In front, a level lawn is feen,
Without a fhrub upon the green,
Where Taste would want its first great law,
But for the skulking, fly ha-ha,
By whofe miraculons affistance

You gain a prospect two fields distance.
And now from Hyde-Park Corner come
The gods of Athens, and of Rome.
Here fquabby Cupids take their places,
With Venus, and the clumsy graces :
Apollo there, with aim fo clever,
Stretches his leaden bow for ever;
And there, without the pow'r to fly,
Stands fix'd a tip-toe Mercury.

The villa thus completely grac'd,
All own, that Thrifty has a taste;
And madam's female friends and cousins,
With common-council-men, by dozens,
Flock ev'ry Sunday to the feat,
To ftare about them, and to eat.

THE ACTOR.

ADDRESSED то

BONNELL THORNTON, Efq;

A

BY THE SAM E.

CTING, dear Thornton, its perfection draws

From no obfervance of mechanic laws;

No fettled maxims of a fav'rite stage,

No rules deliver'd down from age to age, 6

Let

Let players nicely mark them as they will,
Can e'er entail hereditary skill.

If, 'mongst the humble hearers of the pit,
Some curious vet'ran critic chance to fit,
Is he pleas'd more because 'twas acted fo
By Booth and Cibber thirty years ago?
The mind recals an object held more dear,
And hates the copy, that it comes so near :
Why lov'd we Wilks's air, Booth's nervous tone
In them 'twas natural, 'twas all their own.
A Garrick's genius müft our wonder raise,
But gives his mimic no reflected praife.
Thrice happy Genius, whofe unrival'd name
Shall live for ever in the voice of Fame!
"Tis thine to lead, with more than magic skill,
The train of captive paffions at thy will;
To bid the bursting tear fpontaneous flow
In the sweet sense of sympathetic woe :
Through ev'ry vein I feel a chillness creep,
When horrors fuch as thine have murder'd sleep;
And at the old man's look and frantic ftare
"Tis Lear alarms me, for I see him there.
Nor yet confin'd to tragic walks alone,

The comic mufe too claims thee for her own.
With each delightful requifite to please,
Tafte, spirit, judgment, elegance, and ease,
Familiar nature forms thy only rule,
From Ranger's rake to Drugger's vacant fool:
With powers fo pliant, and fo various bleft,
That what we fee the last, we like the best.

Not

Not idly pleas'd, at judgment's dear expence,
But burft outrageous with the laugh of fenfe.
Perfection's top, with weary toil and pain,
"Tis genius only that can hope to gain.
The play'r's profeffion (tho' I hate the phrase,
"Tis fo mechanic in these modern days)
Lies not in trick, or attitude, or start,
Nature's true knowledge is his only art.
The ftrong-felt paffion bolts into the face,
The mind untouch'd, what is it but grimace?
To this one ftandard make your just appeal,
Here lies the golden fecret; learn to FEEL.
Or fool, or monarch, happy, or diftreft,
No actor pleases that is not poffefs'd.

Once on the stage, in Rome's declining days,
When Chriftians were the fubject of their plays,
E'er perfecution dropp'd her iron rod,

And men still wag'd an impious war with God,
An actor flourish'd of no vulgar fame,
Nature's difciple, and Genest his name.
A noble object for his skill he chofe,
A martyr dying 'midst insulting foes
Refign'd with patience to religion's laws,
Yet braving monarchs in his Saviour's caufe,
Fill'd with th' idea of the fecret part,

He felt a zeal beyond the reach of art,
While look, and voice, and gefture all expreft
A kindred ardour in the player's breaft;
Till as the flame thro' all his bofom ran,

He loft the actor, and commenc'd the man:

Profeft

Profeft the faith, his pagan gods denied,
And what he acted then, he after died.

The player's province they but vainly try,
Who want these pow'rs, deportment, voice, and eye.
The critic fight 'tis only grace can please,
No figure charms us if it has not ease.
There are, who think the ftature all in all,
Nor like the Hero, if he is not tall.
The feeling fenfe all other want fupplies,
I rate no actor's merit from his fize.
Superior height requires fuperior grace,
And what's a giant with a vacant face?

Theatric monarchs, in their tragic gait,
Affect to mark the folemn pace of state;
One foot put forward in pofition ftrong,
The other, like its vaffal, dragg'd along:
So grave each motion, fo exact and flow,
Like wooden monarchs at a puppet-show.
The mien delights us that has native grace,
But affectation ill fupplies its place.

Unfkilful actors, like your mimic apes,
Will writhe their bodies in a thousand shapes:
However foreign from the poet's art,

No tragic hero but admires a start.

What though unfeeling of the nervous line;
Who but allows his attitude is fine?

While a whole minute equipois'd he stands,
Till praise dismiss him with her echoing hands!
Refolv'd, though nature hate the tedious paufe,
By perfeverance to extort applaufe.

When

When Romeo forrowing at his Juliet's doom,
With
eager

madness burits the canvas tomb, The sudden whirl, ftretch'd leg, and lifted staff, Which please the vulgar, make the critic laugh.

To paint the paffion's force, and mark it well,
The

proper action nature's self will tell :
No pleasing pow'rs distortions e'er express,
And nicer judgment always loaths excess.
In fock or bukin, who o'erleaps the bounds,
Disgusts our reason, and the taste confounds,
Of all the evils which the stage molest,
I hate your fool who overacts his jeft;
Who murders what the poet finely writ,
And, like a bungler, haggles all his wit,
With shrug, and grin, and gesture out of place,
And writes a foolish comment with his face,
Old Johnson once, tho' Cibber's perter vein
But meanly groupes him with a num'rous train,
With steady face, and sober hum'rous mien,
Filld the strong outlines of the comic scene.
What was writ down, with decent utt’rance spoke,
Betray'd no symptom of the conscious joke;
The very man in look, in voice, in air,
And tho’ upon the stage, appear'd no play’r.

The word and action should conjointly suit,
But acting words is labour too minute.
Grimace will ever lead the judgment wrong ;
While sober humour marks th' impresion strong.
Her proper traits the fixt attention hit;
And bring me closer to the poet's wit;

E

a

With

1