PROLOGUE.

Lo! Time, at last, has brought, with tardy flight, The long-antic.i.p.ated, wish'd-for night; How on this blissful night, while yet remote, Did Hope and Fancy with fond rapture doat!

Like eagles, oft, in glory's dazzling sky, With full-stretch'd pinions have they soar'd on high, To greet the appearance of the poet's name, Dawning conspicuous mid the stars of fame.

Alas! they soar not now;--the demon, Fear, Has hurl'd the cherubs from their heavenly sphere: Fancy, o'erwhelm'd with terror, grovelling lies;-- The world of torment opens on her eyes, Darkness and hissing all she sees and hears;-- (_The speaker pauses--the audience are supposed to clap, when he continues,_) But Hope, returning to dispel her fears, Claps her bright wings; the magic sound and light At once have forced their dreaded foe to flight, Silenced the hissing, chased the darkness round, And charm'd up marvelling Fancy from the ground.

Say, shall the cherubs dare once more to fly?

Not, as of late, in glory's dazzling sky, To greet the appearance of the poet's name, Dawning conspicuous mid the stars of fame; Presumptuous flight! but let them dare to rise, Cheer'd by the light of your propitious eyes, Within this roof, glory's contracted sphere, On fluttering pinions, unsubdued by Fear; O! let them dare, ere yet the curtain draws, Fondly antic.i.p.ate your kind applause.

EPILOGUE.

Perplexing case!--your pardon, Friends, I pray,-- My head so turns, I know not what to say;-- However, since I've dared to come before ye, I'll stop the whirligig,-- (_Clapping his hand to his forehead_,) and tell my story: Though 'tis so strange, that I've a pre-conviction It may by some, perhaps, be judged a fiction.

Learn, gentle Audience, then, with just surprise, That, when, to-night, you saw the curtain rise, Our poet's epilogue was still unwrit: The devil take him for neglecting it!

Nay though,--'twas not neglected; 'twas deferr'd From certain motives--which were most absurd; For, trusting blindly to his rhyming vein, And still-prepared inventiveness of brain, He'd form'd the whimsical, foolhardy plan, To set about it when the play began; Thus purposing the drama's fate to know, Then write his epilogue quite a propos.

The time at last arrives--the signal rings, Sir Bard, alarm'd, to pen and paper springs, And, snug in listening-corner, near the scene, With open'd ears, eyes, mouth-suspended mien,-- Watches opinion's breezes as they blow, To kindle fancy's fire, and bid his verses flow.

Now I, kind Auditors! by fortune's spite Was doom'd, alack! to speak what he should write, And therefore, as you'll naturally suppose, Could not forbear, at times, to c.o.c.k my nose Over his shoulder, curiously to trace His progress;--zounds! how snail-like was his pace!

Feeling, at length, my sore-tried patience sicken, Good Sir, I cried, your tardy motions quicken: 'Tis the fourth act, high time, Sir, to have done!

As if his ear had been the touch-hole of a gun, My tongue a match, the Bard, on fire, exploded; He was--excuse the pun--with grape high-loaded.

Hence, prating fool! return'd he, in a roar, Push'd me out, neck and heels, and bang'd the door.

But lest, here too, like hazard I should run; } I'll end my story. When the play was done, } The epilogue was--look! 'tis here--begun: } Such as it is, however, if you will, I'll read it; shall I, Friends? (_They clap._) Your orders I fulfil.

(_He reads._)

'Tis come! the fateful hour! list! list! the bell Summons me--Duncan-like, to heaven or h.e.l.l; See, see, the curtain draws;--it now commences; Fear and suspense have frozen up my senses: But let me to my task:--what noise is this?

They're clapping, clapping, O ye G.o.ds, what bliss!

Now then, to work, my pen:--descend, O Muse!

Thine inspiration through my soul infuse; Prompt such an epilogue as ne'er before Has been imagined,--never will be more.

What subject? hark! new louder plaudits rise, I'm fired, and, like a rocket, to the skies Dart up triumphantly in flames of light:-- They hiss, I'm quench'd, and sink in shades of night.

Again they clap, O extacy!-- Having thus far indulged his rhyming vein, He halts,--reads,--curses,--and begins again; But not a single couplet could he muster; How should he, with his soul in such a fl.u.s.ter, All rapture, grat.i.tude, for your applause?

Be then, the effect excused in favour of the cause!

LINES

ON THE DEATH OF THE REV. MR. B.

(SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY MISS B***, HIS SISTER.)

At G.o.d's command the vital spirit fled, And thou, my Brother! slumber'st with the dead.

Alas! how art thou changed! I scarcely dare To gaze on thee;--dread sight! death, death is there.

How does thy loss o'erwhelm my heart with grief!

But tears, kind nature's tears afford relief.

Reluctant, sad, I take my last farewell:-- Thy virtues in my mind shall ever dwell; Thy tender friendship felt so long for me, Thy frankness, truth, thy generosity, Thy tuneful tongue's persuasive eloquence, Thy science, learning, taste, wit, common sense, Thy patriot love of genuine liberty, Thy heart o'erflowing with philanthropy; And chiefly will I strive henceforth to feel Thy firm religious faith and pious zeal, Enlighten'd, liberal, free from bigotry, And, that prime excellence, thy charity.

Farewell!--for ever?--no! forbid it, Heaven!

A glorious promise is to Christians given; Though parted in this world of sin and pain, On high, my Brother! we shall meet again.

LINES TO AN INFIDEL, AFTER HAVING READ HIS BOOK AGAINST CHRISTIANITY.

Your book I've read: I would that I had not!

For what instruction, pleasure, have I got?

Amid that artful labyrinth of doubt Long, long I wander'd, striving to get out; Your thread of sophistry, my only clue, I fondly hoped would guide me rightly through: That spider's web entangled me the more: With desperate courage onward still I went, Until my head was turn'd, my patience spent: Now, now, at last, thank G.o.d! the task is o'er.

I've been a child, who whirls himself about, Fancying he sees both earth and heaven turn round; Till giddy, panting, sick, and wearied out, He falls, and rues his folly on the ground.

LINES

ON HEARING A YOUNG GENTLEMAN, WHO IS BOTH LAME AND BLIND, BUT IN OTHER RESPECTS VERY HANDSOME, SING AND PLAY ON HIS VIOLIN FOR THE FIRST TIME.

Crippled his limbs, and sightless are his eyes; I view the youth, and feel compa.s.sion rise.

He sings! how sweet the notes! in pleased amaze I listen,--listen, and admiring gaze.

Still, as he catches inspiration's fire, Sweeping with bolder hands the obedient strings, That mix, harmonious, with the strains he sings, He pours into the music all his soul, And governs mine with strong, but soft controul: Raptured I glow, and more and more admire.

His mortal ailments I no longer see; But, of divinities my fancy dreams; Blind was the enchanting G.o.d of soft desire; And lame the powerful Deity of fire; His bow the magic rod of Hermes seems; And in his voice I hear the G.o.d of harmony.

LINES TO A PEDANTIC CRITIC.

Critic! should I vouchsafe to learn of thee, Correct, no doubt, but cold my strains would be: Now, cold correctness!--I despise the name; Is that a pa.s.sport through the gates of fame?

Thy pedant rules with care I studied once; Was I made wiser, or a greater dunce?

Hence, Critic, hence! I'll study them no more; My eyes are open'd, and the folly's o'er.

When Genius opes the floodgates of the soul, Fancy's outbursting tides impetuous roll, Onward they rush with unresisted sway, } Sweeping fools, pedants, critics, all away } Who would with obstacles their progress stay. } As mighty Ocean bids his waves comply With the great luminaries of the sky, So Genius, to direct his course aright, Owns but one guide, the inspiring G.o.d of light.

LINES ON SHAKSPEARE.

(SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN NEAR HIS TOMB.)

Behold! this marble tablet bears inscribed The name of Shakspeare!-- What a glorious theme For never-ending praise! His drama's page, Like a clear mirror, to our wondering view Displays the living image of the world, And all the different characters of men: Still, in the varying scenes, or sad, or gay, We take a part; we weep; we laugh; we feel All the strong sympathies of real life.