But when the howling whirlwinds rise,
When mountain billows threat the skies;
With ribs of oak the bark must brave
The inroad of the furious wave;
The hardy crew must to the raging wind
Oppose the sinewy arm, th' unconquerable mind
In every clime where ocean roars,
High though thy naval banners flew ;
From where by Hyperborean shores
The frozen gale ungenial blew,
To sultry lands that Indian surges lave,
Atlantic isles, and fam'd Canopus' wave;
Though from insulted Egypt's coast
Thy armies swept the victor host,
From veteran bands where British valour won,
The lofty walls of Ammon's godlike son:
Useless the danger and the toil
To free each self-devoted soil,
Auxiliar legions from thy side
Recede to swell the Gallic conqueror's pride :
While on Marengo's fatal plain,
Faithful to honour's tie, brave Austria bleeds in vain.
Not fir'd by fierce Ambition's flame,
Did Albion's monarch urge his car
Impetuous through the bleeding ranks of war,
To succour and protect his nobler aim.
His guardian arm, while each Hesperian vale,
While Lusitania's vine-clad mountains hail
Their ancient rights and laws restor❜d,
The royal patriot sheaths th' avenging sword;
By heaven-born Concord led, while Plenty smiles,
And sheds her bounties wide to bless the sister isles.
ODE for his Majesty's BIRTH DAY, 1802. By the Same,
N° The fiery battle's iron show'r,
O more the thunders of the plain,
Terrific, drown the duteous strain
That greets our monarch's natal hour;
Peace, soaring high on seraph wings,
Now strikes her viol's golden strings;
Responsive to the thrilling note,
Symphonious strains of rapture float.
While grateful myriads in the pean join,
And hail her angel voice, and bless her form divine.
Through many a whirlwind's blast severe,
The rage of elemental war,
Stern heralds of the op'ning year,
Sol urges on his burning car;
Though dark the wint'ry tempest lours,
Though keen are April's icy show`rs,
Still, still his flaming coursers rise,
Till high in June's refulgent skies
'Mid the blue arch of heav'n he victor rides,
And spreads of light and heat the unextinguish'd tides.
Glory's true sons, that hardy race,
Who bravely o'er the briny flood,
Smiling serene in danger's face,
Uncheck'd by tempest, fire and blood,
Britain's triumphant flag unfurl'd,
The terror of the wat'ry world,
Now freely to the fav'ring gale
Of commerce spread the peaceful sail,
And friendly waft from ev'ry shore,
Where ocean's subject billows roar,
The gifts of Nature, and the works of toil,
Produce of ev'ry clime and ev'ry soil.
The genius of the sister isles
On the rich heap exulting srailes,
"Mine the prime stores of earth's remotest zone,
"Her choicest fruits and flow'rs, her treasures all my own,"
Nor second you 'mid glory's radiant train,
Who o'er the tented field your ensigns spread :
Whether on Lincelles' trophied plain
Before your ranks superior numbers fled;
Or on lerne's kindred coast
Ye crush'd invasion's threat'ning host;
Or on fam'd Fgypt's sultry sands
The banner tore from Gallia's vet'ran bands;
Your sinewy limbs with happier toil
Now till your country's fertile soil,
Mow with keen scythe the fragrant vale,
Or whirl aloft the sounding flail,
Or bow with many a sturdy stroke,
King of our groves, the giant oak;
Or now the blazing hearth beside,
With all a soldier's honest pride,
To hoary sires and blooming maidens tell
Of gallant chiefs who fought, who conquer'd, or who fell.
Yet in the arms of peace reclin'd,
Still flames the free, the ardent mind;
And should again sedition's roar,
Or hostile inroad threat our shore,
From labour's field, from cominerce' wave,
Eager would rush the strong, the brave,
To form an adamantine zone
Around their patriot monarch's throne.
But long with plenty in her train
May Concord spread her halcyon reign,
And join with festive voice the lay sincere
'hich sings th' auspicious morn to Britain ever dear.
PROLOGUE to the First Part of Shakespeare's Henry the Fourth. ren in the Character of Falstaff, at Drury-Lane Theatre, by Mr. Stephen emble, whose remarkable Obesity precluded the Necessity of stuffing.
FALSTAFF here to-night, by nature made,
A your bard his pund nous aid;
No man in buckram he! no stuffing gear!
No feather-bed-nor e'en a pillow-bier!
But all good honest flesh and blood, and bone,
And weighing, more or less, some thirty stone.
Upon the Northern coast, by chance, we caught him,
And hither, in a broad-wheel'd waggon, brought him;
For in a chaise the varlet ne'er could enter,
And no mail-coach on such a fare would venture:
Blest with unwieldiness, at least, his size
Will favour find in every critic's eyes;
And should his humour, and his mimic art,
Bear due proportion to his outward part,
As once 'twas said of MACKLIN, in the Jew-
This is the very Falstaff Shakespeare drew.
To you, with diffidence, he bids me say,
Should you approve, you may command his stay,
To lie and swagger here another day.
If not, to better men he'll leave his sack,
And go, as ballast in a collier, back.
PROLOGUE to Urania, a Drama written by the Hon. Mr. SPENCER, and acted at Drury Lane with considerable Applause.
By the Right Hon. Lord JOHN TOWNSHEND.
HO' rigid Truth in narrow bounds confine
The tame historian's limited design;
Tho' hence the cold philosopher may draw
Sage maxims founded upon reason's law;
Not so the poet checks his bolder fires ;
Full is the bard whom sober sense inspires!
Th' unshackled Muse disdains such vulgar rule,
And claims prescriptive right-to play the fool.
Shall then fastidious spleen, with critic spite,
Presume to censure what it fears to write?
Shall captious wits, to modern genius foes,
The rich improvements of the stage oppose?
The public palate, saucily 'tis said,
Glutted with offal, is on garbage fed:
And soon, cry these alarmists of the stage,
(Who hope the mischiefs that their fears presage)
Soon, one and all, Box, Gallery, and Pit,
The stage itself, will loathe the name of wit;
Day after day, our Spectre dramas cramm'd
With heav'nly spirits, or with goblins damn'd-
Of tame extravagance a cumb’rous mass,
That barren brains on patient fashion pass→→→
By low Phantasmagoria farce debas'd,
The dull Lyceum of degenerate taste!
With these, a flimsy, flippant tribe combine➡
Authors-who blush to throw their pearls to swine;
Vain of the triumphs of rejected plays,
And talents, never mortified by praise :
Humbly who vaunt, who haughtily confess
Their tasteful toils uninjur'd by success ;
Seldom insulted by a three days run,
And complimented often with-not one.
Who, lur'd by dreams of posthumous applause,
With preface-pertness reassert their cause!
Or, rash forestallers of disgraceful fame,
With bolder zeal anticipate their shame :
Glow-worms of wit, expos'd to light, they fade;
But shine and sparkle in their native shade!
Their boast, their proud distinction, not to please,
Hooted and hiss'd, they calmly sit at ease;
While conscious genius happily supplies
Th' impartial justice that the world denies.
We modest play'rs; by your protection nurst,
Who hope the best, yet always fear the worst,
Prudent, we venerate the public voice;
The standard of our judgment is your choice.
Our piece to-night may brave the critic host;
In truth, URANIA is but half a ghost;
Of fairy form, but not of spectre brood,
A living vision, warm with vital blood!
Critics, ungentle critics, be polite !
O, if not fond, be civil the first night!
Then comes the test!-then comes URANIA's danger!
Then-when the lady is no more a stranger!
by the late Right Honourable W. HUSSEY BURGH, Lord Chief Baron of the Exchequer of Ireland. (Never published.)
Recited at the London Tavern, on Mr. PITT's Birth Day, 1802, attri buted to the Right Honourable George Canning.
F hush'd the loud whirlwind that ruffled the deep,
The sky if no longer dark tempests deform;
When our perils are past, shall our gratitude sleep?
No-Here's to the pilot that weather'd the storm!
At the footstool of power let flattery fawn;
Let faction her idols extol to the skies;
To virtue, in humble retirement withdrawn,
Unblam'd may the accents of gratitude rise!
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