THE DRAMA-A PRIZE ADDRESS.
Hail, generous Patrons of the Drama's arts,
Once more we greet you with devoted hearts,
We bid you welcome to the mimic scene,
Its worlds of painted life, and fields of green-
Its wilds of thought, where vagrant fancies play,
Where Nature wooes and wand'ring poets stray,
Its classic groves, and bow'rs by magic wrought,
And all its stores of song, and mighty thought!
Long o'er these realms of wealth had Darkness trod,
A gloomy tyrant-an usurping God-
And hallow'd learning half forgot her sway,
Her glorious empire blotted from the day-
In dreams oblivious sacred Poësy slept,
Her groves deserted and her lyre unswept;
'Till, bursting through the gloom, the Drama rose,
And, at her glance, a new creation glows!
There, clust'ring round, obedient to her will,
The soul's strong passions her behests fulfil;
Remorse, in tears, and Mirth, with laughter lit-
Hate with its haggard sncer, and bright-ey'd Wit-
Despair that haunts wild glen and lonely stream,
And cherub Love, that warms the maiden's dream.
The phantom troops, around her altar throng,
And lead in chains the willing slaves along-
By toils severe the Drama school'd the age,
And Virtue taught her lessons from the stage.
In western wilds, within the unbroken shade,
Ere Learning sanction'd laws which Freedom made,
Or, Reason form'd, in one harmonious plan,
The social rules which bind discordant man,
The Stage arose-and even the savage mind,
Lov'd the high scene, and sought to be refin'd.
The Bard of Avon led the deathless band,
Who struck and taught the lyre in British land-
The chequer'd realms of earth his spells obey,
And the stern tomb resigns its ravish'd prey—
And spectres rise and sheeted ghosts appear,
With scorpions arm'd to startle guilt with fear.
Now, wild Ambition finds it vain to trust
To sculptured stone, and monumental dust,
Yet though the urn be crush'd, the lyre unstrung,
On whose proud note the world delighted hung,
The scythe of Chrouos, though the world it sweeps,
Shall spare the hallow'd spot where Shakspeare sleeps.
To point the efforts of the aspiring Muse,
To Virtue's, Honor's praise-its noblest use,-
To be as by th' immortal Bard defin'd-
The unerring mirror of the human mind,
Each folly linin, and, with all colours true,
Clothe Error in her vain and native hue-
To win new muses, and awake new strains,
And win the old from well-remember'd plains,
In Freedom's land to rear some classic bays,
And leave a name of pride to other days-
This be the aim of our aspiring age,
These be the works and triumphs of our Stage.
Indulgent Patrons! in your hands we trust
The Drama's fortunes-to the charge be just.
To rear an infant stage, on you we call,
For by your verdiet it must rise or fall—
To all its faults we would not have you blind,
But look with gentle brow and spirit kind-
Though here, on feeble wing the Muse may rise,
Feebly at first, and fearful of the skies,
Yet with your plaudits cheer'd, a bolder flight,
Shall win your hearts in wonder and delight-
And in her walls, by your warm bounty fed,
Some Shakspeare yet may sing-some Garrick tread;
Some glorious Siddons passion's fire impart,
Some Kemble wing a shaft to every heart,
In this thrice favoured clime, where deathless fame,
Prompts the young mind, and lights up glory's flame,
Land of chivalric deeds-where sprang of old,
The statesman, wise and true-the warrior, bold-
Where golden Ceres with profusive hand,
Scatters her bounties o'er the teeming land-
And Nature, lavish still of life and light,
Decks the rich realms the Genoese brought to sight,
Here bring your legions, and your standard plant-
And make your lore enchain, your lyre enchant!
Oh, from these happy shores be banished far,
The gloom of death, the frenzied shriek of war-
And wild ambition, fated to pursue,
The vision glory, with his demon crew.
May peace forever more with plenty shine,
And bless the land that consecrates the Nine;
And here, where Commerce spreads her wide domain,
Be fix'd the splendours of the Muse's reign.
Oh, vain-ye masters whom we all obey,
If you prove adverse, is our Poet's lay
Though you receive not, yet extend delight,
And grant indulgence to our toils to-night-
O'er all our errors draw the guardian veil
Nor let the sterner, critic mood, assail-
Not free from failing, hope we to appear,
Yet honest effort claims some favour here-
You whose applause we value more than gold,
And in just poise the equal balance hold,
Still keep in view the Drama's noblest end,
And be at once the Censor and the Friend.
The universal passion, pride,
Has surely never spread so wide,
As now, when every dunce, in arms,
Would storm Apollo with alarms;
And raging rash, in rankest lays,
Would snatch and steal reluctant bays.
'Tis Horace says—a man of wit—.
"Poëta nascitur non fit"-
The maxim's stale, but would you know it,”
You are not made, but born, a Poet.--
"Tis prose enough, and hence 'tis here,
Since men may prose it every where.
The meanest brute by Nature made,
Securely plods his proper trade,
Nor, by strange follies led astray,
Pops, ever, in his neighbor's way-
Who ever saw a hog romantic,
A bear forever at an antic?
Alas-these may no models bc,
For all the monsters that we see,
And Boobies now make daily uses,
Of Dan Apollo and the Muses;
In wit, and in their nature's spite,
Disdain to think--yet dare to write.
With wit and judgment unendow'd,
Still captious, ignorant and loud
Each modern Midas shakes his ears,
And chatters to the vexed spheres,
Void of all sense as wel' as shame,
Beneath rebuke, beyond reclaim.
To mend the manners and the mind,
The poet's art was well design'd;
To point the height where glory flies,
And teach presumption to be wise-
The Muse appeared with heavenly strain,
And fill'd the warm enthusiast's brain.
Shall these high offices of thought,
These glorious duties then be nought-
While spirits base, and blokheads dull
Presume their choicest spoils to cull-
Apollo, cast aside thy lyre,
And let thine arrows speak thine ire.
To notice dullness would be vain
"The loss would be exceeding gain. Respite thy brain-thou shouldst not try, "Upon the wheel to crush the By;" "Be this our motto and our fate, "Hated by fools, and fools to hate."
Look upon the winter hearth,
What a scene of careless mirth,
Yonder go a thoughtless round,
Whirling at the viol's sound;
There, is many a wanton fairy,
With light heart and footsteps airy;
With no thought upon the morrow,
Things that never yet knew sorrow.
There are some of riper ycars,
Taught, methinks, in human cares,
Yet they look with grateful sight,
On the whirling ring's delight-
Care has lesson'd to be kind,
And has mellow'd well each mind,
Till their very griefs become,
Gentle teachers for their home.
These are small and humble joys,
But their presence never cloys-
Though they come with every night,
Stili their presence brings delight-
Memory has not lost its pow'r,
And the old survey the hour,
When like those that wander by,
They too had their revelry.
"Tis a pleasant song and play,
Those who know them well, may say,
Which the wrought and anxious ear,
Listens ever more to hear-
That same song by winter sung,
Uttered forth by childhood's tongue,
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