Yet, Haftings, these are they
Who challenge to themselves thy country's love; The true; the constant: who alone can weigh, What glory fhould demand, or liberty approve! But let their works declare them. Thy free powers, The generous powers of thy prevailing mind, Not for the tasks of their confederate hours, Lewd brawls and lurking flander, where defign'd. Be thou thy own approver. Honest praise
Oft nobly fways
Ingenuous youth:
But, fought from cowards and the lying mouth,
Praife is reproach. Eternal God alone
For mortals fixeth that fublime award.
He, from the faithful records of his throne,
Bids the hiftorian and the bard
Difpofe of honor and of fcorn;
Difcern the patriot from the flave;
And write the good, the wife, the brave,
For leffons to the multitude unborn.
THE END OF BOOK THE FIRST
REMONSTRANCE OF SHAKESPEARE:
Supposed to have been spoken at the Theatre Royal, while the French Comedians were acting by Subscription.
F, yet regardful of your native land,
Lo, from the blissful bowers where Heaven rewards
Inftructive Sages and unblemish'd Bards,
I come, the ancient founder of the stage,
Intent to learn, in this difcerning age,
What form of wit your fancies have embrac'd,
And wither tends your elegance of taste,
That thus at length our homely toils you spurn,
That thus to foreign scenes you proudly turn,
That from my brow the laurel wreath you claim
To crown the rivals of your country's fame.
What, though the footsteps of my devious Muse
The measur'd walks of Grecian art refuse?
Or though the frankness of my hardy ftyle
Mock the nice touches of the critic's file?
Yet, what my age and climate held to view,
Impartial I furvey'd and fearless drew.
And fay, ye fkillful in the human heart,
Who know to prize a Poet's nobleft part,
What age, what clime, could e'er an ampler field
For lofty thought, for daring fancy, yield?
I faw this England break the fhameful bands
Forg'd for the fouls of men by facred hands:
I faw each groaning realm her aid implore;
Her fons the heroes of each warlike shore:
Her naval standard (the dire Spaniard's bane)
Obey'd through all the circuit of the main.
Then too great commerce, for a late-found world,.
Around your coaft her eager fails unfurl'd:
New hopes, new paffions, thence the bofom fir'd;
New plans, new arts, the genius thence infpir'd;
Thence every scene, which private fortune knows,
In ftronger life, with bolder fpirit, rofe.
Difgrac'd I this full profpect which I drew ?
My colours languid, or my ftrokes untrue?
Have not your fages, warriors, fwains, and kings,
Confefs'd the living draught of men and things?
What other Bard in any clime appears
Alike the mafter of your fmiles and tears ?
Yet have I deign'd your audience to entice
With wretched bribes to luxury and vice?
Or have my various fcenes a purpose known
Which Freedom, Virtue, Glory, might not own?
Such from the first was my dramatic plan;
It fhould be yours to crown what I began :
And now that England fpurns her Gothic chain,
And equal laws and focial science reign,
I thought, Now furely fhall my zealous eyes
View nobler Bards and juster Critics rife,
Intent with learned labour to refine
The copious ore of Albion's native mine,
Our stately Mufe more graceful airs to teach,
And form her tongue to more attractive speech,
Till rival nations liften at her feet,
And own her polifh'd as they own'd her great.
But do you thus my favorite hopes fulfil?
Is France at laft the ftandard of your skill?
Alas for you! that fo betray a mind
Of art unconfcious, and to beauty blind.
Say; does her language your ambition raife,
Her barren, trivial, unharmonious phrafe,
Which fetters eloquence to fcantieft bounds,
And maims the cadence of poetic founds?
Say; does your humble admiration chufe
The gentle prattle of her Comic Mufe,
While wits, plain-dealers, fops, and fools appear,
Charg'd to fay nough but what the king may hear?
Or rather melt your sympathizing hearts
Won by her tragic fcene's romantic arts,
Where old and young declaim on soft defire,
And heroes never, but for love, expire?
No. Though the charms of novelty, a while,
Perhaps too fondly win your thoughtless fmile,
Yet not for you defign'd indulgent fate
The modes or manners of the Bourbon ftate.
And ill your minds my partial judgment reads,
many an augury my hope misleads,
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