Classic Poem

A POEM ,

Respectfully inscribed to John P ALMER , Esq .

Manger of the Royalty-Theatre,

W ELLCLOSE -S QUARE .

B Y M ARIA F ALCONAR .

A TTEND my humble pray'r, harmonious maids,
That fill with hallow'd notes Pieria's shades;
You, who through heav'n's expanded regions fly,
And trace the mazes of the purple sky;
Or through the fair Aonian forest rove,
Or taste ambrosia with imperial Jove:
To you, celestial nymphs, alone belong,
The pride, the praise, the glory, of my song.

Lo, where yon structure, tow'ring o'er the land,
Rises obedient to a Palmer's hand:
The fane of genius, that shall still proclaim,
To many a future age, its founder's name.
Calm smil'd the heav'ns, and bade the morning hail,
Loading, with richest sweets, the balmy gale:
The genial sun display'd a brighter blaze,
And deck'd the infant pile with prosp'rous rays:
When envy, rising from the realms below,
Look'd round the world, her vengeance to bestow:
No little scheme of supercilious pride,
No mean, malicious, arts she left untry'd,
To injure Palmer's worth, and blot his name
From the bright annals of immortal fame:
But bright-ey'd genius view'd the dark intent,
And to the spheres his rapid course he bent.
There he beheld, enthron'd, bright Justice smile
On her lov'd land, Britannia's beauteous isle.
The tale with confidence he dar'd relate,
And urg'd her then to pity Palmer's fate;
The dame consents, to earth the spirit bends
His downward flight, and there his charge attends;
There, as Detraction threw the venom'd dart,
And Malice aim'd her poisons at his heart,
From scenes of bliss celestial Justice came,
For truth and virtue brought the shining dame;
Her angel-presence aw'd the servile crowd,
And all beneath the radiant vision bow'd;
The coward phantoms seem'd to fade away,
As midnight glooms before the rising day;
The fiends of envy fell, their murmurs cease,
And Discord's self was silenc'd into peace.

Arise, the radiant goddess said, and smil'd,
My dauntless hero and my fav'rite child;
Disdain their shafts, protected by my shield,
Assert thy rights, and nobly scorn to yield;
Yes, let thy virtues boldly stand the test,
Justice decrees, and Justice judges best;
Look round, my son, and gloriously rejoice,
To find thy merits sway the public voice;
With them those merits still unrivall'd stood,
And in their choice shall Malice sleep, subdu'd;
But, still more pleasing to reward thy toil,
From Britain's throne behold thy sov'reign smile;
Each loyal breast shall own the pow'rful sway,
And Britons think it glory to obey.

Hail, sacred monarch of this blissful land,
Where Commerce blooms beneath thy fostering hand;
Where white-rob'd Peace her olive wand extends,
And Conquest at the shrine of Mercy bends;
O gracious sov'reign, in whose ample soul
Benevolence maintains her soft controul;
Oh! bless'd with every virtue form'd to save
At once the great, the gen'rous, and the brave;
When fierce Bellona rais'd her blood stain'd hand,
And vengeance hurl'd on this devoted land;
When many a hero, on th'ensanguin'd field,
Pour'd out the noble soul that scorn'd to yield;
While the sad news returning vessels spread
Of some fond father, some lov'd brother, dead;
Each direful ravage of rebellious strife
In deeper horror sunk the weeping wife;
Each fatal stroke dissolv'd some tender tie,
And forc'd the tear from kind affection's eye;
'Twas George, all gracious, in that vengeful hour,
That sheath'd the sword of violence and of pow'r;
From grim Destruction's grasp fair Commerce tore,
And bade her blessings roll from shore to shore.

Now Poetry resumes the vocal lyre,
And warms each bosom with her native fire;
Music, emerging from her silent gloom,
In heav'n-born strains, salutes the crowded dome;
With taste and genius, wealth and splendour join,
And every bosom glows with bliss divine;
These are the pleasures that from peace we gain,
And these the blessings of a George's reign!

Be firm, my Palmer then, and greatly rise!
When Justice-gives the word, Detraction dies;
Still be the darts of calumny defy'd,
Nor fear to conquer by Astrea's side.
Methinks I see thy splendid fabric rise,
With every charm that genius still supplies;
Music awhile all sadness shall controul,
And swell to extacy the raptur'd soul;
All that can please the eye, or charm the ear,
With Fancy's visionary train appear.

Upon this stage, by mimic fate decreed,
Shall many a Caesar, many a Cato, bleed;
Her soul-felt woe some sweet Monimia tell,
And bid each breast with tender pity swell;
Some Romeo, with his gentle Juliet, die,
Or Sigismunda claim the heart-felt sigh;
Yet, while their fates shall bid our bosoms glow,
And teach the tear of sympathy to flow,
Each spark of virtue kindles in the soul,
And nobly flames, impatient of controul.
Nor laughing Comedy, with sparkling eye,
Sweet sprightly nymph, shall pass unheeded by;
Here shall she oft exert her mirthful pow'rs,
Her flowing tresses, wreath'd with blushing flow'rs;
Here paint full many a scene of pure delight,
As the pit shakes, and plaudits crown the night;
Nor can her winning precepts always fail,
If Palmer's eloquence enforce the tale.
These and like scenes, too various to proclaim,
Again shall celebrate a Shakespear's name;
O'er Congreve's urn immortal wreaths shall bloom,
While echo answers from a Dryden's tomb;
And gentle Addison, sweet bard, divine,
In brightest beams of radiant fame shall shine;
While scenes of frantic melting woe portray'd
Shall soothe unhappy Otway's pensive shade.

Here paus'd the dame, nor could the tale relate,
'Twas Justice dropp'd a tear on Otway's fate:
Ah! gentle bard, who knew, like thee, to move
The tear of pity or the pang of love?
Why was the power bestow'd on thee alone,
To rule our passions, not subdue thy own?
To bid mankind of folly's paths beware,
Yet fall thyself the victim of her snare?

The goddess ceas'd, and, o'er the mimic scene,
Breath'd a sweet grace, and cast a smile serene;
Then gently wav'd her hand, and bade adieu,
And fled to realms, too bright for mortal view.
Yet Justice still on genius shall attend,
And Palmer boast Astrea for his friend.
And, oh! ye souls, possess'd of gen'rous worth,
Crush not the opening blossom in its birth;
For, gently nourish'd by your fost'ring pow'r,
'Twill sweetly bloom, a fair and fragrant flow'r.
Here some sweet bard, whose fortune frown'd unkind,
A sure asylum in this fane shall find;
Whose modest merits the stern hand of pride,
Or want, had crush'd, or envy strove to hide;
Thy judgement may a better fate allow,
And fix the laurel on his injur'd brow;
So may the muses ever love thy fame,
And genius smile, enraptur'd, at thy name;
So shall some loftier bard thy worth admire,
And tune to sweeter strains the golden lyre!