To Mr. DERRICK,
Upon his recalling his Orders against dancing Minuets in Sacks.
ODE for his MAJESTY's Birth-day, June 4, 1766:
AIL to the man, fo fings the Hebrew bard,
Whofe numerous offspring grace his genial board;
Heaven's faireft gift, Heaven's best reward,
To thofe who honour, who obey his word.
What shall he fear tho' drooping age
Unnerve his ftrength, and pointlefs finks his fpear;
In vain the proud, in vain the mad fhall rage;
He fears his God, and knows no other fear.
Lo! at his call a duteous race
Spring eager from his lov'd embrace,
To fhield the fire from whom their virtues rofe;
And fly at each rever'd command,
Like arrows from the giant's hand,
In vengeance on his foes.
So Edward fought on Creffy's bleeding plain,
A blooming hero, great beyond his years,
So William fought-bút ceafe the ftrain,
A lofs fo recent bathes the mufe in tears.
So fhall hereafter every fon,-
Who now with prattling infancy rélieves
Those anxious cares which wait upon a throne,
Where, ah too oft, amidst the myrtles, weaves
The thorn its pointed anguish-So
Shall every youth his duty know
To guard the Monarch's right, and people's weal
And thou, great George, with just regard
To Heaven, fhalt own the Hebrew bard
But fing the truths you feel.
Bleft be the day which gave thee birth!
Let others tear the ravag'd earth,
And fell Ambition's powers appear
In ftorms, which defolate the year.
Confefs'd thy milder virtues fhine,
Thou rul'ft indeed, our hearts are thine.
By flender ties our kings of old
Their fabled right divine would vainly hold.
Thy jufter claim ev'n Freedom's fons can love,
The King who bends to Heav'n, muft Heaven itself approve.
O DE for His MAJESTY's Birth-Day.
Performed at the Caftle of Dublin, on the fourth of June.
Where e'er Hibernia's tuneful lyre is ftrung,
Let Royal GEORGE's birth be fung;
By honeft gratitude infpir'd,
Let every loyal heart be fir'd,
And with an undiffembling voice,
Awak'd by duty and by choice,
Let all the fons of Liberty rejoice.
But fee, that name immortal to adorn,
What future crowds fhall yearly tribute pay:
Think, mighty PRINCE, what numbers yet unbora
Shall blefs the dawn of this aufpicious day.
Fir'd with the thought, the mufe, transported, flies
Thro' the bright fcenes of ages yet to rife,
In ev'ry region charm'd to find
Her King inroll'd
With chiefs of old,
A fisherman I would not live,
Who labours in the pathlefs deep;
Whose cruel art is to deceive,
Whofe dwelling is a brittle fhip.
Let me my bleating ewes attend,
(Harmless my (elf, and blefs'd as they);
With them my morning-fteps I'll bend,
With them I'll wait the clofing day.
Now, underneath a plane-tree laid,
Or careless by a lulling ftream,
Let me enjoy the cooling fhade,
Or fweetly fink into a dream.
OW to the rofy-finger'd train of May,
At length the dreary hours of winter yield:
No more the hoar-froft chills the new-born day,
No more the wild winds blast the flow'ry field.
Now from yon orchard, lovely to the fight!
A balmy fragrance breathe the zephyrs bland !
While in luxuriant foliage, proudly dight,
The facred fathers of the forest stand,
Behold yon pine, that lifts its filver head,
Deep in the bofom of the pathless glade:
Who now, to wander where its branches spread,
Will quit the fragance of the vernal shade ?
Yet when the blooming beauties of the wood,
By winter chill'd, their leafy glories yield, "
Thy boughs fuperior to the ftorm have stood,
And flourish'd, verdant ’midst the ruffet field.
Mindful of this, my votive hands fhall cull
Each product fair of April's fruitful fhow'rs,
From each gay fhrub its blushing honours pull,
And on thy branches hang the various flow'rs,'
And here, when Phoebus gilds the rifing day,
I'll often ftrike with grateful hand the lyre;
And thou, 'midft vernal groves, fhalt hear a lay,
Which friendship, faith, and conftancy inspire,
PROLOGUE Spoken by Mr. POWELL, and faid to be written by on the opening of the Bristol Theatre.
EFORE you fee, one of your ftage-directors;
Or, if you pleafe, one of thofe ftrange projectors,
Whofe heated brain, in fatal magic bound,
Seeks for that ftone which never can be found:
But in projection comes the dreadful stroke,
The glaffes burst, and all is bounce and smoke!
Though doubtful ftill our fate-I bite my thumbs,
And my heart fails me-for projection comes;
Your fmiles would chace our fears- -ftill I could dream,
Rich as a Nabob, with my golden scheme!
That all the world's a stage, you can't deny;
And what's our fiage?- ——a shop——I'll tell you why:
You are the customers, the tradefmen we;
And well for us, you pay before you
We give no truft, a ready money trade;
Should you stop payment, we are bankrupts made.
To feast your minds, and foothe each worldly care,
We'll LARGELY traffic in dramatic ware;
Then fwells our fhop, a warehouse to your eyes,
And we, from small retailers, merchants rife!
From Shakespear's golden mines we'll fetch the ore,
And land his riches on this happy shore!
For we, theatric merchants, never quit
His boundless ftores of univerfal wit!
But we, in vain, fhall richly-laden come,
Unless deep water brings us fafely home;
Unless your favour in full tides will flow,
Ship, crew, and cargo, to the bottom go!
Indulge us then, and from our hearts receive
Our warmeft wishes ;--all we have to give.
May honour'd commerce, with her fails unfurl'd,
Still bring you treasures from each diftant world;
From Eaft to Weft, extend this city's name,
Still to her fons increafing wealth with fame,
And may this merit be our honest boast,
To give you pleasure, and no' virtue loft!
N days of yore, it was a conftant rule,
That ev'ry Knight should have his 'Squire and Fool :
When forth the Hero went, they follow'd after-
Qne bore his fhield; the other rais'd his laughter;
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