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

Forgive this gloom-forgive this joyless strain, Too dull to welcome Pleasure's smiling train; But, meeting thus, our hearts will part the lighter, A mist at dawn but makes the setting brighter, Gay Epilogue will shine, where Prologue fails, As glow-worms keep their splendour for their tails. I know not why-but time, methinks, hath past More fleet than usual, since we parted last; It seems but like a dream of yester-night, Whose charm still hangs, with fond, delaying light, And, ere the memory lose one glowing hue Of former joys, we come to kindle new.

Thus ever may the flying moments haste, With trackless foot, along life's vulgar waste; But deeply print, and lingeringly move, Whene'er they reach the sunny spots we love! Oh yes! whatever is our gay career, Let this be still the solstice of the year, Where pleasure's sun, shall at its height remain, And slowly sink tow'rds level life again!

EXTRACT FROM A PROLOGUE,

Written and spoken by Mr. Moore,

At the opening of the Theatre, the 2d of October, 1809,

"We have been favored, by Mr. Moore, with the following lines, which are the conclusion of the Prologue, spoken by him last week, at the opening of our Theatre, and which allude to the loss the Institution has suffered by the death of that good man, and excellent Comedian, the #late Mr. John Lyster."-Leinster Journal, 11th October, 1809.

:

Yet even here, tho' Fiction rules the hour,

There are some genuine Smiles, beyond her pow'r;
Pure Brilliants, born within the bosom's mine,
That round this Ring of friendship love to shine.
And there are Tears too!-tears which mem'ry sheds
Ev'n o'er the feast that mimic fancy spreads,
When her heart misses one lamented guest,
Whose eye so long threw light o'er all the rest!-
Ah there indeed the Muse forgets her task,
And, blushing, weeps behind Thalia's masque,

The Circle of the Theatre.

When Autumn's boist'rous blast the grove deforms, And Winter sends her heralds forth in storms, When the light wanderers of Earth and Air,

In social groups to shelter'd scenes repair,

Here, in confederate gaiety, we meet,
As sure, as flattery is the food of wit;

Sure, as your charms love's trembling fire can raise,
As sure, as every actor pants for praise,
So sure, we meet, our festive course to run,
When Scorpio first receives the waning sun.
Like other Theatres, our price is rais'd,
And justly---but our price is, to be prais'd.*
You, unlike other audiences, submit,
And promptly proffer an advance on wit.

And here, well pleased, my annual stand I take,
Our thanks I offer--your applause bespeak.
Oft have we prov'd this circle's magic skill,

Each care to dissipate, each hope fulfil.
Is there a Beauty sighing for a Beau ?
Behold! he sits behind her in the row.

Alluding to the riots of Covent Garden, about raising the Prices of Admission at this period.

Is there a carping Critic prone to sneer?
My Friend! we furnish rich materials here!
Does care-worn, waking--Thoughtfulness lack rest,
Or anxious Terror load the labouring breast?
These scenes, the bliss of careless mirth, dispense,
And lively sallies soar o'er languid sense.

Does some vain Poet for loud Plaudits itch?
You'll hear, he'll gain them, ere I close my speech!
Doth Pity pant, the wretched to relieve?

The grateful, apt occasion, here we give.

Here, undefiled by coarse or sordid cares,
By vulgar objects, or plebeian jars,
Here, uncontaminated pleasure reigns,
Here talents elevate, and taste restrains;
Hence no rude sot provokes the furious fray---
Nor prowling plund'rer lies in wait for prey---
No venal parasite his flatt'ry sells---

Nor crafty gamester lays his wily spells---
No prurient preacher cants for proselytes---
And but one Poet, without genius, writes.

By what strange flights ambition soars to fame! Some walk-some wake-some eat themselves a name. Vast his renown, and wide his praise shall reach, Who, for one thousand hours, could walk one mile in each, Nor sleep the while, for two short hours together; Surmounting walking, waking, wind and weather.† How one's heart beats to read in the Gazette ! "We must inform the public, with regret, "Last Night, the Captain got a little wet. "Howe'er he eat his raw beef-steaks to day, “And drank his pint of Port, his usual way, "And, by the latest bulletin, this even, "The bets are, that he wins, eleven to seven."

Who's he, that with such self-importance struts ?
He! in three minutes, crack'd three hundred nuts!
Nuts had the odds, at starting--but before
One minute pass'd---jaws had it, ten to four.
Proceed, aspiring youths--your country save,
And laurels earn, that bloom beyond the grave!

Still war's the word, and martial is each thought---
Ev'n taste and fashion is with warfare fraught.
From sanguin'd seas, and the embattled plain,
Your modish ornaments their names obtain:
Garters and hats to Trafalgar you owe;
Vimiera's mantle--Flushing's furbelow---
And poor Braganza's trimmings well we know.
Nay, had our gun boats with their zeal kept pace,
You'd now wear Lillo lappets---Antwerp lace.||

Now, warlike ensigns decorate each hall,
From polish'd spears, the pendent curtains fall,
And banners, never furl'd, adorn the wall!
Are these new spoils, fresh landed from the fleet?
No-from the Trophy-warehouse, Cockspur-street:
Where, cheaper than imported, may be had,
Ensigns and spoils, and trophies ready made.

The war still storms-lest sudden foes assail,
Soft females shield their forms, in coats of mail,

The Author, it is supposed.

This passage refers to Captain B. the celebrated Pedestrian, and to the various paragraphs respecting him, with which the Newspapers of that day were filled.

Another Newspaper Anecdote of the day.

The Walcheren Expedition failed about this time,

Arm'd for each fray the cautious nymphs advance,
And, shap'd in steely armour, dare the dance.
We too, that boast this epidemic rage,
Whose duty 'tis to paint it on the stage,
With you, kind foes, dramatic warfare wage,
Troy stood a ten years' siege-your patience bears
As stern a contest, and for equal years;
Oft, we've assail'd with follies, all our own,
Then borrow'd each absurdity from town:
Yet, your obdurate patience bears it all,

Our shafts fly short-our weapons witless fall:

What cause! what corslet! can your breasts have steel'd? Your cause is Kindness---Charity's your shield.

Hence, our best generals advance, in vain, Nor can one groan, or one desertion gain; Our Manager, with matchless force and art, And every various power, subdues the heart; You-tho' disposed to treat before you yield, Reject an armistice, and keep the field.

Rothe leads his troops on, arm'd with hopes and fears, With passion, feeling, tenderness and tears. Yet, you, undaunted in your rows remain, And, with like weapons, his assaults sustain.

Crampton's light forces, skirmishing around,
Fly to the flanks, and gain the doubtful ground,
Yet, with vain energy, his pow'r advancing,
Assails your well-defended front by dancing.

With veteran discipline, tho' young in war,
Becher's new levies for the strife prepare,
And with such strength and judgment fill their part,
As proves true genius paramount to art.
You, resting on your arms, his rout descry,
Resolved to face the charge before you fly.
Nay, your inveterate patience will submit,
Ev'n to quaint Epilogue's assaults on wit:
Yet here, I own, more active force you shew,
For with your favors---you o'erwhelm your foe.||

Since nought then can dislodge you---nothing tire---
Nor follies--faults--or witchcraft, wake your ire---
One other desp'rate enterprise we'll make,
And all our trophies on the trial stake:
Bring forward ev'ry pow'r of ev'ry kind--
Of head, of heels, of magic, and of mind;
Next--when Septembrio's storms shall clear the sky,
Here, on these boards, the doubtful chance we'll try;
Come then!--and gallantly your benches man!
Come then!---and keep your patience---if you can!
My task is done---but ere the curtain drop,
Ere all mock woe and real transport stop;
Let me---no common undertaker--come

To bury all our frailties in the tomb:

But, with the purest gratitude, to raise,
For you, a lasting monument of praise.

The Audience. † Mr. R. Power. To the Audience. The Author.

[The Leinster Journal, Wednesday, October 4th, 1809.] This City has once more become the seat of refined amusement, and useful gaiety.

The Theatre opened on Monday night, with the Tragedy of THE SIEGE OF DAMASCUS, and the musical Afterpiece of THE CASTLE OF ANDALUSIA, both of which were

admirably performed. The house was not crowded, but still was not inferior, in point of numbers present, to any first night's representation, which proves, that the Kilkenny Plays have lost none of their attractions.

A Prologue, written with great spirit by Mr. T. MOORE, was spoken by himself, in his own bewitching manner.

Miss WALSTEIN, in the character of Eudocia, had an opportunity of displaying much tenderness of expression; and the PHOCYAS of Mr. BECHER, forcible, and spirited, deserves a more detailed criticism, than we have time to enter on. Mr. CORRY in Eumenes was very successful, and so were the other gentlemen in the different parts allotted to them.

In the Afterpiece, Mrs. Coax's Victoria and Mrs. HITCHCOCK's Isabella, were much applauded; but Mr. MOORE'S Spado, and the Pedrillo of Mr. CORRY were incomparable.

[Leinster Journal, Saturday, October 7th, 1809.]—On Wednesday night was performed SHAKESPEARE's Tragedy of JULIUS CESAR, and the Farce of PEEPING TOM.

The whole strength of the Company was called up on this occasion, and there seemed to be a rivalry of talent, an honorable contest for pre-eminence among them, particularly among the leaders of our Corps, which produced the happiest effect in the representation. Mr. ROTHE is the inferior of no Actor, and the rival of the first; but though he be a POMPEY in our little theatrical world, his ambition is not so great but he can bear an equal. His voice is capable of expressing the sweetest under-tones of pity, or of giving out the loftiest terrors of offended pride; his BRUTUS was full of both. In his Address to the conspirators not to murder Antony after the death of Cæsar, beginning with the lines, "Our course will seem too bloody," &c. he gave us an example of the pathetic; but in the third scene of the fourth act, the scene between Brutus and Cassius, he displayed all the energies of a great Actor.

Mr. POWER was not less successful in Mark Antony. It would be difficult for the Critic to determine which of the two deserved the meed of superior applause, after beholding Mr. POWER mourning over the body of the fallen Cæsar. The artful and pathetic speech which SHAKESPEARE has put into the mouth of Antony, upon this occasion, was given in a manner, and with an effect, that drew down the loudest applause.

The Afterpiece was admirably supported; but the delight and darling of the Kilkenny audience appears to be Anacreon Moore. The vivacity, and naiveté of his manner, the ease, and archness of his humour, and the natural sweetness of his voice, have quite enamoured us. He speaks and moves, in a way that indicates genius in every turn, and we shall anxiously snatch at every opportunity of seeing on the Stage. We shall be envied by those who have not had that pleasure.

[Kilkenny Journal, Wednesday, October 11th, 1809.]On Saturday Night was performed the Play of the MOUNTAINEERS, with the Musical Farce of the PADLOCK. The MOUNTAINEERS is remarkable for being the happiest production of Mr. COLMAN's muse; and the best mingled compound of fun and sentiment, perhaps, in the English language. The leading Character in it, however, is little