To the Rev. Dr. Warburton, Dean of Bristol, on reading his Dissertation on the Sixth Book of Virgil.
By Richard B-r-ng—r, Esq.
IN Learning's maze low critics stray,
And blindly bold mistake their way;
Supplying want of taste and sense
With confidence, and false pretence;
Still darker each dark passage make,
Then consecrate their own mistake;
Till by their notes with learning fraught,
O'erlaid expires the hapless thought.
Thus med'cine quacks presume to give,
And murder those they mean to live.
Such, Virgil, such, for many an age
Have mangled thy celestial page;
Thy nobler meaning left unknown,
And, harder still, impos'd their own.
Sure in that hell, which you design'd
For miscreants.vile of ev'ry kind,
Bad critics well deserve a place ;
Nor mercy e'er should find, nor grace.
Translators to those realms should hold,
Who put off dross instead of gold;
Chief those who thy bright Muse disgrace,
And hide with stains her beauteous face:
There creeping + Lauderdale should be,
Cold+Trapp, and murd'ring + Ogilby.
But see!-again the heav'n-born maid
With joy triumphant lifts her head !
For to confute, expose, chastise,
Behold her great avenger rise!
Behold, great bard, thy fame to clear,
Behold thy Warburton appear!
And worthy he in those blest plains $
To share the bliss which Virtue gains;
With those that toil'd to bless mankind,
And form to Wisdom's lore the mind,
Where Tully, Piato, range the glade
With thine and Pitt's attendant shade.
As the fam'd chief could ne'er have seen
The regions sway'd by Pluto's Queen,
Without that wond'rous ‡‡ branch, whose rind,
Radiant with gold, immortal shin'd:
*Vide Sixth Book. + Translators of Virgil. lent translator of Virgil's Æneid. Ineas.
Vide Sixth Book.
+ Vide Sixth Book.
A bough of power not less divine,
O much-learn'd Warburton! is thine:
Which thou from that fair + tree didst pull,
Whose heav'nly fruit thou lov'st to cull;
Hence hell's thick gloom thou could'st pervade,
Without the sybil's potent aid:
Each mystic scene there comprehend,
And trace their latent cause and end!
And hence, while wanting this sure guide,
Others in darkness wander'd wide,
And truth from error could not see,
But all was doubt and mystery;
To thy enlighten'd mind alone
The mysteries themselves || were none.
The following Verses, dropt in Mr. GARRICK's Temple of Shakespear, at Hampton, are said to have been written by a Gentleman, whose poetical productions have been very deservedly admired.
HILE here to SHAKESPEAR Garrick pays
His tributary thanks and praise,
Invokes the animated stone,
To make the poet's mind his own;
That he each character may trace
With humour, dignity, and grace,
And mark, unerring mark, to men,
The rich creation of his pen :
Preferr'd the pray'r-the marble god,
Methinks I see assenting nod;
And pointing to his laurel'd brow,
Cry- Half this wreath to you
Lost to the stage, and lost to fame,
Murder'd my scenes, scarce known my name,
Sunk in oblivion and disgrace
Among the common scribbling race,
Unnotic'd long thy Shakespear lay,
To dulness and to time a prey;
But lo! I rise, I breathe, I live
In you, my representative!.
Again the hero's breast I fire,
Again the tender sigh inspire,
Each side, again, with laughter shake,
And teach the villain's heart to quake;
All this, my son, again I do,
I,- no, my son-'tis I and you.
Whilst thus the grateful statue speaks,
A blush o'erspreads the suppliant's cheeks:
* Of knowledge, alluded to above.
"What! half thy wreath? Wit's mighty chief!
O grant! (he cries) one single leaf!
That far o'erpays his humble merit,
Who's but the organ of thy spirit."
Phoebus the gen'rous contest heard,
When thus the god address'd the bard :
"Here! take this laurel from my brow;
On him your mortal wreath bestow;
Each matchless, each the palm shall bear ;
In heav'n, the bard; on earth, the play'r."
Prologue to the Tragedy of AGIS. Written by a Friend. Spoken by
IF in these days of luxury and ease,
A tale from Sparta's rigid state can please;
If patriot plans a British breast can warm;
If Kings asserting liberty, can charm ;
If virtue still a graceful aspect wear;
Check not at Agis' fall the gen'rous tear.
He view'd his subjects with a parent's love;
With zeal to save a sinking people strove ;
Strove their chang'd hearts with glory to inflame;
To mend their morals, and restore their name;
Till faction rose with murder at her side;
Then mourn'd his country; persever'd; and died.
That country once for virtue was rever'd;
Admir'd by Greece; by haughty Asia fear'd.
Then citizens and soldiers were the same;
And soldiers heroes; for their wealth was fame.
Then for the brave the fair reserv'd her charms;
And scorn'd to clasp a coward in her arms.
The trumpet call'd;
she seiz'd the sword and shield
Array'd in haste her husband for the field;
And sighing, whisper'd in a fond embrace,
"Remember! death is better than disgrace."
The widow'd mother shew'd her parting son
The race of glory which his sire had run;
My son, thy flight alone I shall deplore,
"Return victorious! or return no more!"
While beauty thus with patriot zeal combin❜d,
And round the laurel'd head her myrtle twin'd;
While all confest the Virtuous were the Great ;
Fame, valour, conquest, grac'd the Spartan state.
Her pow'r congenial with her virtue grew,
And freedom's banner o'er her phalanx flew ;
But soon as Virtue dropt her sick'ning head,
Fame, valour, conquest, pow'r and freedom fled.
May this sad scene improve each Briton's heart!
Rouse him with warmth to act a Briton's part!
Prompt him with Sparta's noblest sons to vie;
To live in glory, and in freedom die!
Epilogue to AGIS. Spoken by Mrs. PRITCHARD.
A King in bloom of youth for freedom die
Our bard, tho' boid, durst not have soar'd so high.
This is no credulous admiring age;
But sacred sure the faith of Plutarch's page.
In simple style that ancient sage relates
The tale of Sparta, chief of Grecian states :
Eight hundred years it flourish'd, great in arms,
On dangers rose, and grew amidst alarms.
Of Sparta's triumph. you have heard the cause,
More strong, more noble, than Lycurgus' laws:
How Spartan dames, by Glory's charms inspir'd,
The son, the lover, and the husband fir'd.
Ye fair of Britain's isle, which justly claims
The Grecian title, land of lovely dames,
In Britain's cause exert your matchless charms,
And rouse your lovers to the love of arms.
Hid, not extinct, the spark of valour lies
Your breath shall raise it flaming to the skies.
Now Mars his bloody banner hangs in air,
And bids Britannia's sons for war prepare,
Let each lov'd maid, each mother bring the shield,
And arm their country's champions for the field.
Arm'd and inflam'd each British breast shall burn,
No youth unlaurel'd shall to you return.
Then shall we cease t'exult at trophies won
In Glory's field, by heroes-not our own.
France then shall tremble at the British sword,
And dread the vengeance of her ancient Lord.
Prologue to the Tragedy of CLEONE, by WILLIAM MELMOTH, Esq.
WAS once the mode inglorious war to wage
With each bold bard that durst attempt the stage,
And prologues were but preludes to engage.
Then mourn'd the Muse, not story'd woes alone,
Condemn'd, with tears unfeign'd, to weep
Past are those hostile days: and wits no more
One undistinguish'd fate with fools deplore.
No more the Muse laments her long-felt wrongs,
From the rude licence of tumultuous tongues ;
Vol. I.
In peace each bard prefers his doubtful claim,.
And as he merits, meets, or misses fame.
'Twas thus in Greece (when Greece fair Science blest,
And heav'n-born Arts their chosen land possest)
Th' assembled people sat with decent pride,
Patient to hear, and skilful to decide;
Less forward far to censure than to praise,
Unwillingly refus'd the rival bays.
Yes; they whom candour and true taste inspire
Blame not with half the passion they admire:
Each little blemish with regret descry,
But mark the beauties with a raptur❜d eye.
Yet modest fears invade our author's breast,
With Attic lore, or Latian, all unblest ;
Deny'd by fate thro' classic fields to stray,
Where bloom those wreaths which never know decay;
Where arts from kindred arts new force acquire,
And poets catch from poets genial fire:
Not thus he boasts the breast humane to prove,
And touch those springs which generous passions more,
To melt the soul by scenes of fabled woe,
And bid the tear for fancy'd sorrows flow;
Far humbler paths he treads in quest of fame,
And trusts to Nature what from Nature came.
Epilogue to CLEONE; as originally written by WILLIAM SHENSTONE, Spoken by Mrs. BELLAMY.
WELL, ladies so much for the tragic style
And now, the custom is--to make you smile.
"To make us smile, I hear Flippanta say,
"Yes- -we have smil'd indeed-thro' half the play :
"We always laugh, when bards, demure and sly,
"Bestow such mighty pains-to make us cry.
"And truly to bring sorrow to a crisis,
"Mad folks, and murder'd babes, are shrewd devices.
"The Captain gone three years—and then to blame
"The vestal conduct of his virtuous dame !
"What French, what English bride would think it treason,
"When thus accus'd-to give the brute some reason?
Out of my house-this night, forsooth
"A modern wife had said- With all my heart:
"But think not, haughty Sir, I'll go alone!
"Order your coach-conduct me safe to town.
"Give me my jewels--wardrobe-and my maid-
"And pray take care my pin-money be paid;
"Else know, I wield a pen-and, for its glory,
"My dear's domestic feats-may shine in story!
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