PROLOGUE.
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able; it was withdrawn for the season; and possessing perhaps no inherent vitality, lost place upon the stage.
The following is Malone’s chief contribution; but Courtenay, being idle or otherwise occupied, left half the epilogue also to him:—
PROLOGUE TO “JULIA, OR THE ITALIAN LOVER.”
From Thespis’ day to this enlightened hour
The Stage has shown the dire abuse of power;
What mighty mischief from ambition springs,
The fate of heroes and the fall of kings.
But these high themes, howe’er adorned by art,
Have seldom gained the passes of the heart.
Calm we behold the pompous mimic woe,
Unmoved by sorrows we can never know.
For other feelings in the soul arise,
When private griefs arrest our ears and eyes;
When the false friend, and blameless suffering wife,
Reflect the image of domestic life.
And still more wide the sympathy, more keen,
When to each breast responsive is the scene;
And the fine chords that every heart entwine
Dilated vibrate with the flowing line.
Such is the theme that now demands your ear,
And claims the silent plaudit of a tear;
One tyrant passion all mankind must prove,
The balm or poison of our lives—is love.
Love’s sovereign sway extends o’er every clime,
Nor owns a limit or of space or time;
For love the generous fair one hath sustained
More poignant ills than ever poet feigned;
For love the maid partakes her lover’s tomb,
Or pines long life out in sad soothless gloom;
Ne’er shall oblivion shroud the Grecian wife
Who gave her own to save a husband’s life.
With her contending see our Edward’s bride,
Imbibing passion from his mangled side;
Nor less, though proud of intellectual sway,
Doth haughty man this tyrant power obey—
From youth to age by love’s wild tempest tossed;
For love e’en mighty kingdoms have been lost!
Vain—wealth and fame, and fortune’s fostering care,
The Stage has shown the dire abuse of power;
What mighty mischief from ambition springs,
The fate of heroes and the fall of kings.
But these high themes, howe’er adorned by art,
Have seldom gained the passes of the heart.
Calm we behold the pompous mimic woe,
Unmoved by sorrows we can never know.
For other feelings in the soul arise,
When private griefs arrest our ears and eyes;
When the false friend, and blameless suffering wife,
Reflect the image of domestic life.
And still more wide the sympathy, more keen,
When to each breast responsive is the scene;
And the fine chords that every heart entwine
Dilated vibrate with the flowing line.
Such is the theme that now demands your ear,
And claims the silent plaudit of a tear;
One tyrant passion all mankind must prove,
The balm or poison of our lives—is love.
Love’s sovereign sway extends o’er every clime,
Nor owns a limit or of space or time;
For love the generous fair one hath sustained
More poignant ills than ever poet feigned;
For love the maid partakes her lover’s tomb,
Or pines long life out in sad soothless gloom;
Ne’er shall oblivion shroud the Grecian wife
Who gave her own to save a husband’s life.
With her contending see our Edward’s bride,
Imbibing passion from his mangled side;
Nor less, though proud of intellectual sway,
Doth haughty man this tyrant power obey—
From youth to age by love’s wild tempest tossed;
For love e’en mighty kingdoms have been lost!
Vain—wealth and fame, and fortune’s fostering care,
