ON THE

DEATH OF STEPHEN GREY, F.R.S.

THE ELECTRICIAN'.

LONG hast thou borne the burden of the day,
Thy task is ended, venerable Grey!

No more shall art thy dexterous hand require,
To break the sleep of elemental fire:

To rouse the powers that actuate Nature's frame,
The momentaneous shock, the' electric flame;
The flame, which first, weak pupil of thy lore,
I saw, condemn'd, alas! to see no more.

Now, hoary sage, pursue thy happy flight
With swifter motion, haste to purer light,
Where Bacon waits, with Newton and with Boyle,
To hail thy genius and applaud thy toil,
Where intuition breathes through time and space,
And mocks experiment's successive race;
See tardy science toil at Nature's laws,
And wonders how the' effect obscures the cause.
Yet not to deep research or happy guess
Is view'd the life of hope, the death of peace;
Unbless'd the man, whom philosophic rage
Shall tempt to lose the Christian in the sage;
Not art but goodness pour'd the sacred ray
That cheer'd the parting hours of humble Grey.

1 The sketch of this poem was written by Miss Williams, but Johnson wrote it all over again except two lines.

PROLOGUES.

TO IRENE.

YE glittering train! whom lace and velvet bless,
Suspend the soft solicitudes of dress;

From groveling business and superfluous care,
Ye sons of Avarice! a moment spare;
Votaries of Fame and worshippers of Power!
Dismiss the pleasing phantoms for an hour.
Our daring bard, with spirit unconfined,
Spreads wide the mighty moral of mankind.
Learn here how Heaven supports the virtuous

mind,

[sign'd. Daring, though calm; and vigorous, though reLearn here what anguish racks the guilty breast, In power dependent, in success depress'd. Learn here that peace from innocence must flow; All else is empty sound and idle show.

If truths like these with pleasing language join; Ennobled, yet unchanged, if nature shine: If no wild draught depart from reason's rules, Nor gods his heroes, nor his lovers fools: Intriguing wits! his artless plot forgive; And spare him, beauties! though his lovers live. Be this at least his praise; be this his pride; To force applause no modern arts are tried.

S

Should partial cat-calls all his hopes confound,
He bids no trumpet quell the fatal sound.
Should welcome sleep relieve the weary wit,
He rolls no thunders o'er the drowsy pit.
No snares to captivate the judgment spreads;
Nor bribes your eyes to prejudice your heads.
Unmoved, though witlings sneer and rivals rail;
Studious to please, yet not ashamed to fail;
He scorns the meek address, the suppliant strain,
With merit needless, and without it vain :
In Reason, Nature, Truth he dares to trust:
Ye fops, be silent! and, ye wits, be just!

SPOKEN BY GARRICK,

AT THE OPENing of the tHEATRE ROYAL, DRURY LANE, 1747.

WHEN Learning's triumph o'er her barbarous foes
First rear'd the stage, immortal Shakspeare rose;
Each change of many-colour'd life he drew,
Exhausted worlds, and then imagined new:
Existence saw him spurn her bounded reign,
And panting Time toil'd after him in vain.
His powerful strokes presiding truth impress'd,
And unresisted passion storm'd the breast.

Then Jonson came, instructed from the school,
To please in method, and invent by rule;
His studious patience and laborious art,
By regular approach, essay'd the heart:
Cold approbation gave the lingering bays;
For those who durst not censure, scarce could
praise.

A mortal born, he met the general doom,
But left, like Egypt's kings, a lasting tomb.

The wits of Charles found easier ways to fame, Nor wish'd for Jonson's art, or Shakspeare's flame. Themselves they studied; as they felt, they writ: Intrigue was plot, obscenity was wit.

Vice always found a sympathetic friend;
They pleased their age, and did not aim to mend.
Yet bards like these aspired to lasting praise,
And proudly hoped to pimp in future days.
Their cause was general, their supports were

strong;

[long: Their slaves were willing, and their reign was Till Shame regain'd the post that Sense betray'd, And Virtue call'd Oblivion to her aid.

Then crush'd by rules, and weaken'd as refined, For years the power of tragedy declined; From bard to bard the frigid caution crept, Till declamation roar'd whilst passion slept: Yet still did Virtue deign the stage to tread, Philosophy remain'd, though Nature fled. But forced, at length, her ancient reign to quit, She saw great Faustus lay the ghost of wit; Exulting Folly hail'd the joyous day, And pantomime and song confirm'd her sway. But who the coming changes can presage, And mark the future periods of the stage? Perhaps, if skill could distant times explore, New Behns, new Durfeys yet remain in store'; Perhaps where Lear has raved, and Hamlet died, On flying cars new sorcerers may ride;

1 Mrs. Behn was a writer of loose plays and novels, &c, and Tom Durfey was a facetious low dramatist.

Perhaps (for who can guess the' effects of chance?)
Here Hunt may box, or Mahomet may dance,
Hard is his lot that here by fortune placed,
Must watch the wild vicissitudes of taste;
With every meteor of caprice must play,
And chase the new blown bubbles of the day.
Ah! let not censure term our fate our choice:
The stage but echoes back the public voice;
The drama's laws the drama's patrons give;
For we that live to please, must please-to live.
Then prompt no more the follies you decry,
As tyrants doom their tools of guilt to die;
'Tis yours, this night, to bid the reign commence
Of rescued nature, and reviving sense;
To chase the charms of sound, the pomp
For useful mirth and salutary woe;
Bid scenic virtue form the rising age,
And truth diffuse her radiance from the stage.

of show,

SPOKEN BY GARRICK,

BEFORE THE MASQUE OF COMUS,

ACTED AT DRURY LANE THEATRE, FOR THE BENEFIT OF MILTON'S GRANDAUGHTER, APRIL 5, 1750.

YE patriot crowds who burn for England's fame, Ye nymphs whose bosoms beat at Milton's name, Whose generous zeal, unbought by flattering rhymes,

Shames the mean pensions of Augustan times; Immortal patrons of succeeding days,

Attend this prelude of perpetual praise;