Part 8 (1/2)

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.)