Classic Poem

PERFORMED AT COVENT-GARDEN, IN 1798.

From Dryden's period to our present days,
Thus, would-be-critics censure modern plays:
Some are too dull, without intrigue or jest,
And some mere speaking pantomimes at best;
That living authors are by dead surpass'd,
So he must write the worst, who writes the last.
Still each new drama captiously they blame,
And, though the town be pleas'd, deny it fame.
Should such decisions be allow'd as just,
The bays denied the bard may grace his bust!
But if this taste for Antiques we pursue,
Age may improve wit, wine, and women too;
Our beaux will then neglect the young and fair,
And auburn tresses yield to hoary hair!
The blooming maid, with ev'ry charm and grace,
The dimpled cheek, the fascinating face,
With nature, truth, and honour by her side,
This taste may doom to be a weeping bride!
Youth will not charm, nor beauty hearts engage,
But love-sick grandmothers be all the rage!
One old opinion we will still retain,
The right that England has to rule the main.
Long as the sea shall fence our envied land,
Long as our navy shall that sea command:
So long shall Howe's, St. Vincent's, Duncan's name,
Be grav'd by mem'ry on the rock of fame!
The page of hist'ry shall their deeds repeat,
With Britain's triumph, and the foes defeat!
But ah! the pensive Muse, with tearful eye,
Views glory's brightest triumph with a sigh!
And 'midst the shouts victorious fleets attend,
Mourns o'er the ashes of an honour'd friend,
Who in his country's quarrel fought and bled,
By England number'd with her patriot dead!
May war's alarms 'twixt rival nations cease,
And all embrace that lovely stranger, peace;
Whose olive branch, once planted by her hand,
Shall bless a loyal, brave, and happy land!
This night our author's hopes on you are plac'd,
His former efforts by your smiles were grac'd:
To your decree submissively he bends,
Trusting his judges will be found his friends.