The English Dance of Death :: :: University of Virginia Library

JOKE, and Fun, and Frisk, and Folly,
And ev'ry Foe to Melancholy,
With airy step and smiling mien,
Fill up the Pantomimic scene.
Frolic spirits, light and gay,
Chase the ev'ning gloom away:
While they their lively whims pursue,
What have we with Care to do?

Tragedy is blood and slaughter:—
A Tyrant's wife, or Prince's daughter,
With some bold Lover in her train,
Who by a rival's hand is slain;—
With, right or wrong, a spice of reason
To thwart Conspiracy and Treason:
A fav'rite Slave, an infant Son,
A battle lost, a battle won;

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Tears, shrieks, a dagger and a bowl,
Of Tragic Dramas form the whole.
Though, to add horror to the woe,
And give the last Scene all its show,
It were as well the Stage to spread
With a slight sprinkle of the Dead.

The Comic Muse, who in her freaks,
With Life's domestic bus'ness seeks
To call attention and to please
With all man's home varieties,
Will sometimes think it not a sin,
With Death's grave pers'nage to begin.
—But he's not seen:—she thinks its better
To introduce him in a Letter;
Or, to create a future laugh,
In a Newspaper paragraph.
An Uncle rich may be suppos'd,
Perhaps in India, to have clos'd
His mortal Life, which may produce
Plenty of hopes and fears, for use;
Turn up a score of odds and ends,
Make friends of foes, and foes of friends.

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Besides, it ought not to be known,
What he with all his wealth has done.
In the third Act, perhaps, he'll come
At some untoward moment home;
And the whole Plot takes its complexion
From this unlook'd for resurrection.
Alarm and Joy, and Tricks and Lies,
With a few snug perplexities;
A subtle Valet, and a Maid,
Who are well nurtur'd in their trade,
With an outwitted rogue or two,
To be expos'd to public view:
A song so fond and so complying,
In a fine strain, that's all but dying;
Or with nice equivoques well stor'd,
Which will be sure to be encor'd,
Work up the int'rest of the Piece:
Then all at once the jarrings cease.
They yield to joy, and asking blessing,
Some shaking hands, and some caressing;
Till Hymen comes to say “good bye;—
“I hope like the Comedy.”

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Farce is a comic view of Nature,
Caricatur'd in plan and feature;—
Nor does the Critic blame the scene
If it but robs him of the spleen.
The Unities may all give way,
If it but makes the Audience gay.
Vice, Virtue, Folly, Youth and Age,
May form the bus'ness of the Stage;
Sing-song and Dance may join their power
To hasten on the laughing hour.
But Death's too solemn to appear
In all his sad apparel there;
Unless he lends his dismal show
To form a mockery of woe,
And make a louder laugh succeed,
When Life resuscitates the Dead.

Some may remember well the time
But it was in a Pantomime,
When Death was seen to play his part,
To grin a smile and wield a dart:

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Now upright in the tomb he stood,
Now mantled in a sable hood:
Then he would strut, stand still, or sit,
And well nigh frighten half the Pit:
He next, to follow up the Joke,
Would take a pipe and gravely smoke.
Pierrot and Pantaloon amaz'd,
At the familiar Phantom gaz'd:
Who, with his hideous grimaces,
Would work up Terror in their faces;
While Columbine with welcome glance,
Invites him to the graceful Dance:
At length his Frolics make it known—
'Tis Harlequin turn'd Skeleton.
But soon the magic strip of wood
Restores him all his flesh and blood,
And makes the wond'ring children gape
At each variety of shape:
They almost doubt the astonish'd eyes
Which views the tricks his sword supplies.
Mountains that touch the clouds are seen
To sink into the Ocean green;

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While on their sides the yielding trees,
Transform'd to vessels, plough the seas.
By the same metaphysic power
The Rock melts to a Rosy Bower;
The Rosy Bower, where Lovers meet,
Passes away, and lo, a Street,
With all its busy, bustling train,
Which cities, rich in trade, contain.
That's whirl'd away—and, in its stead,
A stately building rears its head:—
But still more strange when mortal man
A Lion growls or swims a Swan.
So quick the change of human nature
To ev'ry form of living creature;
That e'en Pythagoras might stare,
Had he been a Spectator there.
—Pierrot and Pantaloon pursue
With all their clumsy retinue;
But vain the toil with which they strive
T'o'ertake the Motly Fugitive;
Till kick'd and cuff'd in ev'ry place,
They're forc'd at length to yield the chace;

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While Harlequin, each danger past,
Enjoys his Columbine at last.

Thus may Death's image aid delight
'Mid the gay scen'ry of the night:
But, in the Pantomine of years,
'Tis serious all, when Death appears.
For then no grin can Pierrot save;
He finds the trap a real grave;
Old Pantaloon with all his care,
Will cease to be an Actor there.
Lun's magic sword, with all its art,
Must yield to Fate's resistless dart;
And when Life's closing scene is o'er,
The Curtain falls to rise no more.