WHAT Attic Terence wrote of old for Rome, We in our northern accents lisp to-night; What heathen Terence spoke to heathen ears, We speak with Christian tongues to Christian men: Doing the while this service to the Bard, That the rare beauty of his classic wit We by our pruning make more beautiful. O happy art, which Terence never knew, But they have learned, who aim in every thing To choose the good, and pass the evil by! These, as they pace the tangled path of life, Cleanse from this earth its earthly dross away, And clothe it with a pure supernal light. Neighbours and friends, what I have more to say, -- It is not much, -- concerns our actors here, Fresh tender souls, and palpitating hearts, Boys, who, tho' boys, essay the parts of men, And are the first within this Catholic fold To represent a classic comedy. Be kind, -- they strive with no inglorious aim; Where they do dwell, applaud; and, if in aught They shall come short, be mild and merciful. Prologue enough; let Davus enter now. And lend his ear, while Geta tells his tale. |