If, yet regardful of your native land, Old Shakespeare’s tongue you deign to understand, Lo, from the blissful bowers where Heaven rewards Instructive sages and unblemish’d bards, I come, the ancient founder of the stage, Intent to learn, in this discerning age, What form of wit your fancies have embrac’d, And whither tends your elegance of taste, That thus at length our homely toils you spurn, That thus to foreign scenes you proudly turn, That from my brow the laurel wreath you claim To crown the rivals of your country’s fame. What though the footsteps of my devious Muse The measur’d walks of Grecian art refuse? Or though the frankness of my hardy style Mock the nice touches of the critic’s file? Yet, what my age and climate held to view, Impartial I survey’d, and fearless drew. And say, ye skilful in the human heart, Who know to prize a poet’s noblest part, What age, what clime, could e’er an ampler field For lofty thought, for daring fancy, yield? I saw this England break the shameful bands Forg’d for the souls of men by sacred hands: I saw each groaning realm her aid implore; Her sons the heroes of each warlike shore; Her naval standard (the dire Spaniard’s bane) Obey’d through all the circuit of the main. Then too great Commerce, for a late-found world, Against your coast her eager sails unfurl’d: New hopes, new passions, thence to bosom fir’d; New plans, new arts, the genius thence inspir’d; Thence every scene, which private fortune knows, In stronger life, with bolder spirit, rose. Disgrac’d I this full prospect which I drew? My colours languid, or my strokes untrue? Have not your sages, warriors, swains, and kings Confess’d the living draught of men and things? What other bard in any clime appears Alike the master of your smiles and tears? Yet have I deigned your audience to entice With wretched bribes to luxury and vice? Or have my various scenes a purpose known Which freedom, virtue, glory, might not own? Such from the first was my dramatic plan, It should be yours to crown what I began: And now that England spurns her Gothic chain, And equal laws and social science reign, I thought, Now surely shall my zealous eyes View nobler bards and juster critics rise, Intent with learned labour to refine The copious ore of Albion’s native mine, Our stately Muse more graceful airs to teach, And form her tongue to more attractive speech, Till rival nations listen at her feet, And own her polish’d as they own’d her great. But do you thus my favourite hopes fulfil? Is France at last the standard of your skill? Alas for you! that so betray a mind Of art unconscious and to beauty blind. Say; does her language your ambition raise, Her barren, trivial, unharmonious phrase,