Classic Poem

A comedy, in five acts

'Twas said, long since, by various moral sages
That man's short life comprises diff'rent ages;
From childhood first, to manhood we attain,
And then, alas! to childhood sink again.
The same progressions mark Dramatic taste,
When manhood 'twixt two infancy's is plac'd.
When first the scene, the moral world display'd,
The Muses limp'd without Mechanic Aid:
Then Bards and Monsters labour'd side by side,
And equal fame, and equal gains divide.
Together Actors, Carpenters rehearse,
And the wing'd Griffin helps the hobbling verse.
The saddest tale demands (the heart to seize)
Confed'rate lightning, and the show'r of peas;
Nor wit, nor pathos Audiences require,
But quaint conceits, and dragons, storms & fire.
At length Taste's manhood came, the Stage improv'd,
Without a Storm Monimia's sorrows mov'd;
Then Love and Valentine could charm the Fair,
Tho' not one Cupid dangled in the Air:
" To Scenic Monsters Bevil was preferr'd
Nor found a rival — in some fierce Blue-Beard. "
Th'empassion'd verse, Wit's pointed moral aim,
The Audience charm'd, and fix'd the Author's fame.
But all must change — behold the Muses mourn,
And, drooping, see Taste's infancy return;
Again the Bard calls forth red-stocking'd legions,
And show'rs of fire from the infernal regions;
Again, storms darken the Theatric sky,
And strung on ropes the fearful Cupids fly:
Again pale ghosts stalk tunefully along,
And end their visit, just as ends the song.
The siege, th'explosion, nightly concourse draws,
And Castles burn and fall — with vast applause!
To-night a female Scribe, less bold, appears,
She dreads to pull the house about your ears;
Her inexperienc'd Muse no plan durst form,
To raise the Spectre, or direct the Storm;
And if her pen no genuine plaudits steal,
From ears — to eyes she offers no appeal;
Her Muse, tho' humble, scorns extrinsic art,
And asks her meed — from judgment and the heart.