An Occasional Prologue to Othello

WHILE mercenary actors tread the stage,
And hireling scriblers lash or lull the age,
Ours be the task t'instruct, and entertain,
Without one thought of glory or of gain.
Virtue's her own—from no external cause—
She gives, and she demands the Self-applause:
Home to her breast she brings the heart-felt bays,
Heedless alike of profit, and of praise.
This now perhaps is wrong—yet this we know,
'Twas sense and truth a century ago:
When Britain with transcendent glory crown'd,
For high atchievements, as for wit renown'd;
Cull'd from each growing grace the purest part,
And cropt the flowers from every blooming art.
Our noblest youth would then embrace the task
Of comic humour, or the mystic masque.
'Twas theirs t'incourage worth, and give to bards
What now is spent in boxing and in cards:
Good sense their pleasure—Virtue still their guide,
And English magnanimity—their pride.
Methinks I see with Fancy's magic eye,
The shade of Shakespear, in yon azure sky.
On you high cloud behold the bard advance,
Piercing all Nature with a single glance:
In various attitudes around him stand
The passions, waiting for his dread command.
First kneeling Love before his feet appears,
And musically sighing melts in tears.
Near him fell Jealousy with fury burns,
And into storms the amorous breathings turns;
Then Hope with heavenward look, and Joy draws near,
While palsied Terror trembles in the rear.

Such Shakespear's train of horror and delight,
And such we hope to introduce to-night.
But if, tho' just in thought, we fail in fact,
And good intention ripens not to act,
Weigh our design, your censure still defer,
When truth's in view 'tis glorious e'en to err.