Classic Poem

WRITTEN FOR MRS. CRESPIGNY'S PRIVATE THEATRE .

The monarch's glory, and the hero's fame,
The patriot's virtue, or the traitor's shame;
Empires by wisdom saved, or war destroy'd,
Are themes dramatic bards have long employ'd.
The ruthless victor, in his laurel'd car,
Stain'd with the guilty honours of the war,
When trampling on a suff'ring people's laws,
Deserves but ill loud Paeans of applause;
Nor when the haughty tyrant meets his doom
Should pity's tears be wasted on his tomb!
But when domestic grief directs the pen
All feel the subject, who can feel like men:
Such is the scene, to night, we bring to view,
And trust our fate to candour, and to you
The tale, well known, has often caus'd a sigh,
And brought the pearly drop in beauty's eye;
Still may those sweet emotions freely rise,
And add fresh lustre to the brightest eyes;
Matilda's woes to ev'ry breast impart,
The throbbing anguish of a mother's heart!
Whose child by dire mischance was snatch'd away,
Whose husband perish'd in an early day!
But when her Douglas, to her arms restor'd,
Recalls the image of her long-lost lord,
Perhaps some breast a dormant flame may move,
To feel the warmth of ill extinguish'd love!
Some object, once than fame or life more dear,
May rise to mem'ry with a soothing tear;
For fond remembrance ever's prone to dwell
On those we lov'd " so long, and lov'd so well! "
When youthful Norval, with a noble pride,
IndignanThears the villain's tongue deride;
When, stung with anger, and ingenuous shame,
E'en filial duty scarce conceals his name,
All must allow the conscious pride of blood
A wise illusion Heav'n permits for good,
That pride of blood which only fears disgrace,
And dreads to sully an illustrious race;
That gen'rous pride that scorns all servile art,
And warms in poverty the noble heart;
Feels its own merits, yet would blush with shame,
To rob an other of his well-earn'd fame,
Gives life and energy to glorious deeds,
And cheers the dying hero as he bleeds!
If in our play some alter'd scenes you find,
They owe their merits to a female mind;
Whose tender bosom, e'en in fictious grief,
Shrunk from the woe that can't admit relief;
And felt the drama went beyond it's art,
Rending the cords that nerve a mother's heart!
Such motives might the sternest censure bend,
And change the critic, to the approving friend.
E'en Home's reproach, we trust, we need not fear,
The first in judgment, are the least severe!