IN one dread night our city saw, and sigh’d, | |
| Bow’d to the dust, the Drama’s tower of pride; | |
| In one short hour beheld the blazing fane, | |
| Apollo sink, and Shakespeare cease to reign. | |
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| Ye who beheld (oh! sight admired and mourn’d, | 5 |
| Whose radiance mock’d the ruin it adorn’d!) | |
| Through clouds of fire the massive fragments riven, | |
| Like Israel’s pillar, chase the night from heaven: | |
| Saw the long column of revolving flames | |
| Shake its red shadow o’er the startled Thames, | 10 |
| While thousands, thronged around the burning dome, | |
| Shrank back appall’d, and trembled for their home, | |
| As glared the volumed blaze, and ghastly shone | |
| The skies, with lightnings awful as their own, | |
| Till blackening ashes and the lonely wall | 15 |
| Usurp’d the Muse’s realm, and mark’d her fall; | |
| Say—shall this new, nor less aspiring pile, | |
| Rear’d where once rose the mightiest in our isle, | |
| Know the same favor which the former knew, | |
| A shrine for Shakspeare—worthy him and you? | 20 |
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| Yes—it shall be—the magic of that name | |
| Defies the scythe of Time, the torch of Flame; | |
| On the same spot still consecrates the scene, | |
| And bids the Drama be where she hath been: | |
| This fabric’s birth attests the potent spell— | 25 |
| Indulge our honest pride, and say, How well! | |
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| As soars this fane to emulate the last, | |
| Oh! might we draw our omens from the past, | |
| Some hour propitious to our prayers may boast | |
| Names such as hallow still the dome we lost. | 30 |
| On Drury first your Siddons’ thrilling art | |
| O’erwhelm’d the gentlest, storm’d the sternest heart. | |
| On Drury, Garrick’s latest laurels grew; | |
| Here your last tears retiring Roscius drew: | |
| Sigh’d his last thanks, and wept his last adieu; | 35 |
| But still for living wit the wreaths may bloom, | |
| That only waste their odors o’er the tomb. | |
| Such Drury claim’d and claims—nor you refuse | |
| One tribute to revive his slumbering muse; | |
| With garlands deck your own Menander’s head! | 40 |
| Nor hoard your honors idly for the dead! | |
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| Dear are the days which made our annals bright, | |
| Ere Garrick fled, or Brinsley ceased to write. | |
| Heirs to their labors, like all high-born heirs, | |
| Vain of our ancestry as they of theirs; | 45 |
| While thus Remembrance borrows Banquo’s glass | |
| To claim the sceptred shadows as they pass, | |
| And we the mirror hold, where imaged shine | |
| Immortal names, emblazon’d on our line, | |
| Pause—ere their feebler offspring you condemn, | 50 |
| Reflect how hard the task to rival them! | |
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| Friends of the stage! to whom both Players and Plays | |
| Must sue alike for pardon or for praise, | |
| Whose judging voice and eye alone direct | |
| The boundless power to cherish or reject; | 55 |
| If e’er frivolity has led to fame, | |
| And made us blush that you forebore to blame; | |
| If e’er the sinking stage could condescend | |
| To soothe the sickly taste it dare not mend, | |
| All past reproach may present scenes refute. | 60 |
| And censure, wisely loud, be justly mute! | |
| Oh! since your fiat stamps the Drama’s laws, | |
| Forbear to mock us with misplaced applause; | |
| So pride shall doubly nerve the actor’s powers, | |
| And reason’s voice be echoed back by ours! | 65 |
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| This greeting o’er, the ancient rule obey’d, | |
| The Drama’s homage by her herald paid, | |
| Receive our welcome too, whose every tone | |
| Springs from our hearts, and fain would win your own. | |
| The curtain rises—may our stage unfold | 70 |
| Scenes not unworthy Drury’s days of old! | |
| Britons our judges, Nature for our guide, | |
| Still may we please—long, long may you preside. | |
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