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THOU child of nature, genius strong

Thou master of the poet's song,

Before whose light, Art's dim and feeble
Gleams like the taper in the blaze of day
Thou lov'ft to fteal along the secret fhade,
Where Fancy, bright aerial maid!
Awaits thee with her thousand charm
And revels in thy wanton arms.
She to thy bed, in days of yore,
The sweetly warbling Shakespeare b
Whom every mufe endow'd with every fk
And dipt him in that facred rill,
Whofe filver ftreams flow mufical along,
Where Phoebus' hallow'd mount resounds
tur'd fong.

Forfake not thou the vocal choir, Their breasts revifit with thy genial fire, Elfe vain the ftudied founds of mimic art, Tickle the ear, but come not near the hea Vain every phrase in curious order fet, On each fide leaning on the [ftop-gap] ep Vain the quick rhyme ftill tinkling in the While pure defcription fhines in meafur'd

Thou bear'ft aloof, and look'ft with high difdain,
Upon the dull mechanic train;

Whose nervelefs ftrains flag on in languid tone,
Lifelefs and lumpish as the bagpipe's drowzy drone.

No longer now thy altars blaze, No poet offers up his lays; Infpir'd with energy divine, To worship at thy facred fhrine. Since tafte* with abfolute domain, Extending wide her leaden reign, Kills with her melancholy fhade, The blooming scyons of fair fancy's tree; Which erft full wantonly have ftray'd In many a wreath of richest poefie. For when the oak denies her ftay, The creeping ivy winds her humble way; No more fhe twists her branches round, But drags her feeble ftem along the barren ground.

Where then shall exil'd genius go?
Since only thofe the laurel claim,
And boast them of the poet's name,

Whofe fober rhymes in even tenour flow;

* By Tafte, is here meant the modern affectation of it.

Who

Why fleep the fons of genius now? Why, Wartons, refts the lyre unftrung *And thou, bleft bard! around whofe facr Great Pindar's delegated wreath is hung: Arife, and snatch the majefty of song From dullness' fervile tribe, and art's un) throng.

Dr. Akenfide.

PROLOGUS,

1757.

EST Schola Rhetorices, celebrat quam crebra

juventus,

Et tumido inflatos ejicit ore fonos.

Quà quifque affumit tragicas novus hiftrio partes,
Nec loquitur, verbum quin fapit omne, pathos.
Ingenia hic crefcunt, mox fucceflura theatris,
Regis, amatoris, prompta fubire vices.
Multus ibi furiis Macbetha agitatus iniquis,
Elufâ telum prendit inane manu.
Multus ibi, infufcat cui vultus fuber aduftum
Immodicis fævit raucus Othello minis.
Omnia queis tragicis opus eft, hic arma parantur;
Auribus infidiæ funt, oculifque fuæ :
Conatus manuumque, pedumque, orifque rotundi,
Certatim et vultus vis, laterumque labor.
Quam fibi, dum geftu ftat fixus quifque filenti,
Quam placet a speculo forma reflexa sui!
Hac ftudeant, cordi quibus ars et pompa theatri!
Non tamen eft NOBIS inde petendus honor.
Ingenua ut pubes vultum fibi fumat apertum,
Et fenfim affuefcat fortius ore loqui;
Ne dubiis tandem verba eluctantia labris
Occludat timidus præpediatque pudor,

Ingre

Hinc SAPERE ET FARI difcit generofa juv Dum pavida accendit pectora laudis a Freti his, majorem mox ingrediemur arena Hiç ftabilita vigent Curia, Roftra, F

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