I hear the soldiers and the clarions roar,
And see the battle enters at the door,
Some two distinguish'd chiefs decide the cause,
Who like true heroes bleed to gain applause.
Porters in red with brandish'd whinyard vie,
Fight as good friends, and for their living die;
Here some the sabre's blunted terrors wield,
There javelins splinter on the sun-bright shield,
Their foils clash horrible, their faulchions jar,
A harmless hubbub, and a pointless war;
Each chief submits to what his roll decrees,
Or conquers bravely, or as bravely dies.
Meanwhile with throats expansive, visage glum,
Legions of stentors trumpet, shout, and drum,
Sound an alarm, retreat, rout, rally, overcome.

So have I seen, when custard was the prize, Whole troops of trencher-men and trainbands rise, Like more than men with formidable pride, Charge to the promis'd dinner up Cheapside, Present their pieces, pop, huzza around,

And shake themselves, and shake the smoaking ground.

Say, whence their armor, whence the cask enchas'd
With beamy gems, the cuirass richly lac'd,
The waving plumage, and the burnish'd crest?
Say, whence the coat of mail, the temper'd spear?
Say, whence the hero's helm, the king's tiar,

And whence in gory robes assassin'd spectres glare?

High o'er the stage there lies a rambling frame, Which men a garret, players the tire-room name; Here all their stores (a merry medley) sleep, Without distinction huddled in a heap.

Hung on the self-same peg, in union rest
Young Tarquin's trowsers and Lucretia's vest,
Whilst, without pulling coifs, Roxana lays
Close by Statira's petticoat her stays.
Hard-by a quart of bottled lightning lies,
A bowl of double use, and monstrous size;
Now rolls it high, and rumbles in its speed,
Now drowns the weaker crack of mustard-seed.
So the true thunder, all array'd in smoak,
Lanch'd from the skies now rives the knotted oak,
And sometimes, nought the drunkard's prayers avail,
Ah! sometimes condescends to sour ale.

Near these sets up a dragon-drawn calash,
There a ghost's doublet gapes a frightful gash.
In crimson wrought the sanguine floods abound,
And seem to gutter from the streaming wound,
Here Iris bends her various-painted arch,
There pasteboard clouds in sullen order march;
Here stands a crown upon a rack, and there
A witch's broomstick by great Hector's spear;
Here stands a throne, and there the Cynic's tub,
Here Bullock's cudgel, there Alcides' club.
Beads, plumes, and spangles, in confusion rise,
Whilst rocks of Cornish diamonds reach the skies.

Crests, corselets, all the pomp of battle join,
In one effulgence, one promiscuous shine.

Hence all the Drama's decorations rise,
Hence Gods descend majestic from the skies,
Hence Playhouse Chiefs, to grace some antique tale,
Buckle their coward limbs in warlike mail.
With what an air, from this their magazine
Equipp'd, old Betterton adorn'd the scene!
Old Betterton, on whose seraphic tongue
Mirth, majesty, and fluent satire hung;
He, by Religion a Tragedian made,

Play'd virtuous parts, and liv'd the parts he play'd.
He florish'd long; and long deliberate Fate
Spar'd him, in pity to the Tragic State.

At length he fell; decay'd the Stage's pride,
The Laureat sicken'd, and the Scribbler died;
For if the first a piece consummate drew,
From him each graceful stroke receiv'd its due;
Nor could the last so bad a scene indite,
But his judicious action set it right;

Still, at the worst or best of plays, the town
With pleasure listen'd to their Betterton.

So in the senate, be it to declare

A well-concerted peace, or dreadful war,
The same delight, the same applause, is shown
By Anna's peers, when Anna mounts the throne.

With other looks, yet scarce inferior grace, Nokes trod the stage, and shambled in his pace. Pleasant buffoon! to what an artful screw His wither'd chops the merry whoreson drew! What pencil can describe his grotesque mien, The cuckold's sneaking leer, the noncon grin, The wire-hung limbs, sunk eyes, and peeked chin! Thus furnish'd, thus deform'd, thus bent with age, With feeble steps he limp'd across the stage, There, drawing nonsense from his haggard jaws, Dispell'd the spleen which Betterton had caus'd. In Homer thus the slave and hero charms; Thersites pleases, but Achilles warms.

Still may you live, immortal Actors, crown'd, Still may your praise from pole to pole resound, For still you live-in dust the vulgar lie,

But never must theatric heroes die;

Secure of fame, the stroke of fate they brave,

As if, by acting Death, they learn'd to mock the

grave.

Whilst Shakspere's, Dryden's, Rowe's, and Otway's

name,

Are sung, and florish in the book of fame ;
Barry and Bracegirdle shall share their praise,
And live for ever in the Poet's lays.

Here would I settle, here my fancy raise, And ransack Waller to complete their praise: Powell forbids; and, with a haughty tone

Frowning, demands to have his merits known.
And great they are, and worthy to be sung;
But oh! still dwelling on their owner's tongue;
Big as the voice of war he mouths his roll,
Each accent twangs majestically full.
When Alexander dies, he gives the fair
Tortures as great as those he seems to bear;
When Oedipus rends forth his eyes, with tears
Each sorrowing beauty almost puts out hers;
When, by Hermione's disdain undone,
Distraction seizes Agamemnon's son,

With artful rattling wheeze, he draws his breath,
Seems in the very agonies of death;

He foams, he stares, he storms a madding note,
And all the Fury thunders in his throat.

A godlike air, quick eye, and accent smooth, With all the manly graces, shine in Booth.

Bless'd with an aweful port and lordly mien, The pleas'd spectator dreads a king in Keene.

Not so in airy Wilks; with cheerful grace, The careless rake sits sparkling in his face.

Others there are, whose voice and gesture claim

In pompous verse a never-dying fame :

Others there are-but how should we describe

The various beauties of the distant tribe?

We hop'd, alas! we hop'd a nearer view,