Richmond Enquirer

Some readers, whose distance and situation hinder them from visiting the Theatre in person, may do so in imagination, by perusing the following. We hope the description of the 'throng' with which the poem opens, will have a local habitation in Federal street, at least during the engagement of our favorite, Mrs. Barnes.—Boston Cent.

[Communicated for the Centinel]

THE THEATRE.

Behold! the doors are open'd—and the throng
Of men—and wheels commingled, rolls along;
Mortality's own tide! and see—they haste
Through all the streets—like radii to a focus.

Mark the struggle—push—and panting strife
To serpentine their way—with vengeful force
Squeez'd almost to annihilation, too!
'Tis well! the wave has wafted them along.

And now the flash of lights, bursting intense
Through some half-hasty-open'd door;—and forms
All brilliancy, and joy, and extasy
Glide on in brightness—there's a busy hum
Pours on the ear—and then the dull, hot air
(Fit for the lungs of lovely languishment)
A dear exchange for wintry frosts without!

Haste to the box—and fourish'd shapes trip on
O'er benches multifarious—cloth'd in green!
Look round—and mark each eye lit up with joy?
Hark to the slamming door! the voice half drown'd
Where conversation's ocean rolls along!

Mark opposite—some hasty entrance—then
Again, as hasty exit—and the sweep
Of fashion—beauty—in their march of pride!
Then look below—on the seen chaos!
(Sometimes felt!)—black—and deep—tumultuous—
Some shake their heads—and some, with orb return'd
"Veluti in speculo:" look all attention.

Then rolls the peal of loud impatience: low
At first—then swelling like the thunder's roar,
From the black cloud below!—the deep response
So much flash—and light—fling round them
Behind the great mask, to the world within.

The signal bell gives note of—what's to pay!
And silence comes on each vibration—quick
The wand'ring stare is turn'd to eager gaze,
And every eye beam shoots towards the stage.

The hurrying thunder cloud rolls off—beneath!
All words are stay'd—each tender vow clipt off—
And e'en the struggling breath comes tiptoe forth
In expectation's agony!—Again
The veil's withdrawn!—and all's enchantment.

And (if the play be good—or Shakspeare cramm'd)
We float in inspiration!—if a sigh
Steals out, 'tis by instalments—and we know
Nought else—till falling canvas breaks the dream!

Thus ends the act—and then the eye goes forth
To meet some favour'd glance—some well known smile
Amid the bright confusion—and the nod
Of recognition—then the rapid plunge
From box to box—the eager hand—the eye
Speaking out volumes in its trembling light!

And thus wheels off the hours—the fairy scene
In splendour and magnificence!—again
The green destroyer of our joys come down
And the wild rush of music ceases—then
Rolls out the tide, between its banks of light—
And wheels—and men—and steeds—and whips—and
Noise—
And darkness!

OCTAVIAN.