Written on a Visit to Kilkenny, during the period of the Theatrical Performances there, in October 1805, by John Carr, Esq. Author of Travels through the Northern Parts of Europe, &c.

Amid the ruins of monastic gloom,

Where Nore's translucent waters wind along, Genius and Wealth have rais'd the tasteful Dome, Yet not alone for Fashion's brilliant throng.

In Virtue's cause they take a nobler aim :
'Tis theirs in sweetest harmony to blend
Wit with compassion, tenderness with fame;
Pleasure the means, Beneficence the end.

There, if the Tear on Beauty's cheek appears, (Form'd by the Mournful Muse's Mimic Sigh) Fast as it falls, a kindred drop it bears,

More sadly shed for Genuine Misery.

Nor, if the Laughter-loving Nymph delight,
Does the reviving transport perish there;
Still, still, with Pity's radiance doubly bright,
Its smiles shed sunshine on the cheek of Care.

So if Pomona's golden fruit descend,

Shook by some breeze, into the lake below; Quick will the dimple, which it forms, extend, Till, all around, the joyous circles flow.

Blest be the reas'ning mind, the social zeal,
That here bids Folly from the stage retire;
And, while it teaches us to think, to feel,

Bids us in tears our godlike Bard admire !
Thus aided, see his rescued genius spring;
Again he pours the frenzy of his song;
With every feather in his eagle's wing,
Once more in majesty he soars along.

Oft, deck'd with smiles, his spirit shall explore, Erin! thy beauteous vales, and classic ground, And every ripple of thy winding Nore

To him shall sweetly, as his Avon's, sound.

"Alluding," as the Author has stated, "to the several fine passages of "Shakspeare, which had been long omitted in representation, but which "were judiciously restored at the Theatricals of Kilkenny."

The Orchestra principally filled from that of the Theatre Royal, Dublin. Leader, Mr. T. Cooke.

PROLOGUE,

Written by Mr. G. P. Bushe, and spoken by Mr. R. Power,
At the opening of the Theatre, the 6th of October, 1806.

What-not yet tir'd? again I see you here!
Again, my friends, you venture to appear!
Have five long years not dull'd your sated taste?
'Tis, sure, our cause, that makes your kindness last:
Yes-still you love to brighten Sorrow's eye,

For this, our acting bear-Heaven knows, what Charity.
Let London's wayward sons, with childish haste,

Pursue the wild vicissitudes of taste;

Where Fashion, and not Feeling, bears the sway,

While Sense and Nature coyly keep away.

But late, young Roscius was a nation's joy;

Pass one short year-" Gods-what a tiresome boy!"
Ireland had early mock'd his idle pride;
See slower England now at length deride.

O'er modern Comedy, now Thalia weeps,

Mourns every Muse-the weary Audience sleeps:
Where labour'd puns usurp the place of wit,
And, 'stead of humour, see a lucky hit!
Fill'd with surprises, that indeed surprise,
While no kind Plot its needful aid supplies;
Fill but his Purse, the Author's work is done:
Alike to him, by Pathos, or by Pun.

A loftier strain your Classic Taste requires,
Calls for all Shakspeare's feeling, Shakspeare's fires:
Bids native bards, that long have slept, to 'wake,
And the whole soul with genuine passion shake:
This be our boast-secure in this to please,
Our Goldsmith's Nature wins the heart with ease;

And, prun'd of all that might your blushes cause,
Here our own Congreve claims unmix'd applause.
Throbs not each heart at Sheridan's great name,
Who blends the Poet's with the Patriot's fame,
Whom nations' wishes fondly strive to raise,
Supreme in Station, as supreme in Praise?
When dire Invasion hover'd o'er the land,
And Treason lifted the assassin hand,
Say, in that hour, did doubt, or blank dismay,
Damp our bold zeal, your kindness to repay ?
No-in that hour, we dauntless held our course,
And, safe in native valour, mock'd their force.
With better omens we this night appear,
Where e'en the fearful have no room for fear;
Tho' other Empires fall and pass away,
Unchang'd remains the Empire of the Sea.
The Gallic Fleet full easy Triumphs reap,
They boast a Victory, if they can but 'scape;
Their haughty legions, haughty now no more,
Dread British valour on * Calabria's shore,
While dazzling glory to the Western world,
Riding th' Atlantic, has our thunders hurl'd..

Yet, 'midst the laurels that adorn her head,
See, the dank Cypress its pale influence shed.
Lo! Britain bending o'er her + Statesman's bier,
The Friend to mourn, the Patriot to revere;
And Erin, in true kindred sorrow drown'd,
Bewails his liberal love, still faithful found;
Each sobs this tribute o'er the great man's grave,
"He labouring died, his native land to save."
Yet, as of old, sad Troy, her Hector dead,
With Games funereal sooth'd his honor'd shade,
E'en so let us, with pomp and useful show,
Lead on our Sports, and hide our real woe.
So may our pastimes lighten Sorrow's load,
And give that solace you've so oft bestow'd.

Upon this and every former Night of Performance in the Season the House was crowded.

And first to Shakspeare did our incense rise,
For on his Altars half our offering lies;
His pure examples, best, our purpose reach,
That not a vice but shall a virtue teach.

Ambition, from Macbeth, we learn to shun,
He gain'd a Diadem, but was undone;
No German Casuist shall degrade our scenes,
To prove "the End can justify the Means;"
Macbeth, a Monarch, yet a Victim dies,
To violated Hospitalities.

Othello's feeling, gallantry, and love,
Awake our pity, tho' we can't approve.
His jealousy is exquisite, but then

I hope such don't exist in modern men,
For if one's Spouse goes mad, on cause so light,
Beware the pillow, every Wife, to-night.

Then + Congreve we invok'd. And here 'twas fit
To prune some loose luxuriancies of wit;
Not that we thought you prudish, or o'er-good,
For real Purity ne'er acts the Prude;

But as your bosoms, so your wit is chaste,
Nor would we wound your virtues, or your taste.
And next to Sheridan our vows we pay,
To Sheridan, the Congreve of the day,
Whose polish'd phrase a purer vein has hit,
With greater delicacy, equal wit.

And last, from $ Garrick's most propitious page,
Old Ogleby has dignified your stage-
Absurd, but amiable; polite, though vain;

A man of fashion, but a gentleman.

Names, great as these, have lent their classic aid,
For Minor talents would our scenes degrade;
Not Lewis's, nor Schiller's monstrous page,
Nor copious Colman, could our vows engage;
Nor yet that Manual mob, whose merit lies
In the high achievement of Activities;
Jargon and Cant their senseless volumes fill,
Their words keep moving, but their wit lies still.
How grateful, in this Half Forsaken Isle,
To call forth Talents, and bid Genius smile!
Tho' half our sons desert their native shore,
Such cumbrous cargoes let us ne'er deplore,
For in this trade, you prove it who remain,
'Tis Bodies we export, and Souls retain.

Our Sceptre here by Classic suffrage plac'd,
Rules o'er the polish'd Provinces of Taste,
With sov'reign power can sway the virtuous mind,
However practis'd, or howe'er inclin❜d,

Rash Youth's impetuous passions can assuage,

Or thaw the torpid Icicles of Age,

Can wake the noblest feelings of the breast,

Or laugh down folly with a pointed Jest.

'Tis thus we laugh'd at Swaddlers,-laugh'd them down,

Yes! and reliev'd with Mirth the groaning town:

But now no more shall they disgrace our Rhymes,
Their Punishment shall expiate their Crimes.
Abandon'd both by Dupe and Proselyte,
They vanish'd like the gloomy clouds of night,
Dispers'd by sov'reign sense and ancient light.||

* The greater number of Plays performed in the Season were from Shakspeare.

+ Love for Love, The Rivals, and The Clandestine Marriage, had been performed in the course of the Season.

Alluding to a most admirable charge against the new lights of Methodism, made to his Clergy in this year, by the Bishop of Ossory.