A PROLOGUE, Spoken at the Theatre in King-street, Bristol, by the late Mr. POWELL, to the Tragedy of KING…

With grateful joy, with honest pride elate, See, a Triumvir of our little state. In ancient Rome, by custom 'twas decreed, That civic crowns shou'd be the victor's meed; Let victor's wear the gift of public laws, —My noblest civic crown is your applause!

Thou, at whose shrine we nightly sacrifice, Thou God of pathos, soul of SHAKESPEARE, rise! Teach me thy melting, thy persuasive art, To wake the tenderest feelings of the heart.

Blush not, ye good, ye grave, to shed a tear, It falls from virtue if it falls for LEAR; No wild licentious picture shall excite The kindly dew-drops of your eyes to-night: By no false colouring drawn, no lawless plan: 'Tis not the KING demands them,—'tis the MAN.

Let meaner bards, uncertain of success, Cloath their thin thoughts in all the pomp of dress: When mighty Kings appear, let meaner bards Place royalty in trappings, state and guards; Our SHAKESPEARE scorns such paltry, futile arts, He, whilst he charms you, meliorates your hearts: Rouses each nobler feeling of the mind, His volume nature, and his theme mankind; For this, eternal honors grace his name, And never-dying laurels crown his same!

The hoary monarch of to-night, aspires To kindle pity's lamp at nature's fires. Weakness and passion, tenderness and rage, The fire of youth, the frowardness of age, With filial cruelty's acutest sting, Rend the sad bosom of a wretched King: Unworthy, 'till by crushing woes distress'd, Greatest when fall'n, and noblest when oppress'd.

Now let me, trembling, lift an anxious eye, And touch each chord of soft humanity; Let me, in each kind face, read sweet applause, Whilst I presume to plead a woman's cause; To-night—the second aera of my life, I venture here my pupil, more—my wife! Imagine all her doubts, and all her fears, Her soft alarms, her apprehensive tears; No sanguine hope her aching bosom fires, No fancied fame her timid soul inspires; Indulge her with the sunshine of your praise, A frown wou'd kill her, as a smile cou'd raise: The fearful blossom will, with joy, expand, If kindly nurtur'd by your fost'ring hand. Come then, CORDELIA, come! for sages tell 'Tis worthy praise but to endeavour well; Thus, hand in hand, to the same point we'll tend, Nature our means, morality our end.

If modest hope be crown'd, if sweet success Her humble wish, her rising efforts bless: She'll think'twas here her trembling steps first mov'd, And be more grateful as she's more approv'd; You she'll esteem her friends, her fame, her fate, And from this hour her future fortunes date; Then sinile, propitious smile, and make for life One grateful Husband, and one happy Wife.