Address, Spoken At The Opening Of Drury-Lane Theatre. Saturday, October 10, 1812
In
one
dread
night
our
city
saw,
and
sigh'd,
Bow'd
to
the
dust,
the
Drama's
tower
of
pride
In
one
short
hour
beheld
the
blazing
fane,
Apollo
sink,
and
Shakspeare
cease
to
reign.
Ye
who
beheld,
(oh!
sight
admired
and
mourn'd,
Whose
radiance
mock'd
the
ruin
it
adorn'd!)
Through
clouds
of
fire
the
massy
fragments
riven,
Like
Israel's
pillar,
chase
the
night
from
heaven;
Saw
the
long
column
of
revolving
flames
Shake
its
red
shadow
o'er
the
startled
Thames,
While
thousands,
throng'd
around
the
burning
dome,
Shrank
back
appall'd,
and
trembled
for
their
home,
As
glared
the
volumed
blaze,
and
ghastly
shone
The
skies,
with
lightnings
awful
as
their
own,
Till
blackening
ashes
and
the
lonely
wall
Usurp
'd
the
Muse's
realm,
and
mark'd
her
fall;
Say
-
shall
this
new,
nor
less
aspiring
pile,
Rear'd
where
once
rose
the
mightiest
in
our
isle,
Know
the
same
favour
which
the
former
knew,
A
shrine
for
Shakspeare--worthy
him
and
you?
Yes--it
shall
be--the
magic
of
that
name
Defies
the
scythe
of
time,
the
torch
of
flame;
On
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
fare
to
emulate
the
last,
Oh!
might
we
draw
our
omens
from
the
past,
Some
hour
propitious
to
our
prayers
may
boast
Names
such
as
hallow
still
the
dome
we
lost.
On
Drury
first
your
Siddons'
thrilling
art
O'erwhelm'd
the
gentlest,
storm'd
the
sternest
heart.
On
Drury,
Garrick's
latest
laurels
grew;
Here
your
last
tears
retiring
Roscius
drew,
Sigh'd
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
claim'd
and
claims--nor
you
refuse
One
tribute
to
revive
his
slumbering
muse;
With
garlands
deck
your
own
Menander's
head,
Nor
hoard
your
honours
idly
for
the
dead.
Dear
are
the
days
which
made
our
annals
bright,
Ere
Garrick
fled,
or
Brinsley
ceased
to
write.
Heirs
to
their
labours,
like
all
high-born
heirs,
Vain
of
our
ancestry
as
they
of
theirs;
While
thus
Remembrance
borrows
Banquo's
glass
To
claim
the
sceptred
shadows
as
they
pass,
And
we
the
mirror
hold,
where
imaged
shine
Immortal
names,
emblazon'd
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
Plays
Must
sue
alike
for
pardon
or
for
praise.
Whose
judging
voice
and
eye
alone
direct
The
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
condescend
To
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
echo'd
back
by
ours!
This
greeting
o'er,
the
ancient
rule
obey'd
The
Drama's
homage
by
her
herald
paid,
Receive
our
welcome
too,
whose
every
tone
Springs
from
our
hearts,
and
fair
would
win
your
own.
The
curtain
rises--may
our
stage
unfold
Scenes
not
unworthy
Drury's
days
of
old!
Britons
our
judges,
Nature
for
our
guide,
Still
may
we
please--long,
long
may
you
preside.
