Address, Spoken at the Opening of Drury-Lane Theatre, October 10, 1812

In one dread night our city saw, and sighed,Bowed to the dust, the Drama's tower of pride;In one short hour beheld the blazing fane,Apollo sink, and Shakespeare cease to reign.

Ye who beheld, (oh! sight admired and mourned,Whose radiance mocked the ruin it adorned!)Through clouds of fire the massy fragments riven,Like Israel's pillar, chase the night from heaven;Saw the long column of revolving flamesShake its red shadow o'er the startled Thames,While thousands, thronged around the burning dome,Shrank back appalled, and trembled for their home,As glared the volumed blaze, and ghastly shonebnThe skies, with lightnings awful as their own,Till blackening ashes and the lonely wallboUsurped the Muse's realm, and marked her fall;Say--shall this new, nor less aspiring pile,Reared where once rose the mightiest in our isle,Know the same favour which the former knew,A shrine for Shakespeare--worthy him and you?

Yes--it shall be--the magic of that nameDefies the scythe of time, the torch of flame;bpOn the same spot still consecrates the scene,And bids the Drama be where she hath been:This fabric's birth attests the potent spell----Indulge our honest pride, and say, How well!

As soars this fane to emulate the last,Oh! might we draw our omens from the past,Some hour propitious to our prayers may boastNames such as hallow still the dome we lost.On Drury first your Siddons' thrilling artO'erwhelmed the gentlest, stormed the sternest heart.On Drury, Garrick's latest laurels grew;Here your last tears retiring Roscius drew,Sighed his last thanks, and wept his last adieu:But still for living wit the wreaths may bloom,That only waste their odours o'er the tomb.Such Drury claimed and claims--nor you refuseOne tribute to revive his slumbering muse;With garlands deck your own Menander's head,Nor hoard your honours idly for the dead!bqDear are the days which made our annals bright,Ere Garrick fled, or Brinsley ceased to writebrHeirs to their labours, like all high-born heirs,Vain of our ancestry as they of theirs;While thus Remembrance borrows Banquo's glassTo claim the sceptred shadows as they pass,And we the mirror hold, where imaged shineImmortal names, emblazoned on our line,Pause--ere their feebler offspring you condemn,Reflect how hard the task to rival them!

Friends of the stage! to whom both Players and PlaysMust sue alike for pardon or for praise,Whose judging voice and eye alone directThe boundless power to cherish or reject;If e'er frivolity has led to fame,And made us blush that you forbore to blame--If e'er the sinking stage could condescendTo soothe the sickly taste it dare not mend--All past reproach may present scenes refute,And censure, wisely loud, be justly mute!Oh! since your fiat stamps the Drama's laws,Forbear to mock us with misplaced applause;So Pride shall doubly nerve the actor's powers,And Reason's voice be echoed back by ours!

This greeting o'er--the ancient rule obeyed,The Drama's homage by her herald paid--Receive our welcome too--whose every toneSprings from our hearts, and fain would win your own.The curtain rises--may our stage unfoldScenes not unworthy Drury's days of old!Britons our judges, Nature for our guide,Still may we please--long, long may you preside.