Classic Poem

Britons, once more in annual joy we meet
This genial night in freedom's fav'rite seat:
And o'er the two great empires still I reign
Of Covent-garden, and of Drury-lane.
But ah! what clouds o'er all our realms impended!
Our ruin artless prodigies portended.
Chains, real chains, our heroes had in view,
And scenes of mimic dungeons chang'd to true.
An equal fate the stage and Britain dreaded,
Had Rome's young missionary spark succeeded.
But laws and liberties are trifling treasures;
He threaten'd that grave property, your pleasures.

For me, an idle muse, I ne'er dissembled
My fears; but e'en my tragic sister trembled.
O'er all her sons she cast her mournful eyes,
And heav'd her breast more than dramatic sighs:
To eyes well-tutor'd in the trade of grief
She rais'd a small and well-lac'd handkerchief;
And then with decent pause — and accent broke,
Her buskin'd progeny the dame bespoke:
— Ah! sons, our dawn is over-cast, and all
— Theatric glories nodding to their fall.
— From foreign realms a bloody chief is come,
— Big with the work of slav'ry and of Rome.
— A general ruin on his sword he wears,
— Fatal alike to audience and to play'rs.
— For ah! my sons, what freedom for the stage,
— When bigotry with sense shall battle wage?
— When monkish laureats only wear the bays,
— Inquisitors lord chamberlains of plays?
— Plays shall be damn'd that scap'd the critic's rage,
— For priests are still worse tyrants to the stage.
— Cato, receiv'd by audiences so gracious,
— Shall find ten Cæsars in one St. Ignatius:
— And godlike Brutus here shall meet again
— His evil genius in a capuchin.
— For heresy the fav'rites of the pit
— Must burn, and excommunicated wit;
— And at one stake we shall behold expire
— My Anna Bullen, and the Spanish Fryar.

— Ev'n Tamerlane, whose sainted name appears
— Red-letter'd in the calendar of play'rs.
— Oft as these festal rites attend the morn
— Of liberty restor'd, and W ILLIAM born —
— But at that name what transports flood my eyes!
— What golden vision's this I see arise!
— What youth is he with comeliest conquest crown'd
— His warlike brow with full-blown laurels bound?
— What wreaths are these that vict'ry dares to join,
— And blend with trophies of my fav'rite Boyne?
Oh! if the muse can happy aught presage,
Of new deliv'rance to the state and stage;
If not untaught the characters to spell
Of all who bravely fight or conquer well;
Thou shalt be W ILLIAM — like the last design'd
The tyrant's scourge, and blessing of mankind;
Born civil tumult and blind zeal to quell,
That teaches happy subjects to rebel.
Nasiau himself but half our vows shall share,
Divide our incense and divide our pray'r:
And oft as Tamerlane shall lend his fame
To shadow bis , thy rival star shall claim
Th' ambiguous laurel and the doubtful name.