With bolder crest, the dauntless warrior strode; But lo! where, rising in majestic flight, The Roman Eagle sails th' expanse of light! His wings, like heaven's vast canopy, unfurl'd, Spread their broad plumage o'er the subject world, Behold! he soars where golden Phœbus rolls, And perching on his car, o'erlooks the poles. Far, as revolves the chariot's radiant way, He wafts his empire o'er the tide of day; From where it rolls on yon bright sea of suns, To where in light's remotest ebb it runs. The globe half ravag'd by the storm of war, The gates of Greece admit the victor's car; Chain'd to his wheels is captive Science led, And Taste, transplanted, blooms at Tiber's head O'er the rude minds of empire's hardy race The opening pupil beam'd of letter'd grace; With charms so sweet, the houseless Drama smil'd, That Rome adopted Athens' orphan child. Fledg'd by her hand, the Mantuan swan aspir'd; Aw'd by her power, e'en Pompey's self retir'd; Sheath'd was the sword, by which a world had bled, And Janus blushing to his temple fled: The globe's proud Butcher grew humanely brave; Earth stanch'd her wounds, and Ocean hush'd his wave. At length, like huge Enceladus depress'd, Thus set the sun of intellectual light, And, wrapt in clouds, lower'd on the Gothic night. Dark gloom'd the storm-the rushing torrent pour'd, And wide the deep Cimmerian deluge shower'd; E'en Learning's loftiest hills were cover'd o'er, And seas of dullness roll'd, without a shore. Yet ere the surge Parnassus' top o'erflow'd, The banish'd Muses fled their blest abode. Frail was their ark, the heaven-topp'd seas to brave, Yet long so sterile prov'd the ravag'd age, But hark! her mighty rival sweeps the strings;— And warm'd the Zembla of the frozen mind. The world's new queen, Augusta, own'd their charms, Then shone the Drama with imperial art, But ah! while thus unrivall❜d reigns the Muse, Where Freedom first awoke the human mind, And broke th' enchantment which enslav'd mankind; Blanchard, the Æronaut, was at that time in Boston, and at the height of his celebrity. Behold! Apollo seeks this liberal plain, For whom has Earth her wealthiest mine bestow'd, But not to scenes of pravity confin'd, Ye lovely fair, whose circling beauties shine A radiant galaxy of charms divineţ Whose gentle hearts those tender scenes approve, Ye sons of sentiment, whose bosom fire The song of pathos, and the epic lyre; • This remark, which has the rare property of being true, as well poetical, was made seventeen years ago; and since that time the British stage has been constantly declining, and the American rapidly rising into consequence and fame. Show seems to be the only attraction now, in England; and the romances of Blue Beard, and Forty Thieves, have lately drawn greater crowds to Covent-garden than ever were attracted by the plays of Shakspeare, merely because a drove of real horses were exhibited in the processions. This miserable perversion has been thus energetically deplored in some late verses by Mr. SHERIDAN. How arts improve in this degenerate age! Peers mount the box, and horses tread the stage! And Taste and Sense are,—like our bullion,—fled; |