PROLOGUE.

No common cause your verdict now demands, Before the court immortal Shakspeare stands; That mighty master of the human soul, Who rules the passions, and with strong control Thro’ every turning of the changeful heart Directs his course sublime, and leads his powerful art. When on his birth propitious nature smil’d, And hung transported o’er her favourite child; While on his head her choicest gifts she shower’d, And o’er his mind her inspiration pour’d:— “Proceed,” she cried, “the high decree fulfil! “’Tis thine to rule, with magic sway, the will; “On fancy’s wing to stretch o’er boundless space, “And all creation’s varied works to trace; “’Tis thine each flitting phantom to pursue, “Each hidden power of verse to bring to view, “To shed o’er British taste celestial day, “And reign o’er Genius with unrivall’d sway.” Such was the high behest—the sacred choice Long has been sanction’d by our candid voice: The favour’d relics of your Shakspeare’s hand, Unrivall’d, and inimitable, stand. If hope of fame some modern bards has led To try the path where Shakspeare wont to tread; If, with presumptuous wing, they dar’d aspire To catch some portion of his sacred fire,— Your critic pow’rs the vain attempt repell’d, The flimsy vapour, by your breath dispell’d, Expos’d the trembling culprit to your sight, While Shakspeare’s radiance shone with doubled light. From deep oblivion snatch’d, this play appears: It claims respect, since Shakspeare’s name it bears; That name, the source of wonder and delight, To a fair hearing has at least a right. We ask no more—with you the judgment lies; No forgeries escape your piercing eyes! Unbiass’d, then, pronounce your dread decree, Alike from prejudice and favour free. If, the fierce ordeal pass’d, you chance to find Rich sterling ore, tho’ rude and unrefin’d, Stamp it your own; assert your poet’s fame, And add, fresh wreaths to Shakspeare’s honour’d name.