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POETRY.

PROLOGUE,

Spoken at the opening of the LYCEUM, at MADRAS, August 4, 1782.

T

O Grecia's fons, while freedom fpread her

charms,

And rous'd each ling'ring votary to arms;
The hoft of Afia, o'er the Euxine ftrait,
Broke like a flood, and pour'd refiftlets fate:
No force could check it, and no bar withitand,
Down funk Thermopyla's devoted band-
The fack of Athens fpoke the Grecian doom,

And art and science fear'd a common tomb.

Heaven interpos'd-foon blew the tempeft o'er, And left the wreck of grandeur on the fhore; At freedom's call returns the power of tafte, Refumes her labours, and repairs the wafte. On Pindus' top defcend the awarding nine, And chaplets fresh for favour'd heroes twine; Its umbrage brown Lyceum's fhade regains, And breathes the Majefty of Attic strains: His juft reward, there, confcious, meets the brave, On land who triumph'd, or who rul'd the wave: Thence takes the palm at Salamis he won, Or lives, immortal lives! by Marathon.

How like the picture to the prefent time! The age tho' diftant, tho' oppos'd the clime. With barbarous rage fell Heider leads his bands, And empties kingdoms on our groaning lands. His ftrength to wither, Britain's standards fly, Her navy triumphs o'er his Greek ally: [praife, And Hughes and Coote have fnatch'd a fplendid But known to Spartan and Athenian days: O, give it root, kind Heaven! wide let it fpread,

"Till ruin cruth this modern Xerxes' head."

Amid this itrite, on what fhall Wit rely?
Where Taite refort, or Sentiment apply?
No stage is left to feed the poet's flame,
From tancy's mines to fpring the actor's fame:
The mufes hills the ruthlefs axe invades,
And leaves no mufic where it leaves no fhades;
No lips the tount of Aganippe taite,

Save thofe, inhuman, that frequent the wafte.
In grove and vallies, pregnant once with fong,
Silence prefides, or owls difcordant throng:
War, gothic war! the glimmering light denies,
That learning fcatter'd thro' our orient fkies.
Should then fome bolder minds their view pro-
claim,

To blow the dying embers into flame;
With Wit's remains to make one glorious ftand,
And from unletter'd dark nefs fifield the land:
In this retreat a new Lyceum found,
And court each mufe to tread the fabled ground:
Tho' vain the vision, though remote the end,
The Wife shall hail it, and the Fair befriend;
To beauty's fun fome Rofcius homage pay,
And Shakspeare shoot beneath the fostering ray;
Nor Ben, nor Congreve, hom the scene retrain,
Nor old Anacreon, with his Chian train;
Mirth, mix'd with wifdom, thall affert her rule,
And love enlighten Ariftotle's school.

HYMN TO FRIENDSHIP.

Let me feel thy flame divine:

And the votive fong infpire,
While to thee I tune iny lyre.

Thee by gracious heaven defign'd, To foothe the forrows of mankind, Thee in bowers of blifs above,. Virtue bore to gentle Love.

Love

gave thee the engaging air,
That mitigates the brow of care:
The affections that in fecret glow;
And tears that fympathetic flow.
Virtue gave thee force of mind,
That leaves the feltifh cares behind,
And truth and fpirit to defpife
Fortune and her changeful fkies.

Where infamy and forrow lour,
And prepare the venom'd dart,
To cleave the unfutpecting heart,
Goddess of the smile ferene,
1s thy genuine afpect feen.
Yet, with counterfeited bloom,
Cunning would thy form affumes
And with blandithiment and fang,
Would delude the witlefs throng.
But if Fortune frown and leave
Thofe, who honour'd her, to grieve,
Careless of their tears and fighs,
The perfidious traitor fiies.
So the clouds of floating gold,
Round defcending Phœbus roll',
Blaze with his effulgent ray,

Ne'er in Vice's painted bower,

And promife to prolong the day;
Vain promife! he declines; and lo!
In the fable garb of woe,

The fen-barn vapors frown and lour,
And deepen e'en the midnight hour.
But in her filver chariot roll'd,
Rifing beyond that hill, behold!
Cynthia with reviving light,
Gilds the canopy of night:
See, beneath the lucid beams,
How the winding river gleams,
And the trav'ler speeds his way,
Blefs'd with the propitious ray.
Mildly-pleafing beams! that thine
Like that gentle eye of thine,
Friendship! when divinely fair,
Thou wouldst fmile away defpair.
Nor yet with flatt'ring words and vain,
Wilt thou intoxicate the brain;
Nor thofe who in thy truth confide,
Betray to vanity or pride.
Thy counfels vindicate the foul,
From paflion's tyrannous controul:
And th' ingenuous heart refine,
And promote the great defign.

O friendship, hast thou wing'd thy flight,
Indignant to the realms of light?
Banith'd by strife and hate and fpleen,
Wilt thou no more on earth be feen?
Gladden'd by the feftive lay,

The affociate of the young and gay,
Shall we not fee thy form advance
Graceful in the joyous dance?
Ah! that animated youth,
Should ever alien be to truth;
And strive fo little to affuage
Paffion's difingenuous rage!-
But fure the mufes tunetul choir
Glow with thine extatic fire:

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In the fcientific cell,

Friendship will with knowledge dwell.
Why will not the bolom fir'd
With love of fcience, or infpir'd
By fancy, wean'd from envious hate,
Jealoufies, and four debate,
Cait narrow felfishness and pride,
Conceit, and arrogance afide,
And, from painful rancour tree,
Yield, gentle fpirit, yield to thee?——
Far from bitterness and ftrife,
And envy, bane of focial life,
Say, on what pacific plains,
Art thou ador'd by fimple fwains?
Too oft, alas! the woodland wild,
By venom'd calumny defil'd,
And the peafant's lone retreat,.
Harbour rancour and deceit.

Where shall I find thee, lovely maid,
In thine azure robe array'd,
Crown'd with myrtle ever-green,
Smiling, gentle, and ferene?

EPISTLE, I.

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From a Gentieman to his Lady and Daughter.

Y

OU know I have always been fond of time-
faving;
[fhaving.

That none may be loft, I will write whilst I'm
A man that writes verfe, whilft his thoughts are a
hatching,

Has intervals frequent of mufing and fcratching:
Then why should not I, like that haver Old Time,
Take my feythe in my hand whilft I wait for a
rhyme,

And mow my gray beard; for the women all fay,
As they did to Anacreon, how you grow gray!
I anfwer, and thrug, Every dog has his day,
And I have had mine; but, alas! 'tis all o'er!
What can you expect from a man of threescore?
That I, who, like Jove, am your husband and
fire,

You think, when we parted, thould weeping retire.
No, no, my good angel, for once you're miltaken;
I call'd for old Mary, and bade her cut bacon;
The garden, Ifaid, thould fupply her with beans:
Good eating and drinking are still the beft means
Tofmother fine feelings and theathe poignant grief,
So I ate and I drank, and I found fome relief.
The table uncover'd-what then?-Did I weep?
With thame be it fpoken-I fell fast asleep.
Old Kent in the ftocks, you remember it well,
How fome time he whittled, and then afleep fell;
So I, though not loaded with grief like old Kent,
Some time spent in fleeping, in fiddling fome fpent.
In hddling! ah! why did I touch on that ftring?
My Harriet is gone! who for me fhall now fing?
Or foothe me with Jackfon, or Old Robin Gray,
And chear me with Abel, now Harriet's away.
Old Norman, and Kirkman, and Steiner, all three,
Go now where ye litt, ye are ufelefs to me.
My Helen too gone! for they read it between 'em,
St. James's who now shall read for me poft coenam?
I fmoke a dull pipe, then go lonefome to bed,
My Helen, alas! my kind Helen is fled.
I fear no hobgoblin, no robber, no fpright;
Yet, what is a man without wife in the night?
I wake in the morning and find the's away,
Then start from my pillow, for why should I stay?
LOND. MAG. Aug. 1783.

chickens

[pickings From thirteen eggs fet, and old Mary with Will furely provide them, the fays, please the dickins.

If ladies from every thirteen brought eleven
Sure earth would not hold them-I wonder would
Heaven.

from vice!

The laft and best news yet remains impart,
Your boy at the Charter-Houfe, boy of your heart,
Is in health and good fpirits-God fhield him
[him twice.
And I doubt not his fortune: I've hear'd from
Remember me kindly, in verfe or in profe,
To C-s, V-kes's, T- -ks, and H--ys's,
and thofe

Who afk after the Doctor-and fo here I clofe.

WIT

EPISTLE, II.

}

ITH me 'tis a rule no misfortune to
fear,
Until, looking up, I perceive it fo near
As to hit me a palpable box on the ear;
For nothing to folly's a nearer relation
Than feeling misfortunes by anticipation:
The bishop will tell you-nay, fo would a Soph,
Sufficient's the day for the evil thereof.
What, though the young urchin has brought me
no letter,

I fay, with Candide, it is all for the better.
I have heard from my nurfe-I remember it ftill,
That no news is good news; fo, fay what they will,
I'm refolv'd to believe, that, in cabin or houfe,
You are fnug, and as fafe, as in Pomfret a loufe.
If virtue and innocence (furely they are!)
Be aweful to men, and of angels the care,
What harm, guarded thus, can befall you, I wonder,
Though lightening, red lightening, fhould Hath,
and loud thunder

May roufe the pale guilty, and briftle their hair,
You're fafe; for your every thought is a prayer.
Old Neptune, I ween, is too gallant a God,
Not, amidit his fprat-pickling, to Vouche a nod,
To the nereids, a fignal to ceafe chert rude tolling
And flirting and flouncing, whilst laates are crof
fing.
S
* Vide Cotton's Virgil Travefty.

And

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And now for the news-but, before I begin, If, perchance, you should fee my good lord of [lefs inIn two words you may tell him-you can't fay it His fon fends his duty, and begs for his bleffing. Then tell him-I'm fure you may tell him with truth

I think on, with rapture, the days of our youth; When, fportive, we toy'd with the frolickfome

nine,

With Virgil, and Horace, and Homer divine; With mufick and George, with bassoon, and good wine.

But if he should ask you, when you came away What then was the credited news of the day? Why tell him, fince Foxes and Geefe have united, The Bulls and the Bears are most horribly frighted: Portend what it may, God avert the great evil! The index of wealth is gone down to the devil. And if, in difcourfe, he thould fay," After all, Of this kingdom, what cause is affign'd for the fall?"

I'd have you to whisper it foft in his ear,

As Mantua was once to Cremona too near
I wish not at Scotland to rail or to scoff [off!
But I wish to the Lord 'twere ten thousand miles
If news more domestick he afk, you may tell
That his friend D-r Tr is living and well;
A ftranger to sickness, compunction, and strife,
That he lives, like a man, every day of his life.
The urchip, God bless him! has brought me a
letter,

So full of good tidings, it could not be better.
Thank Heaven I know you got fafe to the head!
The clock has struck twelve, fo I'll haften to bed,
And dream of your welfare until it be day.
God blefs and protect you! 'tis all I can say.

ADDRESS TO MEDITATION.
more by ftormy passion toft,

Non disappointment's rugged coaft,
My weary foul returns to rest:
Too long th' impatient rover stray'd,
And gentle peace too long delay'd
To fmile on my distracted breast.
Solitude, conduct my feet,
To that unenvied calm retreat,
Where Meditation, nymph ferene,
Dwells in the woodland wild unfeen.

Thou lover of the lonely vale,
Thou meek-ey'd Meditation hail!
With thee, mild fpirit, let me stay;
And liften to thy converfe pure;
While no intrusive thoughts allure
My footstep from thy penfive way.
O, may thy native charms impart
Rapture to my confenting heart:
And guide my inexperienc'd youth,
To Wifdom, elder-born of Truth.
Cloth'd in the raiment of the sky,
When Wildom left her throne on high,
To fojourn for a time below:
And with exhilerating rays,
Detected Error's flowery maze,
That leads to the abyfs of woe;
ιστ
With the vale or woody glade,
The holy stanger often itray'd;
And, littening to thy placid lore,
Improv'd her beatific store.

Often as Cynthia's virgin light
Illumes the gloomy void of night,
What time her filver-axled car
Rolls fmoothly on the floor of heav'n;
Or when the fober-fuited even
Unmantles her attending ftar;
Remote from noife, and folly's child,
Loud Riot; in thy woodland wild,
Some chofen fifter of the nine
Deals thee her melody divine.
Invok'd by ev'ry folemn strain,
That flow'd on Mona's hallow'd plain,
Or by the Meinai's mystic shore
Where, bending from the cavern'd glade,
The oak with venerable fhade
Shelter'd the mufing druid hoar;
By thofe alluring notes of woe,
That, while the tears of pity flow,
The foul with pentive pleasure blefs,
Admit me to thy calm recess.

EPITAPH ON P. F. Efq. Quis defiderio fit pudor, aut modus, Tam chari capitis?

W

HOR.

Y.

their

'HEN titled ftatesmen render up breath, When laurel'd heroes feek the shades of death, Their every action penfion'd bards rehearse! What clime but ecchoes with their venal verfe? And fhall not virtue claim the heart-felt figh? Shall truth, thall honour, unlamented die? No---every mufe must weep at F-r's end: The kindeft father, and fincerest friend. Let not thy manes, facred shade! refuse, The unbought tribute of an honest muse; Who fcorns to flatter, and who afks no fame, But this to join with F- -r's praife, his name.

PROLOGUE

R. O.

To the Tragedy of CATO, acted at Mr. Macfarlan's School at Walthamnow.

Spoken by Mr. STEWART, And written by Mr. MACFARLAN. Fall the arts which this inventive age Contrives the public notice to engage, Not one appears a greater favourite grown Than lecturing-lecturing now's become the ton. In Hymen's temple its full power prevails In double meanings, fmutty jefts, and tales: It fhews in region higher whence and what The wond'rous tail of Katterfelto's cat; And with rare fkill and nicenefs afcertains The eels a drop of vinegar contains. May 1 for once without prefumption dare The mode adopt and take the Lecturer's chair? (Takes the chair.)

Doctors there are, whofe ftiff-neck'd zeal main[trains;

tains Schools should act none but Greek and Latin Cold tragic fcenes, in which no interest warms, And comic, where nor wit nor spirit charms. In other walks howe'er the ancients thone, Sure the dramatic art is all our own, Whence is it men, who Chriftians are by trade, Should thus embrace fuch an unchriftian creed,

And,

See Virgil's Eclogues.

And, to the Gospel while they all advise,
The Heathens only reckon good and wife?
Ladies, what's wort of all, this monkish tribe
By their vile Greek and Latin you profcribe;
For ftaunch good Proteftant reformers grown,
You will not liften to a tongue unknown.

Yet, 'twixt ourselves, few men are connoiffeurs ;
Their claffic fkill is not much more than yours.
Would you not stare, in elegiac line
Ne'er heard by Rome in Prologues, thould I whine?
Dulcius an quidquam eft auri, modo barbara non fit,
Quam funt bexametri pentametrique modi?
In prologis certe monachis placuere vetuftis;
Ad fomnos faciunt lenefluente fono.
Qua ftatuere patres, quamvis abfurda, tenenda
Sunt ipfis aris fortius atque faeis.

(Rifes up.)
How like you this? Does not plain Englith found
As sweet and natural on English ground?
What were your Latins but Italians all?
And can Italians ought but fing and fquall?
Such vig'rous offspring as your native ille's
But rarely shoots up in weak foreign foils.
Think you this thought proceeds from British
pride?

Liften to Addison, and then decide:
Warm'd by his lefions on this mimic stage,
And for his country fir'd with noble rage,
* Our former Cato crois'd the Atlantic main,
Your interest and your honour to maintain.
The mufe no more his generous foul could pleafe;
In war's alarms he fcorn'd ignoble ease:

Nor fcorn'd in vain; here taught the sword to wield,

He laurels cropt in Camden's glorious field.
Tho' young in arms, yet fraught with itoic lore,
He all extremes with manly fpirit bore.
Through dreary deferts, as he toil'd for fame,
His mind, nor cold, nor heat, nor want could tame;
And, when the vet'rans round him droop'd and
dy'd,

He always triumph'd at his leader's fide.
But now, alas! on damp Virginia's thore
At rest he fleeps, nor hears the cannon's roar.
In honour's bed he lies by Gauls o'erpower'd,
Where e'en Cornwallis yielded up his fword.
Peace to his manes! Heaven to him was just;
He faw not Britain's glories laid in dutt
Are we excus'd, if our young Cato's bier
Extort the tender fympathetic tear?
But hence, vain grief; no tears that we can fhed,
Will e'er recal him from his lowly bed,
Rather let his example us infpire
His steps to tread, and emulate his fire,
Here then we start, unpracticed in the course,
For on this spot he first effay'd his force,

EPILOGUE, Spoken by Mr. OLIVER, in the character of Marcia, and written by Mr. MACFARLAN.

WHY, as in France, will you not be polite,

And fave the trouble Epilogues to write? No canting Prologue there, with bow and ferape, The audience courts to let the piece escape.

Full of affurance and true Epic taste,
Their bards at once to the main fubject haste :
Confcious their child they can't themselves fup-
port,

They to the public charity refort;

As to the Foundling beaux fend brats with you, And petit-maitres to the Hotel-Dieu.

But, five long acts too short to vent your spleen,
You teaze your bards with an extraneous scene.
Your worthip's favour, humbly once befpoke,
Is not fecur'd without a clinching joke.
Why thus fo fhamefully profufe of verse
When every fubject's trite and wit so scarce?
Muft our young coalition dread a hiss,
If with a laugh we cannot you dismiss?
By you as jury, we as culprits try'd,
Trust that your verdict evidence will guide,
That to expofe us no infidious fcorner
Has in the Chronicle befpoke a corner;
As thus: "At Walthamstow (our devil track'd
it)

Laft night the play of Cato was enacted
By no King's band, but by Macfarlan's school,
And how-may be conceiv'd by any fool."
How will the world this inuendo fee?
They'll fhow, kind fouls, their ufual charity.
Without remorfe us actors they'll abuse,
Nor in their malice fpare our poet's mufe.
"Have you feen Cato, Madam? Had he me
rit?

Some grains-but like his hero, wanted spirit. And as for Marcia-what an awkward crea ture!

In all her face there was not one good feature. Though like some schools they did not whine and fing,

And still, upon the whole, 'twas not the thing."
When thus provok'd, we'll follow precedent,
And puffs on puffs shall to the prefs be fent.
In form of correfpondents we'll divide
The publick voice, or gain it to our fide.
"Were Cato's felf to rife up from the dead,
Or Quin again this mortal ftage to tread;
Such was our Cato's dignity and grace,
Such force his voice, fuch fpirit mark'd his face;
The first would fmile to fee himself surpast
By beardless youth, and envy burst the last.”

Here you diftinctly fee the puff direct,
And, ere you can have leifure to reflect.
While th' iron's hot, the anvil we will strike,
Ply you with puffs direct, and puffs oblique,
Till we rife up to the clear sky of fame,
And in our prefence every actor's name
Shall look like fix-pence to the moon's bright
flame.

Our men beyond theatric flights fhall foar,
As for our women, they'll do that-and more.
Portius a Garrick, Marcus better still,
Lucia a Siddons, Marcia-what you will,

But, jeft apart, thefe ftratagems of Drury,
We copy not, like others, I affure
ye.
As we nor + here nor + there extort applause,
To you elfewhere secure we trust our cause:
Howe'er we fare, no other court we call,
But by your judgment with to stand or fall.
LITERARY

S 2

• Mr. Guyon, who bore a part in all the hard fervice under Lord Cornwallis, and fell at York

Town, in Virginia,

+ Here the points to the actors behind the fcenes, and to the fcholars on the upper benches, alluding to the practice of clapping adopted by the boys of other schools, which was here forbid.

LITERARY REVIEW.

ARTICLE XI.

This great action, however, from time to time, is broken and interrupted by an infinitude of epifodes, and romantic adventures, artfully connected with each other, and interwoven with the general fable.

To thofe English readers who delight in works of genius, a tranflation that may render familiar in our language one of the firft poems of the fairy kind, one to which our great Spenfer has been fo largely indebted, must be confidered as a very confiderable acquifition.

ORLANDO Furiofo: Tranflated from the Italian of Lodovico Arifto; with Notes. By John Hoole. In five Volumes. 8vo. Payne. THE name of Hoole is fo well known as a tranflator, and as an original writer, that commendation feems almoft fuperfluous. His theatrical performances have received the applaufe of crowded audiences. His tranflation of Taffo (of which he hath lately pubfifhed a new edition with improvements) has long been admired by the literary world, while the critic has placed him in a rank infinitely higher than that held by Fairfax, or thofe piecemeal verfifiers, who have given an English drefs to various parts of the Jerufalem Delivered. His Metaftafio was not quite fo fuccefsful. We cannot, however, attribute it to any deficiency in the verfion, or any inability in the tranflator. The dramas of that charming Italian poet can never be thoroughly relished by mere English readers, who always in theatrical compofitions prefer plot and bufinefs, to elegance of language and beauty of fentiment. But to the work before us.

The Orlando Furiofo is a poem chiefly founded on the manners and fictions of chivalry, and was written by Ariofto, in continuation of Orlando Inamorato, another poem of the fame kind, fo called from the paffion of Orlando for the Princefs Angelica. This love is continued in the Poem of Ariofto, who makes the hero lofe his fenfes, and perform the moft extravagant acts of phrenzy. From this circunftance the poem derives its name, as we are informed by Mr. Hoole, in his preface.

The great action of Ariofto is the invafion of France by the Saracens, which concludes with the victory of the Christians, by the death or defeat of all the Pagan leaders.

Three centuries have nearly elapfed fince the name of Ariofto has been celebrated on the continent, and held in the higheft eftimation by every lover of Italian literature; but perhaps no author of equal and deferved reputation has been fo little known in this country to the ftudents in poetry, who feem to have been altogether unacquainted with the Orlando, a poem which amidst all the wildness of the moft irregular narrative, abounds with every beauty of a strong, vivid, and creative imagination.

In the year 1773, the prefent tranflator published one volume, containing the firft ten books of this work, he has now completed the whole of his laborious undertaking, by an entire verfion of this wonderful work, to which he has added large explanatory notes, which refer to thofe paffages and ftories of Boyardo, which have any connexion with Ariofto, and tend to explain the hiftorical characters and allufions that occur in the course of the poem.

In this edition the first volume is reprinted, with confiderable additions

in

For an account of Mr. Hoole's Cyrus, fee our Magazine for December, 1768, Vol. XXXVII, 617. For Timanthes, fee Feb. 1770, Vol. XXXIX. p. 59. For Cleonice, March 1775, Vol. XLIV. p. 106.

We propofe giving an account of this fecond edition, as the former was not reviewed in our Magazine.

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