Classic Poem

PERFORMED AT COVENT-GARDEN , 1800.

I N ev'ry age the trump of deathless fame
Proclaims the warrior's, and the poet's name;
Painting and sculpture all their pow'rs combine,
And laurels deck the bard's and hero's shrine.
No further will the parallel extend,
The poet's honours on success depend;
While fortune's frown can ne'er molest the brave,
Nor blast the laurel springing from his grave!
An equal wreath impartial fame supplies
To him who conquers, and to him who dies;
For British valour was display'd not more
On Nile's proud flood than Helder's barren shore!
The chance of war the bravest may control,
But leaves untouch'd the courage of the soul;
And England gives her heroes, ever dear!
The shout of triumph, or the falling tear.
Not so the bard, with him success is all!
When fortune frowns, his air-built castles fall:
But if she smiles, he sails with prosperous breeze,
Like the small Nautilus, o'er summer seas,
Whose little oars on ocean's bosom sweep,
Fearless of all the monsters of the deep.
Oft at this bar, our author has been tried,
Where English judges take the pris'ner's side!
Guilty of faults, no doubt, he will appear,
But human errors find acquittal here,
Where e'en the friendless always meet support,
From honest juries, and an upright court.
Critics who rule o'er politics and plays,
If you are adverse, vain the poet's lays;
You who with equal hands the balance hold,
Whose just decision ne'er was bought, or sold,
But who to ev'ry candidate dispense
His lot of humour, and his share of sense,
Protect our author on the coming day,
And though you damn the prologue, spare the play;
To your decree each dramatist must bow,
Give but your aid, and that will Speed the Plough.