Classic Poem

OF THE THEATER-ROYAL

While to your charms unequal verse I raise,
Aw'd I admire and tremble as I praise;
Here Art and Genius new refinement need,
List'ning they gaze, and as they gaze recede!
Can Art or Genius, or their pow'rs combin'd,
But from corporeal organs sketch the mind?
When sound embody'd can with shape surprise,
The Muse may emulate your voice and eyes.
Mark, rival arts perfection's point pursue!
Each rivals each but to excel in you!
The bust and medal bear the meaning face,
And the proud statue adds the posture's grace;
Imag'd at length, the bury'd Heroine, known,
Still seems to wound, to smile or frown in stone!
As art would art, or metal stone surpass,
Her soul strikes, gleaming, thro' Corinthian brass!
Serene the saint in smiling silver shines,
And cherubs weep in gold o'er sainted shrines!
If long-lost forms from Raphael's pencil glow,
Wondrous in warmth the mimic colours flow;
Each look, each attitude, new grace displays;
Your voice and motion life and music raise.
Thus Cleopatra in your charms refines;
She lives, she speaks, with force improv'd she shines!
Fair, and more fair, you ev'ry grace transmit;
Love, learning, beauty, elegance, and wit.
Caesar, the world's unrival'd master, fir'd,
In her imperial soul his own admir'd!
Philippi's victor wore her winning chain,
And felt not empire's loss in Beauty's gain.
Could the pale heroes your bright influence know
Or catch the silver accents as they flow,
Drawn from dark rest, by your enchanting strain,
Each shade were lur'd to life and love again.
Say, sweet Inspirerl were each annal known,
What living greatness shines there not your own!
If the griev'd Muse by some lov'd empress rose,
New strength, new grace, it to your influence owes;
If Pow'r by war distinguish'd height reveals,
Your nobler pride the wounds of Fortune heals.
Then could an empire's cause demand your care,
The soul that justly thinks would greatly dare.
Long has feign'd Venus mock'd the Muse's praise;
You dart, divine Ophelia! genuine rays.
Warm thro' those eyes enliv'ning raptures roll,
Sweet thro' each striking feature streams your soul!
The soul's bright meanings heighten beauty's fires;
Your looks, your thoughts, your deeds, each grace inspires!
Know, then, if rank'd with monarchs here you
What Fate declines you from the Muse demand;
Each grace that shone of old in each fam'd fair,
Or may in modern dames refinement wear;
Whate'er just, emulative, thoughts pursue,
Is all confirm'd, is all ador'd, in you!
If godlike bosoms pant for pow'r to bless,
If 'tis a monarch's glory to redress;
In conscious majesty you shine serene,
In thought a heroine, and in act a queen.

While arts improve in this aspiring age,
Peers mount the coach-box, horses mount the stage,
And waltzing females with unblushing face
Disdain to dance but in a man's embrace,
While arts improve and modesty is dead,
Sound sense and taste are like our bullion, fled.