This was look'd for at your hand, and this was baulk'd.—

What You Will.

What stately vision mocks my waking sense?

Hence, dear delusion, sweet enchantment, hence!

Ha! is it real?—can my doubts be vain?

It is, it is, and Drury lives again!

Around each grateful veteran attends,

Eager to rush and gratulate his friends,

Friends whose kind looks, retraced with proud delight,

Endear the past, and make the future bright.

Yes, generous patrons, your returning smile

Blesses our toils, and consecrates our pile.

When last we met, Fate's unrelenting hand

Already grasp'd the devastating brand;

Slow crept the silent flame, ensnared its prize,

Then burst resistless to the astonish'd skies.

The glowing walls, disrobed of scenic pride,

In trembling conflict stemm'd the burning tide,

Till crackling, blazing, rocking to its fall,

Down rush'd the thundering roof, and buried all!

Where late the sister Muses sweetly sung,

And raptur'd thousands on their music hung,

Where Wit and Wisdom shone by Beauty graced,

Sate lonely Silence, empress of the waste;

And still had reign'd—but he whose voice can raise

More magic wonders than Amphion's lays,

Bade jarring bands with friendly zeal engage,

To rear the prostrate glories of the stage.

Guided by you, our earnest aims presume

To renovate the Drama with the dome;

The scenes of Shakespeare and our bards of old,

With due observance splendidly unfold,

Yet raise and foster with parental hand

The living talent of our native land.

O! may we still, to sense and nature true,

Delight the many, nor offend the few.

Tho' varying tastes our changeful drama claim,

Still be its moral tendency the same,

To win by precept, by example warn,

To brand the front of vice with pointed scorn,

And Virtue's smiling brows with votive wreaths adorn.