Hannah, "whom every play-house bill Stiles great, divine, or what you will," Can most adroitly cater, And these our sapient times require No sterling genius, native fire, But only a translator.
Belloy with me shall join in praise Of her unrivall'd tragic lays, And sure most high we rate her; For she hath given his sense exact In English dress, and is in fact An excellent translator.
Seeing her magic scenes, I die— (Yet almost old enough am I To be the fair-one's Pater,) How then must every younger spirit Adore the energy and merit Of our sublime translator?
For her shall morning presses teem, And newspapers thro' many a team Be Roscius, and be Bate her; Woodford a corner shall supply, For an Impartialist am I, And so is our translator.
Forth issuing from their laurel groves The Muses, Graces, and the Loves, And eke their lovely Mater, Her hand shall take, then bid her hop, And flat upon Parnassus' top Our marvellous translator.
Or else who knows another year, Whether in Mac's throne-aping chair Old Wilson may inflate her, Graham's soft strains thro' aether float, And Dragon's wild sonorous note Applaud our great translator.
Dragon, a bug-bear fierce and grim Shall tear with pleasure limb by limb The yelping curs who hate her, And Roscius' self, (for who'll deny That Roscius hath a speaking eye) Shall ogle our translator.
Then too my panegyric song Shall echo Avon's banks along, Or, (tho' no idle prater) At least unblamed I may be found Uniting in the general sound, "All-hail Divine Translator!"
Softener of Belloy's horrid tale, Each dainty master cries all-hail Sweet, tender-natured cratur! Shakespeare! — tremendous works of death! Hamlet, Othello, Lear, Macbeth, All yield to our translator.
Gallic succeeds to Gallic play, The mushrooms live their little day, May Percy's fate be later! As long as Eldred shall be bought; Or e'en her happiness be sought, So long live our translator!
