Here shall bright Genius wing his eagle flight,
Rich dew-drops shaking from his plumes of light,
Till high in mental worlds, from vulgar ken
the wonder and the pride of men.
Cold Censure here to decent Mirth shall bow,
And Bigotry unbend his monkish brow.
Here Toil shall pause, his ponderous sledge thrown by,
And Beauty bless each strain with melting eye;
Grief, too, in fiction lost, shall cease to weep,
And all the world's rude cares be laid to sleep.
Each polished scene shall Taste and Truth approve,
And the Stage triumph in the people's love.
Recited at the Opening of the new Philadelphia Theatre, 1822.
WHEN learning slumbered in the convent's shade,
And holy craft the groping nations swayed,
By dulness banned, the Muses wandered long,
Each lyre neglected, and forgot each song;
Till Heaven's bright halo wreathed the Drama's dome,
And great Apollo called the pilgrims home.
Then their glad harps, that charmed old Greece, they swept,
Their altars thronged, and joy's high Sabbath kept.
Young Genius there his glorious banners reared,
To float forever loved, forever feared.
The cowl's device, the cloister's legend known,
Old Superstition tumbled from his throne;
Back to his cell the king of gloom retired,
The buskin triumphed, and the world admired!
Since that proud hour, through each unfettered age,
The sons of light have clustered round the Stage.
From Fiction's realms her richest spoils they bring,
And Pleasure's walls with Rapture's echoes ring.
Here hermit Wisdom lays his mantle down,
To win with smiles the heart that fears his frown;
In mirth's gay robe he talks to wondering youth,
And Grandeur listens to the stranger, Truth.
Beauty, with bounding heart and tingling ear,
Melts at the tale to love and feeling dear.
Their sacred bowers the sons of learning quit,
To rove with fancy, and to feast with wit.
All come to gaze, the valiant and the vain,
Virtue's bright troop, and Fashion's glittering train;
Here Labor rests, pale Grief forgets her woe,
And Vice, that prints his slime on all below,
Even Vice looks on! - For this the Stage was reared, Το
Scourge the fiend, so scorned and yet so feared.
The halls of judgment, as the moral school,
His foot defiles, the bronzed and reckless fool;
God's lovely temple shall behold him there,
With eye upturned, and aspect false as fair;
Even at the altar's very horns he stands,
And breaks and blesses with polluted hands.
Then hither let the unblushing villain roam,
Satire shall knot its whip and strike it home.
The Stage one groan from his dark soul shall draw,
That mocks religion, and that laughs at law !
To grace the Stage, the Bard's careering mind
Seeks other worlds, and leaves his own behind;
He lures from air its bright, unprisoned forms,
Breaks through the tomb, and Death's dull region storms.
O'er ruined realms he pours creative day,
And slumbering kings his mighty voice obey.
From its damp shroud the long-laid spirit walks,
And round the murderer's bed in vengeance stalks.
Poor maniac Beauty brings her cypress wreath,
Her smile a moonbeam o'er a blasted heath;
Round some cold grave she comes, sweet flowers to strew,
And lost to Reason, still to Love is true.
Hate shuts his soul when dove-eyed Mercy pleads;
Power lifts the axe, and Truth's bold servant bleeds;
Remorse drops anguish from his burning eyes,
Feels hell's eternal worm, and, shuddering, dies;
War's trophied minion, too, forsakes the dust,
Grasps his worn shield, and waves his sword of rust,
Springs to the slaughter at the trumpet's call,
Again to conquer, or again to fall.
With heads to censure, yet with souls to feel,
Friends of the Stage! receive our frank appeal.
No suppliant lay we frame; acquit your trust;
The Drama guard; be gentle, but be just!
Within her courts, unbribed, unslumbering stand;
Scourge lawless Wit, and leaden Dulness brand;
Lash pert Pretence, but bashful Merit spare ;
His firstlings hail, and speak the trembler fair;
Yet shall he cast his cloud, and proudly claim
The loftiest station and the brightest fame.
So from his perch, through seas of golden light,
Our mountain eagle takes his glorious flight.
To heaven the monarch-bird exulting springs,
And shakes the night-fog from his mighty wings.
Bards all our own shall yet enchant their age,
And pour redeeming splendor o'er the Stage.
For them, for you, Truth hoards a nobler theme,
Than ever blessed young Fancy's sweetest dream.
Bold hearts shall kindle, and bright eyes shall gaze,
When Genius wakes the tale of other days,
Sheds life's own lustre o'er each holy deed
Of Him who planted, and of Him who freed.
And now, Fair Pile, thou chaste and glorious shrine, Our fondest wish, our warmest smile be thine; The home of Genius and the court of Taste, In beauty raised, be thou by beauty graced. Within thy walls may Wit's adorers throng, To drink the magic of the poet's song; Within thy walls may youth and goodness draw From every scene a lecture or a law. So bright the fane, be priest and offering pure, And friends shall bless, and bigot foes endure; Long, long be spared to echo truths sublime, And lift thy pillars through the storms of Time.
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