Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, EPILOGUE TO THE THEATRICAL SEASON, by ROYALL TYLER


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

EPILOGUE TO THE THEATRICAL SEASON, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: The season's closed, the benefits are over
Last Line: Nor aim to praise him who's beyond all praise.
Alternate Author Name(s): Old Simon; S.
Subject(s): Actors & Actresses; Criticism & Critics; Theater & Theaters


OR, A REVIEW OF THE THESPIAN CORPS

Tu, quid ego et populus mecum desiderat, audi.
Hor. Ar. Poet.

THE season's clos'd, the benefits are o'er,
And heroes, heroines, strut the stage no more:
Kings, clowns, lords, lovers, virgins, matrons, queens,
No more adorn, no more disgrace the scenes.
Swords, foils, hats, helmets, sceptre, crown, and globe,
Are stuff'd promiscuous, in the old wardrobe,
Where tragick buskins, comick socks are pack'd,
Or sent to KENNY to be soal'd or tapp'd.
Theatrick lords, whose pride no power could stem,
Are dwindled down to very common men;
And royal dames, who erst the pit could charm,
Now wash old laces, or old stockings darn.
Great Ataliba, CHILD OF THE BRIGHT SUN,
Is now poor simple Mr. DICKENSON:
Proud Alexander, who the world o'erran,
Is T. A. COOPER, a mere gentleman:
USHER no more harrangues Rome's rascal many,
And gracious Duncan is -- ungracious Kenney.
The rival queens, who nobly daring, tried
To conquer him who conquer'd all beside,
Now cease to rage; hush'd is the tragick strife,
Lost in the matron and the duteous wife.
But the stage virtues still in some are seen;
What charm'd the publick charms the private scene.
A Belvidera still in POWELL see;
Enchanting Hester, DARLEY, lives in thee: --
The tripping DARBY still the air may saw;
Great Sysigambis is great Mrs. SHAW.
The season's clos'd, the benefits are done,
And all the players' occupations gone:
Gone are the comick grin, the tragick rage;
E'en native HASSAM'S fled the lonely stage:
The curtain's dropp'd -- and now, to be in vogue,
All that remains is this sweet epilogue.

Come then, my Muse, the Thespian corps review;
Come, give to merit praises justly due;
Come, let no worth escape thy peering eyes,
Though hid amidst a thousand faults it lies;
For who's so mean, in nothing to excel,
When even MILBOURNE shines in Bagatelle!
Come then, my Muse, thou meek-eyed, dove-tongued maid,
Come, call thy sister Candour to thy aid,
And, as I bid the rouge-cheek'd corps pass by,
Come, note their merits with thy critick eye;
Each fault correct, with thy sweet smiling frown,
And grace the worthiest with thy laurel crown.

See, at my call the motley train advance,
Some walk, some limp, some fidget, and some dance,
Some fence, some sing, some laugh, some deeply sigh,
Some grin, some chatter, and some bleed and die.
All show their powers in all their various ways,
To gain thy favour and secure thy bays.

Pray who is she that's foremost in the race,
With clear starch'd elbows stiffen'd into grace,
Whose comely form between her arms appears
Like a young rose-tree, propp'd by espaliers?
Is this Malvina, Oscar's graceful fair?
Sure Ossian's heroes had a taste most rare!

But lo! what majesty of flesh appears!
What rippling gutturals grate our ravish'd ears!
The solid loves on thy plump person wait,
Great ton of beauty, graceful by gross weight.
O had old Falstaff had of thee a view,
He'd quit mine Hostess and Doll Tearsheet too.
Squab dove of love! thine is the comick mien
To strike broad humour from the saddest scene.
See thy own Agatha -- Oh, hear her groan,
"Consumptive sufferer, worn to skin and bone;"
While moping melancholy grins with glee,
To hear her hectick groans and look at thee.

Now speak, my Muse, resolve me, if you can,
Is this an actor -- or a clock work man?
With measur'd step he paces o'er the stage,
Looks grave by rule, and even smiles by gage.
Say, it is Nature moves the buckram fop?
Sure 'tis the nature of a barber's block --
A mere automaton -- a walking staff --
A pasteboard actor, with a wooden laugh.
In some museum quickly see him plac'd,
With straw-stuff'd apes and petrifactions grac'd,
Where BOWEN'S bees-wax beaux will joy to see
That they excel him in vivacity.

The bounding time see agile DARBY beat,
And shame the musick with her fairy feet;
In rustick hop, in courtly saraband,
In varying hornpipe, or in ballet grand,
Still, still she charms, and still our hearts shall warm,
While graceful movements have the power to charm.
But, not content to dance into our hearts,
The dancing DARBY dances all her parts:
Should faithful love her suitor's bosom wring,
DARBY returns it with a pigeon wing;
Chassees a fit, and rigadoons a swoon,
And promenades it to a lover's tomb.

From that base throng, who ply beneath the stage,
The refuse of the play-house and the age;
From that base throng, who wait upon their betters,
Who murder murderers and carry letters;
From that base throng, who in lac'd liveries shine,
Or spoil the parts of beasts in pantomine,
Shift scenes, light lamps, and swell a prince's train,
Or in some doughty battle, act men slain;
From that base throng, my Muse, there's one steps forth,
And claims the laurel due to his known worth.
Pray who art thou, that dares the laurel claim?
State thy pretensions, and declare thy name.
"'Tis modest worth commands the impartial Muse -- "
Stay -- now I know thee by thy yellow shoes!
Whether thou murder'd Banquo in dark hour,
Or kill'd the royal infants in the tower;
Whether upon the stage I saw thee go,
Or, condescending, snuff the lamps below;
Where'er thou went, thy merits were not hid,
Still, still I knew thee by thy yellow kid.
Then hear, great ruffian, hear the Muse proclaim
The gory honours of thy bloody fame --
MORGAN'S all perfect -- thus proclaims the Muse;
A perfect ruffian, all -- except his shoes.

Hark, hark! what strains upon the breezes float!
The wild winds pause to catch each fleeting note.
To DARLEY, sure, those potent strains belong,
That mighty master of the powers of the song:
Manly, though soft; mellifluous, though clear;
Correct, yet wild, he charms the enchanted ear.
"Let Fame sound the trumpet," and Candour proclaim,
That DARLEY'S unrivall'd in song-singing fame.

The favour'd lover pleasing DARLEY plays
In style as happy as his favourite lays,
'Tis false ambition thy desire awaits,
To copy COOPER or to mimick TWAITS;
Believe me, DARLEY, that I tell you true,
To sing and love is all that you can do.

But zounds! what different sounds confound the ear!
Is this indeed a human voice I hear?
Or rusty hinge or some old creeking gate?
Or some knife scratching on an earthen plate?
Or Indian pappoose yell? or scolding squaw?
Or smoking Dutchman, whetting cross-cut saw?
Or those fam'd mousers, twin-tied by the tail,
Which show'd where BILLINGS' musick was for sale?
Is this the voice of that stout man of size?
Lend me thy handkerchief to rub my eyes.
I beg thy pardon, Muse, I had forgot it --
You're in the fashion, girl, and have no pocket.
Is this the voice of that stout reverend youth?
It seems the echo of his hollow tooth.
O KENNY, KENNY! didst thou know thy powers,
Thou'dst rival GARRICK on this stage of ours:
Play apparitions, witches, spectres, ghosts,
Hobgoblins, furies, and enchanted posts,
Whose dismal screams and horrid shrieks foretel[l]
The deadly voices come from lowest hell:
Here you must shine, since 'tis by all confest,
Who speaks most horrid's sure to speak the best.

Te he -- ha ha -- oh look -- ha ha -- O see
That soul of humour and that life of glee!
I die with laughter -- all my strength subsides --
Oh hold me -- hold me -- I shall split my sides.
Come forward, TWAITS -- thou drollest child of fun;
Thy looks are jokes, thy very steps a pun.
Come forward TWAITS, I know thee for the same,
Droll as thy phiz, and funny as thy name.
Let others mouth the ponderous tragick page,
With blood and carnage smear the frighted stage;
By deep distress the moral lesson scan,
And teach us virtue from the woes of man:
Thou grotesque child of whim, still be it thine
With "quips and cranks and wanton wiles" to shine;
With squint-eyed satire, a bad age reclaim,
And vice and folly laugh to open shame.

Come, come, sweet Muse, give TWAITS thy laurel crown --
But whence thy pretty, prudish, sugar'd frown?

"The sacred laurel must not be debas'd,
"Nor on a zany actor's noodle plac'd."

But yet, sweet Muse, in Caleb Quotem's wig,
For love of fun -- O stick one little sprig!

Ha! who comes now, to vex the scar'd beholder,
With mouth, like French horn, sounding o'er one shoulder!
Commodious splay mouth, surely well applied
To speak -- in play-book phrase -- a speech (asides);
What wry renown would to thee, USHER, cling,
"The little farthing rush-light" wouldst thou sing.

But see, two females every grace impart,
The fair associates of the scenick art;
Pride of the stage and pride of private life,
Whether beheld as actress, mother, wife.
'Tis not the thundering clap, the gallery's roar,
The cheering whistle, or the loud encore,
Which crown the actress with a favourite's name;
'Tis private virtue gives their palm of fame.
Oh could those "frail impures," who heedless make
Their pearls the banquet of the swinish rake,
Once know the pain that men of sense endure
When virtuous speeches flow from lips impure;
Or the deep interest which we all possess;
When real virtue acts the feign'd distress;
They'd seek the homage to your virtues due,
Reform their manners and soon copy you.

And first of these, attractive DARLEY see,
The graceful daughter of simplicity.
Thine is the art, sweet actress -- not the art --
No -- simple nature moves thy feeling heart;
She gives to all you act that magick charm,
Which chains attention and all hearts can warm:
In craz'd Ophelia speaks the maniack mind;
Smiles the gay look of sportive Rosalind;
'Twas nature's voice, when fair Virginia sung;
The Voice of Nature is thy mother's tongue.
But yet the lynx- eyed Muse espies one blot,
On thy bright sun she notes one single spot; --
With folded hands see Rosamunda stands:
Ah me! how pretty are her folded hands?
Enchanting attitude, which Nature draws --
Pit, boxes, gallery, bellow out applause.
With varied voice, which can all hearts control,
With various movements to entrap the soul,
With air, face, person, shape, and blooming age,
With powers to grace with novelty the stage,
Do not lov'd actress, while each heart expands,
Forever bore us with your folded hands.
But if this gentle hint won't make you screen 'em,
Oh, take the gentle poet in between 'em!

But next the chasten'd POWELL steps serene,
Correct in motion, utterance, looks and mien;
Never o'erstepping nature's modest aims,
And always acting up what nature claims:
No passion tearer on a ranting stage,
No screaming favourite of a tasteless age,
Sporting no jokes to show a meagre wit,
Or tricksey arts to catch a tittering pit;
Content each character to represent,
And simply show us what the author meant.
What though thy scenick pencil oft portrays
Fine strokes of nature lost to common gaze?
The purblind many can't read nature's line,
Unless in lamp-black capitals it shine.
What though less frequent shouts thy worth reward,
And the house slumbers when it should applaud?
Be thine the approving smile of all the chaste,
Thine the proud plaudit of the man of taste.

But, last of all, see COOPER grace the stage --
COOPER -- "the pride, the wonder of our age!"
Here place the laurel, crown him with thy bays,
Nor aim to praise him WHO'S BEYOND ALL PRAISE.





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