Their houses yet were palaces to those,Which Ben and Fletcher for their triumphs chose, 20
Shakspeare, who wish’d a kingdom for a stage,
Like giant pent in disproportion’d cage,
Mourn’d his contracted strengths and crippled rage.
He who could tame his vast ambition down
To please some scatter’d gleanings of a town, 25
And, if some hundred auditors supplied
Their meagre meed of claps, was satisfied,
How had he felt, when that dread curse of Lear’s
Had burst tremendous on a thousand ears,
While deep-struck wonder from applauding bands 30
Return’d the tribute of as many hands!
Rude were his guests; he never made his bow
To such an audience as salutes us now.
He lack’d the balm of labour, female praise.
Few Ladies in his time frequented plays, 35
Or came to see a youth with awkward art
And shrill sharp pipe burlesque the woman’s part.
The very use, since so essential grown,
Of painted scenes, was to his stage unknown.
The air-blest castle, round whose wholesome crest, 40
The martlet, guest of summer, chose her nest —
The forest walks of Arden’s fair domain,
Where Jaques fed his solitary vein —
No pencil’s aid as yet had dared supply,
Seen only by the intellectual eye. 45
Those scenic helps, denied to Shakspeare’s page,
Our Author owes to a more liberal age.
Nor pomp nor circumstance are wanting here;
‘Tis for himself alone that he must fear.
Yet shall remembrance cherish the just pride, 50
That (be the laurel granted or denied)
He first essay’d in this distinguished fane,
Severer muses and a tragic strain.
EPILOGUE
Written by the Author, and spoken by Miss SMITH in the character of
TERESA.
[As printed in The Morning Chronicle, Jan. 28, 1813.]
Oh! the procrastinating idle rogue,
The Poet has just sent his Epilogue;
Ay, ‘tis just like him! — and the hand!
[Poring over the manuscript.
The stick!
I could as soon decipher Arabic!
But, hark! my wizard’s own poetic elf 5
Bids me take courage, and make one myself!
An heiress, and with sighing swains in plenty
From blooming nineteen to full-blown five-and-twenty,
Life beating high, and youth upon the wing,
‘A six years’ absence was a heavy thing!’ 10
Heavy! — nay, let’s describe things as they are,
With sense and nature ‘twas at open war —
Mere affectation to be singular.
Yet ere you overflow in condemnation,
Think first of poor Teresa’s education; 15
‘Mid mountains wild, near billow-beaten rocks,
Where sea-gales play’d with her dishevel’d locks,
Bred in the spot where first to light she sprung,
With no Academies for ladies young —
Academies — (sweet phrase!) that well may claim 20
From Plato’s sacred grove th’ appropriate name!
No morning visits, no sweet waltzing dances —
And then for reading — what but huge romances,
With as stiff morals, leaving earth behind ‘em,
As the brass-clasp’d, brass-corner’d boards that bind ‘em. 25
Knights, chaste as brave, who strange adventures seek,
And faithful loves of ladies, fair as meek;
Or saintly hermits’ wonder-raising acts,
Instead of — novels founded upon facts!
Which, decently immoral, have the art 30
To spare the blush, and undersap the heart!
Oh, think of these, and hundreds worse than these,
Dire disimproving disadvantages,
And grounds for pity, not for blame, you’ll see,
E’en in Teresa’s six years’ constancy. 35
[Looking at the manuscript.
But stop! what’s this? — Our Poet bids me say,
That he has woo’d your feelings in this Play
By no too real woes, that make you groan,
Recalling kindred griefs, perhaps your own,
Yet with no image compensate the mind, 40
Nor leave one joy for memory behind.
He’d wish no loud laugh, from the sly, shrewd sneer,
To unsettle from your eyes the quiet tear
That Pity had brought, and Wisdom would leave there.
Now calm he waits your judgment!
