When fainting Nature call'd for aid,

And hovering Death prepared the blow, His vigorous remedy display'd

The power of art without the show. In misery's darkest cavern known, His useful care was ever nigh, Where hopeless Anguish pour'd his groan, And lonely Want retired to die. No summons mock'd by chill delay, No petty gain disdain'd by pride; The modest wants of every day

The toil of every day supplied.

His virtues walk'd their narrow round,
Nor made a pause, nor left a void;
And sure the' Eternal Master found
The single talent well employ'd.

The busy day, the peaceful night,
Unfelt, uncounted, glided by;

His frame was firm, his powers were bright,
Though now his eightieth year was nigh.
Then with no fiery, throbbing pain,

No cold gradations of decay,
Death broke at once the vital chain,
And forced his soul the nearest way.

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
[sign'd.
Daring, though calm; and vigorous, though re-
Learn 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.

mind,

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;

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