SPOKEN AT THE OPENING OF THE BOSTON THEATRE.
ONCE more, kind patrons of the Thespian art,
Friends to the science of the human heart,
Behold the temple of the Muse aspire,
A Phoenix stage, which propagates by fire!
Each fault rescinded, and each grace renewed,
By magick reared, and with enchantment viewed,
Our dome, new mantled, 'mid its ravaged wall,
Stands, like Antæus, stronger by its fall;
And like Creusa's ghost, in Trojan strife,
Its spectre rises larger than its life!
Ye, who have oft with pleased observance traced
Each latent charm our mimick life has graced;
Whose hearts yet ache, when Retrospection views
The woes and wanderings of the scenick Muse;
Since from the cradle of her young renown,
Her infant warblings lured the listening town,
To that dark era, when one luckless hour
Her empire ravaged, and dethroned her power,
Till proudly towering o'er the Gothick waste
Through chaos smiled this paradise of taste.
The mystick maids, who here unite their reign,
Whom bards and actors oft implore in vain,
With Truth's warm rapture, bid you welcome all,
Gents, belles, and godships, to their fairy hall;
Where Shakespeare's spirit, who delights to flit
O'er criticks' noses, snoring in the pit,
Like Hamlet's father, armed from casque to sandals,
Shall "visit oft the glimpses of" our candles!
If blest by those kind smiles, whose beams impart Pulse to the brain, and vigour to the heart, The Drama now her languid powers will rear, The laugh awaken, and exhale the tear; Correct, yet animate, she aims to join Salvator's clouds with Hogarth's waving line, And hopes, aspiring, by your favour warmed, Again to charm you, as she once has charmed.
Nor need her friends, with Fear's retorted glance,
Recall the horrors of her late mischance,
When wrapt in bursting flames, and awful gloom,
She saw her temple mouldering to her tomb!
No more shall Nero's ravished eye behold
The usurping element these walls enfold;
Nor shall one tear from houscless Genius start,
To glut the savage pleasure of his heart!
To guard our fane, Apollo tuned his lyre, And leagued the gods of water and of fire;
Crumped Vulcan deigned his Cyclop den to quit,
And clothe in Panoply the Dome of Wit;
While Neptune gave an urn, of such vast use,
'Tis always filling, like the widow's cruse !
Now, (heaven forbid!) by hidden ways and means, Should whelming fire again invest our scenes, Lest on your heads the blazing roof should fall, We'll spring the Aqueduct, and drown you all! "I'll burn first, smoke me," cries a spruce young bobby, "Splash me, I shan't be fit to walk the lobby!
"If roast or drown's the word, your fire commence, Sir, "That clownish water always spots my spencer !"
How wise men differ! Water, some would think,
Would wash away the stain of taylor's ink!
But don't swoon, beaus! another mode we'll try,
To save our lives, and keep your ruffles dry.
From fire and water your escape is certain ;
Your shield of safety is—our Iron Curtain!
Ladies and gentlemen, iny duty claims
To tell you, that our Stage is all in flames!
The fire, though strange to you the sight might be,
First caught Mont Blanc, and then burnt up the sea;
The actors, like Octavian from his cave,
Rush from the Green-room, not to help, but rave;
While each one scampers in the other's way,
Like fops' umbrellas in a rainy day!
But let no-belle in sweet hystericks fall;
Our Iron Curtain will protect you all!
In elder time, when first the Stage was reared,
'Twas nursed by patriots, and by traitors feared;
Its glowing scenes, the fire of States supplied,
For Valour's praises waked Ambition's pride;
And still the Drama, with corrected zeal,
Exists an engine of the publick weal.
Smeared with sedition, should the hand profane
Of plotting knaves, our nation's Chief arraign,
The indignant Stage would glory in the task,
From lurking demagogues to strip the mask;
Drag the dark traitor into publick shame,
And nail him to the pillory of Fame !
In such a cause, the powers of verse would rise,
'Till seared, and headless, Faction's hydra dies;
And the stern eagle would suspend his wing,
To listen, while the federal Muses sing.
No scite of clime can long protect a race,
Whose souls are reckless of their realm's disgrace.
Bid stormy oceans roll, and mountains rise,
Faction will cross them, and pollute your skies;
Her cursed miasma speeds its fatal way,
The gale impregnates, and attaints the day;
Her subtle root with equal vigour strikes,
In Gallia's hotbed, or in Holland's dykes.
On coldest shores, her rank luxuriance grows,
As Hecla flames 'mid Thule's endless snows.
Where laws are fashioned by the publick will, The helm of state demands a master's skill. The social compact is a bond so weak, The feuds of party can the cement break;
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