PROLOGUE TO ZOBEIDE,

A TRAGEDY; WRITTEN BY JOSEPH CRADDOCK, ESQ.

Spoken by Mr. Quick, in the Character of a Sailor.
In these bold times, when Learning's sons explore
The distant climate, and the savage shore;
When wise astronomers to India steer,
And quit for Venus many a brighter here;
While botanists, all cold to smiles and dimpling,
Forsake the fair, and patiently-go simpling;
Our bard into the general spirit enters,
And fits his little frigate for adventures.

With Scythian stores, and trinkets deeply laden,
He this way steers his course, in hopes of trading;
Yet ere he lands he's order'd me before,

To make an observation on the shore.

Where are we driven? our reckoning sure is lost!
This seems a rocky and a dangerous coast.
Lord, what a sultry climate am I under!
Yon ill-foreboding cloud seems big with thunder:

[Upper Gallery.

There mangroves spread, and larger than I've seen 'em—

Here trees of stately size-and billing turtles in 'em

[Pit.

[Balconies.

Here ill-conditioned oranges abound-
And apples, bitter apples, strew the ground.

[Stage.

[Tasting them.

The inhabitants are cannibals, I fear :

I heard a hissing-there are serpents here!

O, there the people are-best keep my distance;
Our Captain, gentle natives! craves assistance;

Our ship's well-stored ;-in yonder creek we've laid her,

His Honour is no mercenary trader.

This is his first adventure; lend him aid,

And we may chance to drive a thriving trade.

His goods, he hopes, are prime, and brought from far,

Equally fit for gallantry and war.

What! no reply to promises so ample?
I'd best step back-and order up a sample.

AN EPILOGUE,

INTENDED FOR MRS. BULKLEY.

THERE is a place-so Ariosto sings—
A treasury for lost and missing things;
Lost human wits have places there assign'd them,
And they who lose their senses, there may find them.
But where's this place, this storehouse of the age?
The Moon, says he ;—but I affirm, the Stage—
At least, in many things, I think I see
His lunar and our mimic world agree :
Both shine at night, for, but at Foote's alone,
We scarce exhibit till the sun goes down;
Both prone to change, no settled limits fix,
And sure the folks of both are lunatics.
But in this parallel my best pretence is,
That mortals visit both to find their senses:
To this strange spot, rakes, macaronics, cits,
Come thronging to collect their scatter'd wits.
The gay coquette, who ogles all the day,
Comes here at night, and goes a prude away.
Hither the affected city dame advancing,
Who sighs for operas, and doats on dancing,
Taught by our art, her ridicule to pause on,
Quits the ballet, and calls for Nancy Dawson.
The gamester, too, whose wit's all high or low,
Oft risks his fortune on one desperate throw,
Comes here to saunter, having made his bets,
Finds his lost senses out, and pays his debts.
The Mohawk, too, with angry phrases stored—
As "Dam'me, Sir!" and, "Sir, I wear a sword!"

Here lesson'd for awhile, and hence retreating,
Goes out, affronts his man, and takes a beating.
Here come the sons of scandal and of news,
But find no sense-for they had none to lose.
Of all the tribe here wanting an adviser,
Our Author's the least likely to grow wiser;
Has he not seen how you your favour place
On sentimental queens and lords in lace?
Without a star, a coronet, or garter,

How can the piece expect or hope for quarter?
No high-life scenes, no sentiment :-the creature
Still stoops among the low to copy nature.
Yes, he's far gone :-and yet some pity fix,
The English laws forbid to punish lunatics.

THRENODIA AUGUSTALIS.

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF HER ROYAL HIGHNESS THE PRINCESS DOWAGER OF WALES.

ADVERTISEMENT.

THE following may more properly be termed a compilation than a poem. It was prepared for the composer in little more than two days; and may therefore rather be considered as an industrious effort of gratitude than of genius. In justice to the composer it may likewise be right to inform the public, that the music was composed in a period of time equally short.

OVERTURE.—A solemn Dirge.

Air-Trio.

ARISE, ye sons of worth, arise,

And waken every note of woe! When truth and virtue reach the skies, 'Tis ours to weep the want below.

CHORUS.

When truth and virtue, &c.

MAN SPEAKER.

and

power,

The praise attending pomp

The incense given to Kings,

Are but the trappings of an hour—
Mere transitory things:

The base bestow them; but the good agree
the venal gifts as flattery.

Το spurn

But when to pomp and power are join'd

An equal dignity of mind;

When titles are the smallest claim;

When wealth, and rank, and noble blood,

But aid the power of doing good;

Then all their trophies last-and flattery turns to fame.

Blest spirit thou, whose fame, just born to bloom,

Shall spread and flourish from the tomb;

How hast thou left mankind for Heaven!

E'en now reproach and faction mourn,
And, wondering how their rage was born,
Request to be forgiven !

Alas! they never had thy hate ;

Unmoved, in conscious rectitude,
Thy towering mind self-centred stood,
Nor wanted man's opinion to be great.
In vain, to charm thy ravish'd sight,
A thousand gifts would fortune send;

In vain, to drive thee from the right,
A thousand sorrows urged thy end:

Like some well-fashioned arch thy patience stood,
And purchased strength from its increasing load.
Pain met thee like a friend to set thee free,
Affliction still is virtue's opportunity!

SONG. BY A MAN.

Virtue, on herself relying,
Every passion hush'd to rest,
Loses every pain of dying,

In the hopes of being blest.

Every added pang she suffers,

Some increasing good bestows,
And every shock that malice offers,
Only rocks her to repose.

WOMAN SPEAKER.

Yet, ah! what terrors frown'd upon her fate-
Death, with its formidable band,
Fever, and pain, and pale consumptive care,
Determined took their stand.

Nor did the cruel ravagers design

To finish all their efforts at a blow;
But, mischievously slow,

They robb'd the relic and defaced the shrine.
With unavailing grief,

Despairing of relief,

Her weeping children round

Beheld each hour

Death's growing power,

And trembled as he frown'd.

As helpless friends who view from shore

The labouring ship, and hear the tempest roar,
While winds and waves their wishes cross,-
They stood, while hope and comfort fail,
Not to assist, but to bewail

The inevitable loss.

Relentless tyrant, at thy call

How do the good, the virtuous fall!

Truth, beauty, worth, and all that most engage, But wake thy vengeance and provoke thy rage.

SONG. BY A MAN.

When vice my dart and scythe supply,
How great a king of terrors I!
If folly, fraud, your hearts engage,
Tremble, ye mortals, at my rage!

Fall, round me fall, ye little things,
Ye statesmen, warriors, poets, kings!
If virtue fail her counsel sage,
Tremble, ye mortals, at my rage!

G