TO MASSINGER'S DUKE OF MILAN, AS REPRESENTED AT A PRIVATE THEATRE .

With thunders arm'd, while o'er the trembling tide,
Awful, Britannia's wooden bulwarks ride;
While from our snowy coast, of front sublime,
The naval genius braves each ambient clime,
Bares to the rushing blast his giant breast,
And shakes the feathery foam that forms his crest;
Say, shall the banish'd Muse, with pensive grace,
Presume, once more, to shew her charming face?
Shall Fancy scatter from her hov'ring car
Fresh roses on the bleeding brow of war,
Proud, in the land of heroes, to display
The splendid honours of her earlier day,
With equal vigor, uniformly bright,
When her bards triumph'd as her chiefs could fight?
Enough of recent valour has been shewn
To prove that courage calls this isle its own:
Old N ILE , affrighted at our dauntless force,
Has shrunk, recoiling to his fabled source;
A CRE'S tall turrets trembled in amaze,
And either Indies testify our praise.
But ill, indeed, of later days accord
The lyre's faint numbers with the conqu'ring sword;
And as the talents of the age decay,
The soldier's laurel scorns the poet's lay.
To-night, in all the pomp of years array'd,
We raise great M ASSINGER'S immortal shade;
Thro' each strong scene his ardent soul pursue,
And bid his manly genius breathe anew.
Next to the wond'rous bard, whose daring hands
Unlock'd each heart, his genuine merit stands;
Admir'd by your forefathers' partial eyes,
To S HAKSPEARE'S self alone he yields the prize.
Bold was his fancy, regular his rage,
Nor oft did ribaldry pollute his page: —
The scholar's skill, the poet's warmth combin'd,
Adorn'd the workings of his polish'd mind;
And M ILAN'S Duke , that wooes your candid sight,
Best proves, of yore, how Englishmen could write.
Oh! for a while discard the vulgar joys
Of empty pageant, and unmeaning noise;
Let folly rant, soft opera sigh in vain:
Let sense resume her long-neglected reign:
Be to your own illustrious nation just,
And shield the wreath that crowns the learned bust.
Weak tho' my zeal may be, to lend his line
Expression chaste, or energy divine;
Ill as my pow'rs, by no fine frenzy wrought,
May body forth the beauties of his thought,
Be all my faults (the humble boon I claim)
Lost in the dazzling lustre of his name;
Kindly the honey'd dews of favour shed.
And spare the living for the mighty dead.