Enough of this cold cant of future ages, And men hereafter doting on your pages; To prattle thus of other times is pleasant, And all the while neglect our own, the PRESENT. If on the unborn we squander our exertion, Who will supply the living with diversion? And, clamour as you authors may about it, We want amusement, will not go without it; A fashionable group is no small matter, Methinks, a poet's vanity to flatter: He who, profusely lavishing invention, Pleases himself, need feel no apprehension; The crowd soon share the feelings of the poet, The praise he seeks they liberally bestow it: The more that come, the better for the writer; Each flash of wit is farther felt - seems brighter,
And every little point appreciated,
By some one in the circle over-rated,
All is above its value estimated :
Take courage then, come now for a chefd'œuvre
To make a name to live, and live for ever
Call FANCY up, with her attendant troop,
REASON and JUDGMENT, PASSION, MELANCHOLY,
WIT, FEELING, and be sure among the group
Not to forget the little darling, FOLLY!
But above all, give them enough of action;
He who gives most, will give most satisfaction
They come to see a show -no work whatever,
Unless it be a show, can win their favour;
Therefore, by this their taste, be thou admonished,
Weave brilliant scenes to captivate their eyes:
Let them but stare and gape, and be astonished,
Soon as a dramatist your fame will rise.
A show is what they want; they love and pay
Spite of its serious parts, sit through a play for it
And he who gives one is a certain favourite;
Would you please many, you must give good mea-
Then each finds something in 't to yield him plea
The more you give, the greater sure your chance is
To please, by varying scenes, such various fancies.
The interest of a piece, no doubt, increases
Divided thus, and broken into pieces.
Such a ragoût is soon prepared, nor shall it
Be otherwise than pleasing to each palate;
And, for my part, methinks it little matters:
Though you may call your work a finished whole,
The public soon will tear this whole to tatters,
And but on piecemeal parts their praises dole.
You cannot think how very mean a task,
How humbling to a genuine artist's mind,
To furnish such a drama as you ask:
The poor pretender's bungling tricks, I find,
Are now established as the rules of trade, —
Receipts by which successful plays are made!
MANAGER.
Such an objection is of little weight
Against my reasoning. If a person chooses
To work effectively, no doubt he uses
The instrument that's most appropriate.
Your play may-for your audience-be too good ;--
Coarse lumpish logs are they of clumsy wood-
Blocks with the hatchet only to be hewed!
One comes to drive away ennui or spleen;
Another, with o'erloaded paunch from table;
A third, than all the rest less tolerable,
From reading a review or magazine.
Hither all haste, anticipate delight,
As to a Masque, desire each face illuming,
And each, some novel character assuming,
Place for awhile their own half out of sight.
The ladies, too, tricked out in brilliant gear,
Themselves ambitious actresses appear,
And, though unpaid, are still performers here.
What do you dream, in your poetic pride?
Think you a full house can be satisfied
every auditor an ardent cheerer?
Pray, only look at them a little nearer;
One half are cold spectators, inattentive;
The other dead to every fine incentive;
One fellow's thinking of a game of cards;
One on a wild night of intoxication :
Why court for such a set the kind regards
Of the coy Muse - her highest fascination?
I tell thee only, give enough - enough;
Still more and more — no matter of what stuff,
You cannot go astray; let all your views
Be only for the moment to amuse,
To keep them in amazement or distraction;
Man is incapable of satisfaction.
Why, what affects you thus-is't inspiration?
A reverie?-oh! can it be vexation ?
Go, and elsewhere some fitter servant find;
What! shall the poet squander then away,
And spend in worthless, worse than idle, play,
The highest gift that ever nature gave,
The inalienable birthright of mankind,
The freedom of the independent mind,
And sink into an humble trading slave?
Whence is his power all human hearts to win,
And why can nothing his proud march oppose,
As through all elements the conqueror goes?
Oh! is it not the harmony within,
The music which hath for its dwelling-place
His own rich soul- the heart that can receive
And hold in its unlimited embrace
All things inanimate, and all that live?
When Nature, like a tired and stupid sloven, Twists with dull fingers the coarse threads of life, When all things, that, together interwoven,
In happy concord still agreeing,
Should join to form the web of being,
Are tangled in inextricable strife;
Who then can cheer life's drear monotony,
Bestow upon the dead new animation,
Restore the dissonant to harmony,
And bid the jarring individual be
A chord, that, in the general consecration,
Bears part with all in musical relation?
Who to the tempest's rage can give a voice
Like human passion? bid the serious mind
Glow with the colouring of the sunset hours?
Who in the dear path scatter spring's first flowers,
When wanders forth the ladye of his choice?
Who of the valueless green leaves can bind
A wreath-the artist's proudest ornament-
Or, round the conquering hero's brow entwined
The best reward his country can present?
Whose voice is fame? who gives us to inherit
Olympus, and the loved Elysian field?
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