Classic Poem

WRITTEN FOR A PRIVATE THEATRE .

Once more we claim the indulgence of an hour,
For mimic greatness, and for borrow'd pow'r;
For crimes and penitence, for love and rage,
And all the various passions, of the stage.
Your friendly voice approv'd our labours past,
Judge these as kindly as you judg'd the last;
For Gloster's pow'r is not despotic here,
He feels your reign, and owns an anxious fear;
While poor Jane Shore, with most pathetic sighs,
Dreads more your frown than angry Gloster's eyes!
And Dumont pensive sits, with aching heart,
Not for his wife's offence, but for his part;
Alicia's madness premature appears,
Caus'd, not by Hasting's falsehood, but her fears.
'Tis your applause must chase these vain alarms,
Restore to Edward's mistress all her charms,
Give to the tyrant all his guilty state,
And make him artful, turbulent, and great.
Teach us, thou genius of the tuneful Rowe!
To touch, with nicest skill, the nerve of woe;
Find out the mansion where the passions lie,
And call them streaming from each pitying eye;
To ev'ry breast the electric flame impart,
To strike and vibrate through the throbbing heart!
Yet should we fail, the moral you'll approve,
Which shews the sad effects of lawless love;
That passion, first design'd to bless our race,
When virtue sways not, proves our worst disgrace;
Destroys the sweetness of the female mind,
And gives a false impression of mankind;
For she, who finds herself by love undone,
Imputes to all our sex the guilt of one!
This urg'd Alicia to betray her friend,
And madly brought her Hastings to his end.
Nor wealth, nor grandeur can avert the doom
That waits on vice, and lives beyond the tomb!
This prov'd the beauteous Shore, as frail as fair,
A prince's fav'rite, and a monarch's care!
Plac'd near the throne itself in dazzling pow'r,
The blazing meteor of a transient hour!
By courtiers flatter'd, and with smiles survey'd,
By statesmen envied, hated, and obey'd,
All could not save from infamy her name,
Nor shield the victim from contempt and shame;
For when the royal sun was set in night,
Dim grew that orb that glar'd with borrow'd light!
Yet still her patient suff'rings claim a sigh
Heav'd from the heart, while tears bedew the eye;
Her fate's lamented, and her crime's forgiv'n,
For penitence disarms the wrath of Heav'n!
And if some youth, while he laments her lot,
Should think of perjur'd oaths, and vows forgot,
Let him, on wings of love, the wrong repair;
Find our the injur'd, the unhappy fair,
Restore the wand'rer to his contrite breast,
Assuage her grief, and soothe her cares to rest.
Then shall the tragic Muse new laurels gain,
Nor will unhappy Shore have died in vain!