On his producing VOLTAIRES Mahomet On the stage.
Thou, by whom, freed from rules
constrained and wrong,
On truth and nature once again
were placed,-
Who, in the cradle een a
hero strong,
Stiffest the serpents round
our genius laced,-
Thou whom the godlike science has
so long
With her unsullied sacred
fillet graced,-
Dost thou on ruined altars sacrifice
To that false muse whom we no longer
prize?
This theatre belongs to native art,
No foreign idols worshipped
here are seen;
A laurel we can show, with joyous
heart,
That on the German Pindus
has grown green
The sciences most holy, hidden
part
The German genius dares to
enter een,
And, following the Briton and the
Greek,
A nobler glory now attempts to seek.
For yonder, where slaves kneel,
and despots hold
The reins,-where
spurious greatness lifts its head,
Art has no power the noble there
to mould,
Tis by no Louis that
its seed is spread;
From its own fulness it must needs
unfold,
By earthly majesty tis
never fed;
Tis with truth only it can
eer unite,
Its glow free spirits only eer
can light.
Tis not to bind us in a worn-out
chain
Thou dost this play of olden
time recall,-
Tis not to seek to lead us
back again
To days when thoughtless childhood
ruled oer all.
It were, in truth, an idle risk
and vain
Into the moving wheel of time
to fall;
The winged hours forever bear it
on,
The new arrives, and, lo! the old
has gone.
The narrow theatre is now more wide,
Into its space a universe
now steals;
In pompous words no longer is our
pride,
Nature we love when she her
form reveals;
Fashions false rules no more
are deified;
And as a man the hero acts
and feels.
Tis passion makes the notes
of freedom sound,
And tis in truth the beautiful
is found.
Weak is the frame of Thespis
chariot fair,
Resembling much the bark of
Acheron,
That carries naught but shades and
forms of air;
And if rude life should venture
to press on,
The fragile bark its weight no more
can bear,
For fleeting spirits it can
hold alone.
Appearance neer can reach
reality,-
If nature be victorious, art must
fly.
For on the stages boarded
scaffold here
A world ideal opens to our
eyes,
Nothing is true and genuine save-a
tear;
Emotion on no dream of sense
relies.
The real Melpomene is still sincere,
Naught as a fable merely she
supplies-
By truth profound to charm us is
her care;
The false one, truth pretends, but
to ensnare.
Now from the scene, art threatens
to retire,
Her kingdom wild maintains
still phantasy;
The stage she like the world would
set on fire,
The meanest and the noblest
mingles she.
The Frank alone tis art can
now inspire,
And yet her archetype can
his neer be;
In bounds unchangeable confining
her,
He holds her fast, and vainly would
she stir.
The stage to him is pure and undefiled;
Chased from the regions that
to her belong
Are Natures tones, so careless
and so wild,
To him een language
rises into song;
A realm harmonious tis, of
beauty mild,
Where limb unites to limb
in order strong.
The whole into a solemn temple blends,
And tis the dance that grace
to motion lends.
And yet the Frank must not be made
our guide.
For in his art no living spirit
reigns:
The boasting gestures of a spurious
pride
That mind which only loves
the true disdains.
To nobler ends alone be it applied,
Returning, like some souls
long-vanished manes.
To render the oft-sullied stage
once more
A throne befitting the great muse
of yore.
© e-libr.com
feedback