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Come, mother, come ! no more indulge delay! Turn, O daughter, turn thy eyes,
Towards your Israel's pleasant land I long to bend Where Bethlehem's glittering spires arise-
my way.

How fair her flowery vales extend !

How bold her swelling hills ascend !
What means my daughter ? would she leave
Her friends of Moab for her loss to grieve?

Dear native soil ! do I again

Thy kindly breeze inhale ?

No air of any foreign plain Yes, mother, yes; with thee,

Could thus my sense regale.
Though faint from travel and from toil,

Each land will prove a native soil,
Each house a home to me!

Fair is thy land, O mother! wondrous fair! Companion'd with thee, as we journey along, My bosom from the view strange transport seems No time can be tedious, no road can be wrong!

to share.




By wedlock, Ruth, ally'd to thee,
Became a gift of Israel's tree-
So firmly fix'd, so strongly tied,
No storm can shake, no stroke divide !

New scenes, and new prospects, my spirit employ,

And with hopes of new happiness cheer me; My heart all enliven'd indulges its joy,

And some sudden blessing seems near me,


Yon portion fair of Moab's earth,

To Israel's Chosen Plant gives birth! Behold, my lovely child, behold,

Hence the mighty tree shall spring, Mow Bethlehem's streets at our approach pour The glory of the grove, of every tree the king!

forth their young and old !





Naomi?-lost and found again,
O welcome to thy native plain!

Raise all your voices, brethren, raise,
And bail your sister's glad return with gratulating


To the centre, shall reach the vast depth of his root!
To the stars, the vast height of his summit shall

Through the world, the vast length of his boughs

shall extend !
For their food, on his fruit, shall all nations de
pend !

Hail, mother of approaching grace!

Hail, parent of the promis'd race!
Far distant I see hini!—The young and the old
Rush to meet the Messiah, by prophets foretold!

The lame, with a bound,

Lightly leap from the ground;
The deaf run to hear, and the blind to behold

And the dead rise triumphant around!


Say, brethren, who is he that leads the throng,
And like a hero moves majestical along?


'Tis Boaz, Bethlehem's prince, your near alliedYour first of kindred by your husband's side !

His step is at a distance from thousands discern'd!
When he speaks in the gate, elders hear and grow

His couches are spread for the stranger's repose;
For the naked he shears, for the hungry he cows!
He stands like a tree in the midst of his ground,
With the widow and orphan rejoicing around!





Hail, mother of thy people!- this embrace
Bids thee thrice welcome to thy native place.
Oft have those arms my infant years caress'd,
And clasp'd thy little kinsman to thy breast !

Hail, son !-May Heaven in bounty heap on thee
Tenfold the blessings it has rent from me!


In this our present happy lot,
Be past calamities forgot !
But where is she, our new allied-
Of Moab's land so late the pride?

Lo, there! like a mist on the morning, her veil

Strives in vain to obscure her from sight;
It betrays what it mcans to conceal,

A beauty for vision too bright!

Britons! this night presents a state distress'd:
Though brave, yet vanquish’d; and though great,

Vice, rav’n ng vulture, on her vitals prey'd;
Her peers, her prelates, feil corruption sway'd:
Their rights, for puw'r, the ambitious weakly sold;
The wealthy, poorly, for superfluous gold.
Hence wasting ills, hence severing factions rose,
And gave large entrance to invading foes:
Truth, justice, honour, fed th' infected shore;
For freedom, sacred freedom, was to more.

Then, greatly rising in his country's right,
Her hero, her deliverer, sprung to light:
A race of hardy northern sons he led,
Guiltless of courts, untainted, and unread ;
Whose inborn spirit spurn’d th' ignoble fee,
Whose hands scorn'd bondage, for their hearts were

Ask ye, what law their conquering cause con-

Great Nature's law, the law within the breast;
Form'd by no art, and to no sect confin'd,
But stamp'd by Heav'n upon th' unletter'd mind.

Such, such, of old, the first-born natives were,
Who breath'd the virtues of Britannia's air,
Their realm when mighty Cæsar vainly sought;
For mightier freedom against Cæsar fought,
And rudely drove the fam'd invader home,
To tyrannise o'er polisb'd-venal Rome.

Our bard, exalted in a freeborn flame,
To ev'ry nation would transfer this claim :
He, to no state, no climate, bounds his page,
But bids the moral beam through ev'ry age.
Then be your judgment gen'rous as his plan;
Ye sons of freedom!-save the friend of man.

Thee, fairest Ruth, by Israel's law I claim,
A glad succeeder to thy husband's name !

Thrice bave the visions of the night
Brought to my view thy semblance fair, that fill'd

my tent with light!

If so your laws ordain,
Your handmaid will not of her lot complain.

RECITATIVE. HIGH PRIEST. Hear, men of Bethlehem, and rejoice! The Lord informs his servant's voice



To cast him up again-to bid him live,

And to the scene his form and pressure give.

Thus once-fam'd Essex at her voice appears, TO THE EARL OF ESSEX,

Emerging from the sacred dust of years.

Nor deem it much, that we retrace to night

A tale to which you have listen'd with delight. This night, to your free censure, are expos'd How oft of yore, to learned Athens' eyes, Scenes, now almost two hundred winters clos’d:

Did new Electras and new Phædras rise ? Scenes, yet, that ought to be for ever near,

In France, how many Theban monarchs groan To freedom sacred, and to virtue dear!

For Laius' blood, and incest not their own? Deep is the spring, whose stream this night we

When there new Iphigenias heave the sigh, draw ;

Presh drops of pity gush from ev'ry eye: Its source is truth'tis liberty made law:

On the same theme though rival wits appear, A draught divine to ev'ry generous breast; The heart still finds the syinpathetic tear. The cordial of the wretched of the bless'd !

If there soft pity pours her plenteous store, The juice, by which the strength of souls is fed ; For fa jied kings and empires now no more; Without whose aliment, who lives—is dead.

Much more should you—from freedom's glorious If aught is honest, noble, kind, or great,

plan, Which yet may give some British hearts to beat;

Who still inherit all the rights of manIf aught has been by mighty fathers won,

Much more should you with kindred sorrows glow Which yet descends to animate a son;

For your own chiefs, your own domestic woe; However weak the warmth, or dim the beam,

Much more a British story should impart
We show from whence the distant glory came;

The warmest feelings to each British heart.
And lead you backward, by the kindred ray,
To the full blaze of Britain's brightest day-
Elizabeth !-a light till then unknown,
The virgin sun, of truth's meridian, shone,

And in the subject's freedom fix'd a living throne.
Is there, to whom one privilege is sure,

Who holds fair property, as yet, secure?-
Is there, to whom religion stands endear'd,
So hardly rescued, so divinely clear'd ?--

CHARM'd to this spot, concurring to this night,
Is there, who claims, who feels, who prizes aught, Wide nations close, and centuries unite.
For which the hero bled, the patriot wrought? Scenes long eras'd, past ages rise to view, (you !
Elizabeth, as one inspiring soul,

Realms change their place, and time returns-for Reform'd, connected, and affirm'd the whole; The merchant, vent'rous in his search of gain, And sent the blessings down, through ev'ry reign, Who ploughs the winter of the boist'rous main, For you to clasp, to cherish, and retain !

From various climes collects a various store, Like Cynthia, peerless queen, supremely crown'd, And lands the treasure on his native shore. Her guardian constellations blaz'd around

Our merchant yet imports no golden prize, Selected chiefs, for council, as for fight;

What wretches covet, and what you despise ! Her men of wisdom, and her men of might; A differeut store his richer freight impartsWhose acts, illustrating our annals, stand | The gem of virtue, and the gold of hearts; The grace, the good, the glory of the land !

The social sense, the feelings of mankind,
For then no courtly faction stood confess'd And the large treasure of a godlike mind !
Who serv'd his country, serv'd his queen the best! When Westmorland, unhappy, brave, and great,
If yet, among those godlike men of old,

Appears conflicting with the pow'rs of fate,
Some taint of earth lay mingled with the mould; Guilty yet good, deserving yet forlorn,
On human frailty if misfortune grew,

And by the strife of warring passions torn
And sufferings, such as all who read must rue Although our author brings the distant woe,
Through time descending let the sorrow flow, From eyes that wept a thousand years ago,
And you who share the virtue, share the woe!

He claims your kindred tears for the distress'd,
Nor thinks one virtue foreign to your breast !

But when the bright Rowena shall appear,

First of her sex-except her rivals here-

No more let man assert his lordly claim,

No more presume to step the first for fame;

But to the fair their native rights allow,

Look round, and with becoming homage bow!
WHENE'ER the brave, the gen'rous, and the just,
Whene'er the patriot sinks to silent dust,
The tragic Muse attends the mournful hearse,

And pays her tribute of immortal verse.
Inspir'd by noble deeds, she seeks the plain,

In honour's cause where mighty chiefs are slain;
And bathes with tears the sod that wraps the dead, THERE was a time, these polish'd times preceding,
And bids the turf lie lightly on his head.

Ere our good sires of Britain-knew fine breeding; Nor thus content she opens death's cold womb, Ere honesty was elbow'd from the nation, And bursts the cearments of the awful tomb Or life's learn'd lie entitled “ Education."

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Bold Nature then disdain'd the mask of art; Whate'er of worth informs the social breast, Man, on his open aspect, wore his heart.

Upon humanity by Heaven impress'd, Passion then knew nor cover, nor control;

The sympathy that proves great souls of kin, Each action spoke the dictate of the soul:

The touch that tries the hidden gold within : Worth claim'd its triumphs, guilt confess’d its Whate'er of generous, courteous, fond and kind, stings,

Strikes the lim'd unison of mind to mind : And truth was known at courts--and told to kings! Whate'er may teach a virtuous eye to flow,

Such were your sires, humanely, nobly rude; For griefs that pass'd nine hundred years ago : And such the good old times, for you renew'd ! All those we bring-Confess to moderu eyes,

From the still regions of enduring night, The deed of fam'd antiquity shall rise : Our author calls the dead to life and light. Friends, lovers, heroes, patriots, to this stage He bids your hearts to heave, your eyes to flow, Shall come, from every land, from every age: O'er griefs that pass'd nine hundred years ago :

Old Time shall render, to your eyes and ears, Bids truth in person tread Hibemia's stage, The truths and trophies of four thousand years: And action preach her sermon to the age;

Cato again shall abdicate his tomb, The sermon to which Nature sets her seal

And Brutus strike for liberty and Rome! For none can doubt the doctrine that they feel.

Sweet as a field that vernal breezes fan, Sweet are emotions in the heart of man; Sweet are the tears of worth, the ties of kin,

And all the home-bred charities within !

When human feelings the warm breast inspire,
When pity softens, and when passions fire;

Then glows the mint of Nature, apt, refin'd,
And virtue strikes her image on the mind.

My term expir'd with this concluding play.
If the distinguish'd hero of this night

L’ve cast the buskin and the sock away.
Is urg'd to leap the sacred mound of right; No more to kindle the poetic rage,
If, wildly toss'd on passion's stormy wave,

Nor in mock-majesty to awe the stage,
He wrecks the country he was born to save;

The hero shrinks into his native spanKnow it is man's to err—and let that move,

This little sketch and miniature of man. To pity frailties that you can't approve.

“Where's Garrick?” says the beau: and as I pass, But when you see Rowena greatly soar,

To mark the noted insect-takes his glass, A height that virtue never dar'd before;

Plac'd in yon box, to publish my disaster, A summit, to aspiring man unknown,

“Mamma,"cries miss, “who is that little master?" And, first and last, achiev'd by her alone;

“Zounds!" says the captain,“what! is that Othello! Then turn, and in her sex the saint revere

Ha, ha, ha!
Then bend with reverence, to the chaste and fair ! “ A good joke, damme—a rare hulking fellow !"

Thus on defects I dare to build a name:
And imperfection gives me up to fame.

O, could iny stature with your bounty rise,

And swelling gratitude extend my size!

What ample measure would that change impart, FOR THE OPENING OF A THEATRE,

When every limb should answer to my heart.

Great are the favours which my soul a vows; When lazy moralists from cloisters taught

Great are the thanks with which your servant bows! The frosty precepts of unpractis'd thought, My faults are debtors to your generous senseHowe'er the judgment coldly was inform’d, Quick to observe, yet gracious to dispense ! No worth was kindled, for no heart was warm'd. And should I but presume that something, too, But when some good men to the public read Is to your judgment, to your justice due; The generous lecture of a life well led :

Blame not the vanity you kindly raise, When patriots stood for liberty and laws,

Sprung from your smiles, and heighten'd by your Or fell the victims of their country's cause :

praise !

(pole, Then hearts were taught to glow, and eyes to melt, Hail, generous isle! though neighbouring to the And hands to act the lesson that was felt.

Thy warmth is in the virtues of the soul ! In languid maxims, which we barely hear, Though clouds, above, may intercept the light: The voice of truth sounds distant to our ear; Below, thy sun of beauty cheers our sight! But action bids the substance to arise,

Where'er my distant fortunes may command, And gives the living beauty to your eyes.

sigh for thee as for my natal land. Hence was the stage, from earliest times, design's Or east, or west, howe'er the region lies, A vital school of virtue to mankind.

A country takes its name from social ties; In real life, if scant the good and fair,

The heart alone appoints its favourite place, If truth be foreign, and if worth be rare,

And I'm a native by your special grace. For these through ev'ry clime and age we steer; Then take the warmest wishes of my mindAnd thence unlade the precious purchase here! As your own favours, great and unconfin'd,

Though Time and Death have clos'd their ancient May peace and smiling pleasure, hand in hand, They bar their everlasting gates in vain- [reign, Walk the wide limits of your plenteous land ! The fatal valves shall to your eyes unfold,

May Gallia curse the day of William's' might, Recall the past and renovate the old :

And Chesterfield return to bless your sight!
And, from the realms of silence and of night,
Pour down a flood of eloquence and light.

William, duke of Cumberland.



He forms a model of a virtuous sort,

And gives you more of moral than of sport:

He rather aims to draw the melting sigh,

Or steal the pitying tear from beauty's eye:

To touch the strings that humanise our kind,

Man's sweetest strain, the music of the mind.

Ladies, he bids me tell you, that from you, "T is not a birth to titles, pomp, or state,

His first, his fav'rite character he drew : That forms the brave, or constitutes the great :

A young, a lovely, unexperienc'd maid,
To be the son of George's just renown,

In honest truth and innocence array'd;
And brother to the heir of Britain's crown, Of fortune destitute, with wrongs oppress'd,
Though proud these claims, at best they but adorn, By fraud attempted, and by love distress's :
For heroes cannot be, like princes, born:

Yet guarded still : and every suff'ring pass'd,
Valour and worth must consecrate their name, Her virtue meets the sure reward at last.
And virtue give them to the rolls of fame.

From such examples shall the sex be taught, Hail to the youth, whose actions mark this year, How virtue fixes whom their eyes have caught: And in whose honour you assemble here!

How honour beautifies the fairest face, 'T is not to grace his natal day we meet,

Improves the mien, and dignifies the grace. His birth of glory is the birth we greet.

And hence the libertine, who builds a name How quick does his progressive virtue run, On the base ruins of a woman's fame, How swift ascend to its meridian sun,

Shall own, the best of human blessings lie Before its beam the northern stórms retire, In the chaste honours of the nuptial tie: And Britons catch the animating fire.

There lives the home-felt sweet, the near delight, Yet rush not too precipitate, for know

There peace reposes, and there joys unite:
The fate you urge would prove our greatest foe, And female virtue was by Heav'n design'd
Religion, law, and liberty 's at stake,

To charm, to polish, and to bless mankind.
Repress your ardour for your country's sake,
The life you prize not, Britain may deplore,
And chance may take, wbat ages can't restore,
O! did the gallant Cumberland but head

Such troops as here our glorious William ' led !
Bold names, in Britain's history renown'd,
Who fix'd her freedom on Hibernian ground,

Till death, embattled for their country, stood,
And made the Boyne immortal by their blood. Whatall must come to!-what?-debate and strife!
Such were your sires, who still survive in fame; Must all wed plague and broils—who wed a wife?
Such are the sons who would achieve the same. If that's the sage conclusion of our poet,
Young William then should rival trophies raise, The man 's a fool-you happy husbands know it!
And emulate our great deliverer's days,

Your dames are form'd upon a gentler planBy equal actions win the like applause,

To sooth and smooth the rough-hewn mass of man; Alike their name, their glory, and their cause. To bid the tumult of your souls to cease, May Heav'n's peculiar angel shield the youth !

And smile your warring passions into peace. Who draws the sword of liberty and truth,

Like Rome's fam'd matrous, scorning all excess By him Britannia's injuries redress,

In mask or mummery, in dance or dress, And crown his toil, his virtue, with success,

Your wives are busied in the nobler cares Make him the scourge of France, the dread of Rome, Of planting their own virtues in your heirs, The patriot's blessing, and the rebel's doom. And scarce depart their house-except to prayers!

Then seize, Hibernia, seize the present joy, They neither take nor give the world a handle This day is sacred to the martial boy!

For tittle-tattle, gossiping, or scandal; The morrow shall a different strain require, And, as for that strange vice of gaming-lard ! When, with thy Stanhope 3, all delights retire, I dare be sworn, they scarce can tell a card. And (a long polar night of grief begun)

In times of yore, indeed, when 't was the fashion, Thy soul shall sigh for its returning sun.

And drums, routs, rackets, cards, the favourite


With ev'ry husband, gambling was the flame, PROLOGUE

And even their precious spouses-play'd the game.

Plumb, in the reigning vice, your statesmen jump; TO THE FOUNDLING.

And factions in rotation turn'd up trump:

Honours, on all hands, they agree to wave; UNPRACTIS'd in the drama's artful page,

Some play'd the fool, who meant to play the koave. And new to all the dangers of the stage,

The vizier, vers'd in all the gambling trade, Where judgment sits to save or damn his play, The court against bis simpler country play'd; Our poet trembles for his first essay.

But, dubious of the pow'rs that might withstand, He, like all authors, a conforming race ! He wisely kept the impending king in handWrites to the taste and genius of the place : The people thought the advantage somewhat hard; Intent to fix, and emuloas to please

But deem'd their Magna Charta a sure card! The happy sense of these politer days,

Now beats and bets all terms of truce confound;

Craft, perjury, prostitution, wait around; · King William III.

While high o'er head Astrea's beam behold, ? Lord Chesterfield left Ireland about this time. Weighing light conscience against pond'rous gold.

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