Full Online Books
Authors Authors Short Stories Short Stories Long Stories Long Stories Funny Stories Funny Stories Love Stories Love Stories Stories For Kids Stories For Kids Poems Poems Essays Essays Nonfictions Nonfictions Plays Plays Folktales Folktales Fairy Tales Fairy Tales Fables Fables Learning Kitchen Learning Kitchen
Valid XHTML 1.0 Transitional Free Classified Website Without Registration Free Classified Website Daniel Company
Twitter Twitter Add book
Full Online Book HomePoemsPrologue To Coleridge's Tragedy Of "remorse"
Famous Authors (View All Authors)
Prologue To Coleridge's Tragedy Of 'remorse' Post by :Triority Category :Poems Author :Charles Lamb Date :August 2011 Read :1019

Click below to download : Prologue To Coleridge's Tragedy Of "remorse" (Format : PDF)

Prologue To Coleridge's Tragedy Of "remorse"


There are, I am told, who sharply criticise
Our modern theatres' unwieldy size.
We players shall scarce plead guilty to that charge,
Who think a house can never be too large:
Griev'd when a rant, that's worth a nation's ear,
Shakes some prescrib'd Lyceum's petty sphere;
And pleased to mark the grin from space to space
Spread epidemic o'er a town's broad face.--
O might old Betterton or Booth return
To view our structures from their silent urn,
Could Quin come stalking from Elysian glades,
Or Garrick get a day-rule from the shades--
Where now, perhaps, in mirth which Spirits approve,
He imitates the ways of men above,
And apes the actions of our upper coast,
As in his days of flesh he play'd the ghost:--
How might they bless our ampler scope to please,
And hate their own old shrunk up audiences.--
Their houses yet were palaces to those,
Which Ben and Fletcher for their triumphs chose.
Shakspeare, who wish'd a kingdom for a stage, }
Like giant pent in disproportion'd cage, }
Mourn'd his contracted strengths and crippled rage. }
He who could tame his vast ambition down
To please some scatter'd gleanings of a town,
And, if some hundred auditors supplied
Their meagre meed of claps, was satisfied,
How had he felt, when that dread curse of Lear's
Had burst tremendous on a thousand ears,
While deep-struck wonder from applauding bands
Return'd the tribute of as many hands!
Rude were his guests; he never made his bow
To such an audience as salutes us now.
He lack'd the balm of labor, female praise.
Few Ladies in his time frequented plays,
Or came to see a youth with aukward art
And shrill sharp pipe burlesque the woman's part.
The very use, since so essential grown,
Of painted scenes, was to his stage unknown.
The air-blest castle, round whose wholesome crest,
The martlet, guest of summer, chose her nest--
The forest walks of Arden's fair domain,
Where Jaques fed his solitary vein.
No pencil's aid as yet had dared supply,
Seen only by the intellectual eye.
Those scenic helps, denied to Shakspeare's page,
Our Author owes to a more liberal age.
Nor pomp nor circumstance are wanting here;
'Tis for himself alone that he must fear.
Yet shall remembrance cherish the just pride,
That (be the laurel granted or denied)
He first essay'd in this distinguish'd fane,
Severer muses and a tragic strain.

(The end)
Charles Lamb's poem: Prologue To Coleridge's Tragedy Of "remorse"

If you like this book please share to your friends :

Epilogue To Kenney's Farce, 'debtor And Creditor' Epilogue To Kenney's Farce, "debtor And Creditor"

Epilogue To Kenney's Farce, 'debtor And Creditor'
(1814) _Spoken by Mr. Liston and Mr. Emery in character_ _Gosling._ False world---- _Sampson._ You're bit, Sir. _Gosling_. Boor! what's that to you? With Love's soft sorrows what hast thou to do? 'Tis _here_ for consolation I must look. (_Takes out his pocket book_). _Sampson_. Nay, Sir, don't put us down in

Hymn 2:39 (our Days, Alas! Our Mortal Days) Hymn 2:39 (our Days, Alas! Our Mortal Days)

Hymn 2:39 (our Days, Alas! Our Mortal Days)
The shortness and misery of life.Our days, alas! our mortal daysAre short and wretched too;"Evil and few," the patriarch says, (1)And well the patriarch knew.'Tis but at best a narrow boundThat heaven allows to men,And pains and sins run thro' the roundOf threescore years and ten.Well, if ye must be sad and few,Run on, my days, in haste;Moments of sin, and months of woe,Ye cannot fly too fast.Let heavenly love prepare my soul,And call her to the skies,Where years of long salvation roll,And glory never dies.(1) Genesis 47:9.(The end)Isaac Watts's poem: Hymn 2:39 (Our Days, Alas! Our Mortal Days)