Classic Poem

TO THE VOICE OF NATURE ,

To strike the mind the Scenic Muse essays,
And levels her attacks a thousand ways, —
Suspence, surprise, sad dirges, thrilling airs,
Diction that glitters, Pageantry that glares; —
These are the Muse's feather'd shafts she flings,
To tickle judgment with the arrow's wings;
But when the Voice of Nature prompts her art,
She points the barb, and penetrates the heart.
These truths, from heavenly nature, Shakspeare knew;
She spoke, he echoed; she design'd, he drew!
Born in her school, bright Genius, from the bowers
Of Fancy, wreath'd his cradle round with flowers:
Now, Nature's pupil, fled by Nature's doom,
Leaves taste to scatter laurel on his tomb.
Since, then, our Drama's sun can cheer us yet,
With beams of glory from his golden set,
May not a lowly bard still catch a ray,
To light his feeble steps through Nature's way?
May not a lowly bard adopt a tale,
With truth and feeling fraught, tho' genius fail,
And make the Voice of Nature still prevail?
Where, where is nature with more force exprest,
Than in the fond babe-plunder'd mother's breast?
Where is a breast more dead to nature prov'd
Than his who sees that mother's pangs unmov'd!
That cause assails the human heart by storm,
Which pleads the ties of all in human form:
The grief-wrung female for her infant wild,
Harrows each parent, and affects each child;
Beneath your roofs her pictured anguish glides,
And brings the interest to your own fire-sides.
Britons! — to whom (though adamant in arms)
Domestic duties yield peculiar charms; —
Who, were those duties with less ardour known,
Might learn a sweet example from the Throne. —
Give your applause, to-night! — at least, be mild!
A Play, remember, is a Poet's Child.