WRITTEN BY THE AUTHOR OF THE TRAGEDY.
OUR modern poets now can scarcely choose
A subject worthy of the Tragic Muse;
For bards so well have glean'd th' historic field,
That scarce one sheaf th' exhausted ancients yield;
Or if, perchance, they from the golden crop
Some grains, with hand penurious, rarely drop;
Our author these consigns to manly toil,
For classic themes demand a classic soil.
A vagrant she, the desert waste who chose,
Where truth and history no restraints impose.
To her the wilds of fiction open lie,
A flow'ry prospect, and a boundless sky;
Yet hard the task to keep the onward way,
Where the wide scenery lures the foot to stray;
Where no severer limits check the Muse
Than lawless fancy is dispos'd to choose.
Nor does she emulate the loftier strains
Which high heroic Tragedy maintains:
Nor conquest she, nor wars, nor triumphs sings,
Nor with rash hand o'erturns the thrones of kings.
No ruin'd empires greet to-night your eyes,
No nations at our bidding fall or rise;
To statesmen deep, to politicians grave,
These themes congenial to their tastes we leave.
Of crowns and camps, a kingdom's weal or wo,
How few can judge, because how few can know !
But here you all may boast the censor's art,
Here all are critics who possess a heart.
And of the passions we display to-night,
Each hearer judges like the Stagyrite.
The scenes of private life our author shows,
A simple story of domestic woes;
Nor unimportant is the glass we hold,
To shew the effect of passions uncontroll❜d;
For ifto govern realms belong to few,
Yet all who live have passions to subdue.
Self-conquest is the lesson books should preach,
Self-conquest is the theme the stage should teach.
Vouchsafe to learn this obvious duty here,
The verse though feeble, yet the moral's clear.
O mark to night the unexampled woes
Which from unbounded self-indulgence flows.
Your candour once endur'd our author's lays;
Endure them now-it will be ample praise.
SCENE-An Apartment in Guildford Castle.
Enter BERTRAND.
Ber. What fools are serious melancholy villains!
I play a surer game, and screen my heart
With easy looks and undesigning smiles;
And while my plots still spring from sober thought,
My deeds appear the effect of wild caprice,
And I the thoughtless slave of giddy chance.
What but this frankness could have won the promise
Of young Orlando, to confide to me
That secret grief which preys upon his heart?
'Tis shallow, indiscreet hypocrisy
To seem too good: I am the careless Bertrand,
The honest, undesigning, plain, blunt man.
The follies I avow cloak those I hide,
For who will search where nothing seems conceal'd?
'Tis rogues of solid, prudent, grave demeanour,
Excite suspicion; men on whose dark brow
Descretion, with his iron hand, has grav'd
The deep-mark'd characters of thoughtfulness.
Here comes my uncle, venerable Guildford,
Whom I could honour, were he not the sire
Of that aspiring boy, who fills the gap
"Twixt me and fortune;-Rivers, how I hate thee!
Enter GUILDFORD
How fares my noble uncle?
I must complain we have so seldom met:
Where do you keep? believe me, we have miss'd
Ber. O, my good lord! your pardon-spare me,
Sir,
For there are follies in a young man's life,
And idle thoughtless hours which I should blush
To lay before your wise and temperate age.
Guild. Well, be it so-youth has a privilege,
And I should be asham'd could I forget
I have myself been young, and harshly chide
This not ungraceful gaiety. Yes, Bertrand,
Prudence becomes moroseness, when it makes
A rigid inquisition of the fault,
Not of the man, perhaps, but of his youth.
Foibles that shame the head on which old Time
Has shower'd his snow, are then more pardonable,
And age has many a weakness of its own.
Ber. Your gentleness, my lord, and mild reproof,
Correct the wanderings of misguided youth,
More than rebuke can shame me into virtue.
Guild. Saw you my beauteous ward, the lady
Julia?
Ber. She pass'd this way, and with her your fair daughter,
Call them both my daughters;
For scarce is Emmelina more beloved
Than Julia, the dear child of my adoption.
The hour approaches too, (and, bless it heaven,
With thy benignest, kindliest influence !)
When Julia shall indeed become my daughter,
Shall, in obedience to her father's will,
Crown the impatient vows of my brave son,
And richly pay him for his dangers past.
Ber. Oft have I wondered how the gallant Rivers,
Youthful and ardent, doting to excess,
Could dare the dangers of uncertain war,
Ere marriage had confirmed his claim to Julia.
Guild. 'Twas the condition of her father's will,
My brave old fellow-soldier, and my friend!
He wished to see our ancient houses joined
By this, our children's union; but the veteran
So highly valued military prowess,
That he bequeath'd his fortunes and his daughter
To my young Rivers, on these terms alone,
That he should early gain renown in arms;
And if he from the field returned a conqueror,
That sun which saw him come victorious home
Should witness their espousals. Yet he comes not!
The event of war is to the brave uncertain,
Nor can desert in arms ensure success.
Ber. Yet fame speaks loudly of his early valour.
Guild. Ere since the Italian Count, the young
Orlando,
My Rivers' bosom friend, has been my guest,
The glory of my son is all his theme:
Oh! he recounts his virtues with such joy,
Dwells on his merit with a zeal so warm,
As to his generous heart pays back again
The praises he bestows.
Orlando's noble. He's of a tender, brave, and gallant nature, Of honour most romantic, with such graces As charm all womankind.
To whom the story of Orlando's praise
Sounds like sweet music.
What, your charming daughter! Yes, I suspect she loves the Italian Count: (Aside.) That must not be. Now to observe her closely.
Guild. Come hither, Emelina: we were speaking
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