PROLOGUE To Mr. HAYLEY's TRAGEDY of LORD RUSSEL, Spoken by Mr. PALMER. August, 1784

The Bard, whose Tragick strains we now rehearse, Hath often charm'd you with his varied verse; Beguiling o'er his lines the vacant hour, Oft have you felt and own'd his Muse's pow'r! Now to this roof we bring his favour'd page, And force him, half-reluctant, to the Stage; The Stage, where those who simple Nature paint, Fear lest their strokes, too faithful, seem too faint. For here, the artist, with a desperate hand, And broad pound-brush, not pencil, takes his stand; Anxious to make his cloth at distance strike, Daubs, in distemper—rather large than like. Thron'd in high car, and usher'd by loud drums, From Bedlam some great Alexander comes! Appals with noise, and labours to surprise " The very faculties of ears and eyes!"

Yet Britons never have disdain'd to grace The natural heroes of a milder race! Cato's firm bosom, and expiring groan For virtuous liberty, they made their own. Yet Cato's steel but sign'd his country's fate; For with him died, the freedom of the state! Your own calm Russell, by his nobler end, Freedom's mild Martyr, prov'd her firmest friend: Rous'd by his fate, a band of heroes rose, To sov'reign tyranny determin'd foes; Champions of Faith and Law, their aweful stand Chac'd bigotry and slav'ry from the land. To vindicate an injur'd nation's claims, Nassau and Brunswick join'd their glorious names! To Britain her dear liberty ensur'd, Stamp'd her Great Charter, and her rights secur'd!

To guard those rights, Old England's noblest pride, To guard those rights, our gallant Russell died. Britons attentively his tale shall hear, Nor blush at Patriot Woe to drop a tear; A tear they'd sanctify with streams of blood, Dying, like Russell, for their Country's good!