Long in the annals of theatric fame, Has truth grac'd GARRICK with a foremost name;

Long in a wide diversity of parts,
Allow'd his double empire o'er our hearts;
Either in mirth to laugh us to excels,
Or, where he weeps, to load us with di-
Arefs-

Nor is it strange, that e'en in partial days,
He gains fo high an eminence of praise;
When his united requifites are more,
Than ever center'd in one mind before:
Say, if we fearch, minutely, from the age
In which old THESPIS first began the
stage,

And range thro' all the celebrated climes, In which it flourish'd, to the prefent times,

Where thall we find an actor who has preft, [breast, With fuch extenfive force upon the Fill'd fuch opposing chara&ers for years, Unmatch'd, alike, in laughter or in tears? Others, perhaps, the greatest of their hour, [er, Whom fame extoll'd as prodigies of pow. Have yet to fcanty limits been confin'd, And hewn but one dull tendency of mind;

On bold blank-verfe heroically rofe, Or meanly ambled upon humble profe OTHELLO's form a BETTERTON might [pair, And rend the foul with horror and deBOOTH might with conscious majelty declaim,

wear,

And built on CATO a fubftantial name; In WILDAIR, WILKS moft certainly might foar, [roar; And CIBBER's fop fet millions in a But which of thefe like GARRICK cou'd [in LEAR; In ROMEO, SHARPE, in DRUGGER and Fill the wide rounds of pallion as they fall,

appear,

`give,

The warming canvass almost how to live; Tho' fcarce to lefs than deity, when grown,

He call'd cut new creations of his own; Yet, when the weakness of his art he faw, The Grecian father's agony to draw, Twas wife a veil upon his face to throw, Whofe pangs he found impoffible to fhew; But when, ev'n Shakespear never cou'd poffeis

Too big a grief for GARRICK to expreís, When his sharp eye to piercingly can roll, [foul, And dart fuch initant paffions thro' the 'Tis doubly wrong, the tenderer the cafe, To hide the wondrous workings of his face;

To check our hopes, or play upon our fears,

And damp the rich-foul'd luxury of tears. For five long years in dark oblivion

thrown, [known, Has LEE remain'd, neglected and unUnlefs, when chance, on fome capricious ftart,

Has kindly bleft him with a decent part; Yet was this LEE, at one aufpicious hour, Allow'd to boast a little share of power, Was thought in various characters to please,

And fam'd no lefs for energy than cafe. For me, who feel a tenderuefs of breast, Where'er a dawn of merit seems oppreft, I may, perhaps, be partial to his faults, And do him more than juftice in my thoughts;

But when I fee the genuine paffions rife, Which flame in ABOAN's red reflecting eyes;

When I behold in VERNISH's difgrace The struggling foul fo ftampt upon the face;

Or meet in BELMONT with that dangerous art, [the heart; Which ev'n for crimes can plead about I own, it wounds my temper and my taste To find him still so despicably plac'd; Sent

Sent on in FRENCHMEN, RALEIGHS,
and GLENDOWERS, [hours.
While things like PACKER furfcit us for
'Tis true that LEE has fatally imbib'd
A mode of fpeech not easily defcrib'd;
A nice affected drawlingness of phrafe,
A wire-drawn tone in every thing he
plays;

With which, too oft, most execrably fine,
He racks a word, and tortures out a line;
Yet ftill has LEE, a confequence of form,
A voice and look fo capable to warm
A ftage-ftruck heat, so vehemently strong,
With fuch a piercing conscioufness of
wrong,

course,

crown,

That ev'n when BARRY, in his noblest [force; Some few weeks fince exerted all his Strain'd every nerve to draw the scattering [town; And cramm'd his moon-ey'd idiot on the Then did this LEE burft on us in a blaze, And wake us all to wonder and to praife; Give vile IAGO's deeply fcheming ire The boldeft touches of dramatic fire, And fwell the gen'rous PIERRE with a [fame. That left ev'n JAFFIER but a fecond Hence, mean foe'er, as managers may prize,

flame

I look on LEE with very different eyes, And freely place, however they disdain, His chair next GARRICK's high in Drury-lane.

The greatest charge our little judges lay [weigh, When HOLLAND's worth they critically Is, that in all the characters he tries, His mafter GARRICK ever fills his eyes; That meanly fervile in his walk of parts, He ftrives to thine by imitative arts, And now, fo dull a copyift is grown, To want all fenfe and feeling of his own. In this nice age, when fatally difgrac'd, Poor fente falls martyr'd on the thrine of talte,

When a mere word, indefinite and vain, The random coinage of the coxcomb's brain,

By truth and judgment wholly unconfin'd,
And differing ftill in ev'ry different mind,
Uforps the air of fentiment to pafs
For itering gold her defpicable brafs;
Then imitation certainly mult fall,
And raile the general enmity of all;
Muft own the pride-taught fentence to be
just,

And lick the foot that tramples it ip dust.

Yet, fure, if GARRICK hitherto has ran
By reafon's line, and juftly laid his plan
On that exalted principle of art,
Which knocks with truth's bold hand a-
gainst the heart;

If in the various characters he plays
The genuine form of nature he conveys,
And hits, in short, upon that happy
Light,

Which gives the fineft effence of delight,
Thofe who affect to turn away the head
When HOLLAND feeks his vettiges to
tread,

Muft argue less from judgment than from whim,

Since copying nature is to copy him. But, why at all fhould critics proudly start,

And feem to frown on imitative art? Where worth, or fame our admiration raife,

A wish to copy is a kind of praise
Say in this age, fome genius thou'd we
find

So rich in thought, and vigorous in mind,
As gave the fury of a ttage defire,
Ev'n the pale glimm'ring of a SHAKE-
SPEAR'S fire,

Should we not all inevitably throng
To hail the glowing wonders of his fong,
And with a wild munificence reward
The faintest traces of our deathlefs bard?
For me, unapt to criticife in halte,
And little guilty of a modern talte ;
I own this HOLLAND ever my offence,
But where he draws from GARRICK, and
from sense;

While he does this, I patiently attend,
And often find no little to commend,
With honeft warmth his plaudit I can
hear,

And join myfelf the tribute of a tear.
But when fome air-born fancy to pursue,
He lets his matter once escape his view
When much too great for imitation grown,
He boldly feeks a manner of his own,
Sententious, dull, and heavy he appears,
His words like weights hang dragging on

our ears;

er,

Fatigue to death in fpight of all our pow[hour And drawl the minute's fentence to an Nor is this all; a ftupid fort of stare, A ftarch'd, ftiff, ftalking, aukwardness of air,

Abforb at once his figure and his face, And fcorn all marks of nature and of

grace;

While the purs'd lips, to wind up ev'ry

paufe,

Important fwell and bully for applause. Few for fo fhort an interval have gain'd A higher rank than POWELL has obtain'd;

And few, in fact, at prefent on the stage, Deferve a warmer notice from the age. Form'd with fome lines that happily exprefs

No little fenfe of pity and diftrefs;
And form'd with tones that frequently
impart

No little hare of foftnefs to the heart,
On many minds he tenderly can steal,
And teach a drowly auditor to feel.
Hence, in thofe parts where wretchednefs

and years

Alarm alike our pity and our fears, Where the poor LuSIGNAN, from prifon led, [head: Shakes the white honours of his facred O'er his fweet Pagan tenderly complains, And calls again for darkness, and for chains;

Or, where old HENRY, fick'ning with
despair,
[heir;
Upbraids the wildness of his madcap
In parts like thefe, to POWELL I attend
A ftrong admirer, and a steady friend.-
But, when in gay LOTHARIO he wou'd
fhew,

The fprightly airs of libertine and beau ;
Or give in TowNLY, to a modifh wife,
The nicer touches of fuperior life;
Not all the fcrapes, or cringes which he
tries,

plac'd,

YATES, with high rank for ever must be (tafte; Who blends fuch ftrict propriety with From nature's fount fo regularly draws, And never leeks to trick us of applaufe. Mark, when he plays, no vacancy of face,

No wand'ring eye, or ignorant grimace,
Is rudely fuffered once to intervene,
Or check the growing bufinefs of a scene;
Nay, in his filence, happily employ'd,
He looks continual meaning on the void;
Bids every glance with character be
fraught,

And fweils each mufcle with a burfting thought.

Hence, in thofe cruder fections of a part, Where want of humour must be fill'd by art,

Where the poor poet, in fome luckless fit
Mittakes a dull prolixity for wit;
His merit fhines with undiminish'd rays,
An lifts whole troops of RESTLESS's to
praife.

care,

Yet there are times, when spight of all his
[ftare:
Our tafte must bristle, and our fense must
When a new part unhappily he plays,
A thousand doubts perplex him, and a-

maze;

Falt from himself he tremblingly retires, Nor truts that worth which all the world admires ;

But on a fea of causeless terror toft, Allows both mind and memory to be loft. But tho' on YATES the comic mufe may fhower,

An ample fund of humour and of power; Tho' in his walk, of characters he claims So high a place among theatric names, Still there are others in her smiles who fhare, [fair. And prove her generous as they know her Oft in fome whim, the buxom nymph will try

To pafs for KING upon the public eye: On Toм or RANGER, wantonly will feize,

And give us all his spirit and his ease : Again, in PRATTLE phyfically prim, She teals each look and attitude from him;