77

THE ENGLISH THEATRE

(Prologue spoken by Garrick at the opening of Drury Lane Theatre, 1747.)

WHEN Learning's triumph o'er her barbarous foes

First reared the stage, immortal Shakespeare rose;
Each change of many-coloured life he drew,
Exhausted worlds, and then imagined new:
Existence saw him spurn her bounded reign,
And panting time toiled after him in vain.
His powerful strokes presiding Truth impressed,
And unresisted Passion stormed the breast.
Then Jonson came, instructed from the school,
To please in method, and invent by rule;
His studious patience and laborious art
By regular approach assailed the heart:
Cold Approbation gave the lingering bays,

For those, who durst not censure, scarce could praise.

A mortal born, he met the general doom,

But left, like Egypt's kings, a lasting tomb.

The wits of Charles found easier ways to fame, Nor wished for Jonson's art, or Shakespeare's flame,

Themselves they studied, as they felt they writ;
Intrigue was plot, obscenity was wit.

Vice always found a sympathetic friend;

They pleased their age, and did not aim to mend.
Yet bards like these aspired to lasting praise,
And proudly hoped to pimp in future days.

Their cause was general, their supports were strong,

Their slaves were willing, and their reign was long:

Till Shame regained the post that Sense betrayed, And Virtue called Oblivion to her aid.

I

Then, crushed by rules, and weakened as refined, For years the power of tragedy declined: From bard to bard the frigid caution crept, Till Declamation roared whilst Passion slept; Yet still did Virtue deign the stage to tread, Philosophy remained, though Nature fled. But forced, at length, her ancient reign to quit, She saw great Faustus lay the ghost of Wit; Exulting Folly hailed the joyful day, And Pantomime and Song confirmed her sway. But who the coming changes can presage, And mark the future periods of the stage? Perhaps, if skill could distant times explore, New Behns, new Durfeys, yet remain in store; Perhaps where Lear has raved and Hamlet died, On flying cars new sorcerers may ride: Perhaps (for who can guess th' effects of chance ?) Here Hunt may box, or Mahomet may dance. Hard is his lot that, here by Fortune placed, Must watch the wild vicissitudes of taste; With every meteor of caprice must play. And chase the new-blown bubbles of the day. Ah! let not censure term our fate our choice, The stage but echoes back the public voice; The drama's laws, the drama's patrons give, For we that live to please, must please to live. Then prompt no more the follies you decry, As tyrants doom their tools of guilt to die; 'Tis yours, this night, to bid the reign commence Of rescued Nature and reviving Sense;

To chase the charms of Sound, the pomp of Show, For useful Mirth and salutary Woe;

Bid scenic Virtue form the rising age,

And Truth diffuse her radiance from the stage.

Samuel Johnson.

78

ON THE LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE

TOLL for the brave!

The brave that are no more!

All sunk beneath the wave,

Fast by their native shore !

Eight hundred of the brave,

Whose courage well was tried,

Had made the vessel heel,

And laid her on her side.

A land breeze shook the shrouds,
And she was overset ;
Down went the Royal George,
With all her crew complete.

Toll for the brave!

Brave Kempenfelt is gone;
His last sea-fight is fought;
His work of glory done.

It was not in the battle;

No tempest gave the shock;

She sprang no fatal leak;

She ran upon no rock.

His sword was in its sheath,
His fingers held the pen,

When Kempenfelt went down,

With twice four hundred men.

Weigh the vessel up,

Once dreaded by our foes!

And mingle with our cup

The tear that England owes.

Her timbers yet are sound,
And she may float again,

Full charged with England's thunder,
And plough the distant main.

But Kempenfelt is gone,

His victories are o'er;

And he and his eight hundred

Shall plough the wave no more.

William Cowper.

79

THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST

I'VE heard the lilting at our yowe-milking,
Lasses a-lilting before dawn o' day;

But now they are moaning on ilka green loaning—
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

At buchts, in the morning, nae blythe lads are scorning,

Lasses are lonely and dowie and wae;

Nae daffin', nae gabbin', but sighing and sabbing, Ilk ane lifts her leglin and hies her away.

In hairst, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering,

The bandsters are lyart and runkled and gray; At fair or at preaching nae wooing, nae fleeching— The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

At e'en, in the gloaming, nae swankies are roaming
'Bout stacks wi' the lasses at bogle to play;
But ilk ane sits drearie, lamenting her dearie -
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

Dool and wae for the order sent our lads to the Border

The English, for ance, by guile wan the day; The Flowers of the Forest, that foucht aye the foremost,

The prime o' our land, are cauld in the clay.

We hear nae mair lilting at our yowe-milking;
Women and bairns are heartless and wae;
Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning-
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

Jean Elliot.

80

ODE

(Written in the beginning of the year 1746.)

How sleep the brave, who sink to rest
By all their country's wishes blest!
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,
Returns to deck their hallowed mould,
She there shall dress a sweeter sod
Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.

By fairy hands their knell is rung;
By forms unseen their dirge is sung;
There Honour comes, a pilgrim grey
To bless the turf that wraps their clay;
And Freedom shall awhile repair,
To dwell, a weeping hermit, there!

William Collins.