrorsquell'd.

But lo! disclos'd in all her smiling pomp, Where Beauty onward moving claims the verse Her charms inspire: the freely flowing verse. In thy immortal praise, O forin divine, Smooths her mellifluent stream. Thee, Beauty, thee

The regal dome, and thy enlivening ray
The mossy roof's adore: thon better sun!
For ever beamest on the enchanted heart
Love and harmonious wonder, and delight
Poetic. Brightest progeny of heaven!
How shall I trace thy features? where select
The roseate hues to emulate thy bloom?
Haste then, my song, through nature's vast ex-


Haste, then, and gather all her comcliest wealth,
Whate'er bright spoils the florid earth contains,
Whate'er the waters, or the liquid air,
To deck thy lovely labor. Wilt thou fly
With laughing Autumn to the Atlantic isles,
And range with him the Hesperian field, and see
Where'er his fingers touch the fruitful grosc.



The smooth Peneus from his glassy flood
Reflects purpureal Tempe's pleasant scene?
Fair Tempe! haunt berov'd of sylvan powers,
Of nymphs and fauns; where in the golden age
They play'd in secret upon the shady brink
Withantient Pan: while round their choral steps
Young hours and genial gales with constant hand
Shower'd blossoms, odors, shower'd ambrosial

Confess'd in aught, whose most peculiar ends
Are lame and fruitless? Or did Nature mean
This pleasing call the herald of a lie;
To hide the shame of discord and disease,
And catch with fair hypocrisy the heart
Of idle Faith? O no! with better cares
The indulgent mother, conscious how infirm
Her offspring tread the paths of good and ill,
By this illustrious image, in each kind
Still more illustrious where the object holds
Its native powers most perfect, she by this
Illumes the headstrong impulse of desire,
And sanctifies his choice. The generous glebe
Whose bosom smiles with verdure, the clear tract
Of streams delicious to the thirsty soul,
The bloom of nectar'd fruitage ripe to sense,
And every charm of animated things,
Are only pledges of a state sincere,
The integrity and order of their frame,
When all is well within, and every end
Accomplish'd. Thus was Beauty sent from


And Spring's Elysian bloom. Her flowery store
To thee nor Tempe shall refuse; nor watch
Of winged Hydra guard Hesperian fruits -
From thy free spoil. O bear then, unreprov'd,
Thy smiling treasures to the green recess
Where young Dione stays. With sweetest airs
Entice her forth to lend her angel-form
For beauty's honor'd image. Hither turn
Thy grateful footsteps; hither, gentle maid,
Incline thy polish'd forehead!: let her eyes
Effuse the mildness of their azure dawn;
And may the fanning breezes waft aside
Thy radiant locks, disclosing, as it bends
With airy softness from the marble neck,
The cheek fair-blooming, and the rosy lip,
Where winning smiles and pleasure sweet as

The branches shoot with gold; where'er his step
Marks the glad soil, the tender clusters grow
With purple ripeness, and invest each hill
As with the blushes of an evening sky?
Or wilt thou rather stoop thy vagrant plume,
Where, gliding through his daughter's honor'd

With sanctity and wisdom, tempering blend
Their soft allurement. Then the pleasing force
Of nature, and her kind parental care,
Worthier I'd sing 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 armis the blushing May,
Moves onward; or as Venus when she stood
Effulgent on the pearly car, and smil'd,
Fresh from the deep, and conscious of her form,
To see, the Tritons tune their vocal shells,
And cash coerulean sister of the flood
With loud acclaim attend her o'er the waves,
To seek the Idalian bower. Ye smiling band
Of youths and virgins who thro' all the maze
Of young desire with rival steps pursue
This charm of beauty; if the pleasing toil
Can yield a moment's respite, hither turn
Your favorable ear, and trust my words.
I do not mean to wake the gloomy form
Of Superstition, dress'd in Wisdom's garb,
To damp your tender hopes; I do not mean
To bid the jealous thunderer fire the heavens,
Or shapes infernal rend the groaning earth,
To fright you from your joys; my cheerful song
With better omeus calls you to the field,
Picas'd with your generous ardor in the chace,
And warm like you. Then tell me, for we know,
Does Beauty ever deign to dwell where Health
And active Use are strangers? Is her charm

The lovely ministress of Truth and Good
In this dark world for Truth and Good are one,
And Beuty dwells in them, and they in her,
With like participation. Wherefore then,
O sons of earth! would ye dissolve the tie?
O wherefore with a rash impetuous aim,
Seek ye those flowery joys with which the hand
Of lavish Fancy paints each flattering scene
Where Beauty seems to dwell, nor once inquire
Where is the sanction of eternal Truth,
Or where the seal of undeceitful Good,
To save your search 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 shines upon your hearts,
Be chill'd or clouded at this awful task,
To learn the lore of undeceitful Good, 2
And Truth eternal. Though the poisonous

Of baleful Superstition guide the feet
Of servile numbers, through a dreary way.
To their abode, thro' desarts, thorns, and mire,
And leave the wretched pilgrim all forlorn
To muse at last amidst the ghostly gloom
Of graves, and hoary vaults, and cloister'd cells,
To walk with spectres through the midnight

And to the screaming owl's accursed song
Attune the dreadful workings of his heart;
Yet be not ye dismay'd. A gentler star
Your lovely search illumines. From the grove
Where wisdom talk'd with her Athenian sons,
Could my ambitious hand entwine a wreath
Of Plato's olive with the Mantuan bay,
Then should my powerful verse at once dispel
Those monkish horrors; then in light divine
Disclose the Elysian prospect, where the steps
Of those whom nature charms, through bloom-
ing walks,

Through fragrant mountains and poetic streams,
Amid the train of sages, heroes, bards,


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