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OCCASIONAL PROLOGUE

TO MASSINGER'S DUKE OF MILAN,

AS REPRESENTED AT A PRIVATE THEATRE.

BY THE LATE T. DERMODY.

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

Το

prove that courage calls this isle its own:
Old NILE, affrighted at our dauntless force,
Has shrunk, recoiling to his fabled source;
ACRE'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 MASSINGER'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 SHAKSPEARE'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 MILAN'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.

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INSCRIPTION

ON A JUTTING STONE OVER A SPRING.

THIS sycamore, oft mufical with bees,

(Such tents the Patriarchs lov'd) O long unharm'd May all its darksome boughs o'ercanopy

The small round bason, which this jutting stone Keeps pure from falling leaves! still may this spring Quietly, as a sleeping infant's breath,

Send up cold water for the traveller

With soft and even pulse! Nor ever cease
Yon tiny cone of sand its noiseless dance,
That at the bottom, like a fairy's page,
As merry, and no taller, dances still,

Nor wrinkles the smooth surface of the fount!
Here coolness dwell, and twilight.

Here is moss,

A soft seat, and a deep and ample shade.

Thou may'st toil far, and find no second tree.
Here, stranger, drink! Here rest! And, if thy heart
Be innocent, here too may'st thou renew
Thy spirits, listening to these gentle sounds,
The passing gale, or ever-murmuring bees.

ΕΣΤΗΣΕ.

THE POOR VILLAGE MAID.

BY WILLIAM CASE, JUN.

IN yon neat, lattic'd cot, from whose chimney ascending

The smoke to the west points a column of shade, Where the jasmine and woodbine their tendrils are blending,

Dwelt Mary the orphan, a poor Village Maid.

Enshrin'd in her bosom sat innocence dawning, Whilst the soft cherub Beauty, each feature adorning, Bade the sweet glow of health, like the first blush of morning,

Yet heighten the charms of the poor Village Maid.

She was Grief's early victim-for Edward, her lover (Why, visions of bliss! why so soon did ye fade?) By a parent's harsh mandate was now a sad rover

On the salt waves afar from his poor Village Maid.

Her bosom alas! now seem'd bursting with sorrow,
Tho' Fancy from Hope oft a solace would borrow,
And timidly glance on the far-distant morrow,
That might haply bring peace to the poor Village
Maid.

Ah! long was the time the fair mourner was striving To hide what her feelings too sadly betray'd, When tidings most dread, on a sudden arriving,

Now frenzied the brain of the poor Village Maid:

That a band of fierce negroes, the thickets widescouring,

Had sprung on the crew, with their number o'erpowering,

And murdering her Edward, then piece-meal devouring, Thus blasted the hopes of the poor Village Maid.

Oft she gaz'd, as entranc'd, on the clouds that roll'd over Th' horizon, when now day's last glories decay'd, For there would she picture the ghost of her lover, Invoking with smiles his poor dear Village Maid.

When at midnight the clock at the Abbey was sounding, She would play with the ivy, its dark walls surrounding, Then list to the echo, so dreary, resounding

The hollow-toned steps of the poor Village Maid.

If an owl cross'd her path, or an insect loud-humming, Strangely mocking the sound, her abrupt pace she stay'd,

She would say 'twas the voice of her Edward now coming Again to see Mary, the poor Village Maid.

Whilst frequent she wander'd, unmeaningly singing, Or the crowfoot, late cull'd, from her breast rudely flinging,

E'en the scarce-lisping babe, to its mother's arms clinging,

Shrunk with fear from craz'd Mary, the poor Village

Maid.

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