Classic Poem

As when the Merchant, to increase his store,
For dubious seas, advent'rous quits the shore;
Still anxious for his freight, he trembling sees
Rocks in each buoy, and tempests in each breeze;
The curling wave to mountain billows swells,
And ev'ry cloud a fancied storm foretells:
Thus rashly launch'd on this Theatric main,
Our All on board, each phantom gives us pain;
The Catcall's note seems thunder in our ears,
And ev'ry Hiss a hurricane appears;
In Journal Squibs we lightning's blast espy,
And meteors blaze in every Critic's eye.

 Spite of these terrors, still some hopes we view,
Hopes, ne'er can fail us—since they're plac'd—in you.
Your Breath the gale, our voyage is secure,
And safe the venture which your Smiles insure;
Though weak his skill, th' advent'rer must succeed,
Where Candour takes th' endeavour for the deed.
For Brentford 's state, two Kings could once suffice;
In our's, behold! four Kings of Brentford rise;
All smelling to one nosegay's od'rous savour,
The balmy nosegay of—the Public Favour.
From hence alone, our royal funds we draw,
Your pleasure our support, your will our law,
While such our Government, we hope you'll own us;
But should we ever Tyrant prove—dethrone us.

 Like Brother Monarchs, who, to coax the nation,
Began their reign, with some fair Proclamation,
We too should talk at least—of Reformation;
Declare, that during our Imperial sway,
No Bard shall mourn his long-neglected Play;
But then the Play must have some wit, some spirit,
And We allow'd sole umpires of its merit.

 For those deep Sages of the judging Pit,
Whose taste is too refin'd for modern wit,
From Rome 's great Theatre we'll cull the piece,
And plant, on Britain 's Stage, the flow'rs of Greece .

 If some there are, our British Bards can please,
Who taste the ancient wit of ancient days,
Be our's to save, from Time's devouring womb,
Their works, and snatch their laurels from the tomb.

 For you, ye Fair, who sprightlier scenes may chuse,
Where Music decks in all her airs the Muse,
Gay Opera shall all its charms dispense,
Yet boast no tuneful triumph over Sense;
The nobler Bard shall still assert his right,
Nor H ANDEL rob a S HAKESPEARE of his night.

 To greet their mortal brethren of our skies,
Here all the Gods of Pantomine shall rise:
Yet 'midst the pomp and magic of machines,
Some plot may mark the meaning of our Scenes;
Scenes which were held, in good King Rich 's days,
By Sages, no bad Epilogues to Plays.

 If terms like these your suffrage can engage,
To fix our mimic Empire of the Stage;
Confirm our title in your fair opinions,
And croud each night to people our Dominions.