If Belvidera her lov'd lofs deplore,

Why for twin spectres burfts the yawning floor?
When with diforder'd ftarts, and horrid cries,
She paints the murder'd forms before her eyes,
And still pursues them with a frantic stare,
'Tis pregnant madness brings the visions there.
More inftant horror would enforce the fcene,
If all her fhudd'rings were at shapes unseen.

Poet and Actor thus, with blended skill, Mould all our passions to their instant will; 'Tis thus, when feeling Garrick treads the stage, (The fpeaking comment of his Shakespear's page) Oft as I drink the words with greedy ears, I shake with horror, or diffolve with tears.

O, ne'er may folly feize the throne of taste, Nor dulnefs lay the realms of genius waste ! No bouncing crackers ape the thund'rer's fire, No tumbler float upon the bending wire f More natural uses to the ftage belong,

!

Than tumblers, monfters, pantomime, or fong.

For

For other purpose was that spot design'd :
To purge the paffions, and reform the mind,
To give to nature all the force of art,

And while it charms the ear to mend the heart.

Thornton, to thee, I dare with truth commend, The decent stage as virtue's natural friend. Tho' oft debas'd with fcenes profane and loose, No reason weighs against it's proper use. Tho' the lewd prieft his facred function shame, Religion's perfect law is ftill the fame.

Shall They, who trace the passions from their rise, Shew scorn her features, her own image vice? Who teach the mind it's proper force to scan, And hold the faithful mirror up to man, Shall their profeffion e'er provoke disdain, Who ftand the foremost in the mortal train, Who lend reflection all the grace of art, And strike the precept home upon the heart?

Yet,

Yet, hapless Artift! tho' thy fkill can raise
The bursting peal of universal praise,
Tho' at thy beck Applaufe delighted stands,
And lifts, Briareus' like, her hundred hands,
Know, fame awards thee but a partial breath!
Not all thy talents brave the stroke of death.
Poets to ages yet unborn appeal,

And latest times th' Eternal Nature feel.

Tho' blended here the praise of bard and play'r,
While more than half becomes the Actor's fhare,
Relentless death untwists the mingled fame,
And finks the player in the poet's name.
The pliant muscles of the various face,

The mien that gave each sentence strength and grace,
The tuneful voice, the eye that spoke the mind,
Are gone, nor leave a single trace behind.

To

To GEORGE COLMAN, Efq.

A FAMILIAR EPISTLE.

Written Jan. 1, 1761. From Tiffington in Derbyshire.

RIENDSHIP with most is dead and cool,

FRIENDSHIP

A dull, inactive, ftagnant pool;

Yours like the lively current flows,
And shares the pleasure it bestows.
If there is ought, whofe lenient pow'r
Can footh affliction's painful hour,
Sweeten the bitter cup of care,

And fnatch the wretched from defpair,
Superior to the sense of woes,

From friendship's fource the balfam flows.

Rich then am I, poffeft of thine,

Who know that happy balfam mine.

In youth, from nature's genuine heat,
The fouls congenial spring to meet,
And emulation's infant ftrife,

Cements the man in future life!

Oft

Oft too the mind well-pleas'd furveys
Its progress from its childish days;
Sees how the current upwards ran,
And reads the child o'er in the man.
For men, in reafon's fober eyes,
Are children, but of larger fize,
Have still their idle hopes and fears,
And Hobby-Horse of riper years.

Whether a bleffing, or a curse,
My rattle is the love of verfe.
Some fancied parts, and emulation,
Which ftill aspires to reputation,
Bad infant fancy plume her flight,
And held the laurel full to fight.
For vanity, the poet's fin,
Had ta'en poffeffion all within:
And he whose brain is verfe-poffeft,
Is in himself as highly bleft,

As he, whofe lines and circles vie
With heav'ns direction of the sky.