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EPILOGUE.
Written by a FRIEND.
Well
! these heroic times—I scarce can speak—
These antient fables, borrow'd from the Greek,
Are all so full of passion, rage, and death,
So violent—they take away one's breath.—
Let me recover, pray:—this tragic strife
Night after night,—leads me a weary life.
These antient fables, borrow'd from the Greek,
Are all so full of passion, rage, and death,
So violent—they take away one's breath.—
Let me recover, pray:—this tragic strife
Night after night,—leads me a weary life.
Thro' what variety of folks, long dead,
Through what strange times and beings are we led!
Now a fond daughter trembling for her sire;
Now Phædra, burning with unlawful fire!
A heroine now, for Greece my brain I rack;
Now Desdemona, smother'd by a Black.
To take these various shapes, and fill the whole,
An actress needs a transmigrating soul.
Through what strange times and beings are we led!
Now a fond daughter trembling for her sire;
Now Phædra, burning with unlawful fire!
A heroine now, for Greece my brain I rack;
Now Desdemona, smother'd by a Black.
To take these various shapes, and fill the whole,
An actress needs a transmigrating soul.
This night, you'll own, I've had full cause to mourn
A chief renown'd from my embraces torn.
Well might a widow weep the best of men!
Oh! such a husband I shan't have again.
With bright renown he fill'd the Eastern climes,
And differ'd, ladies, from these modern times.
In life's first dawn, to deeds of terror bred,
The youthful hero crush'd the serpent's head.
In these our days, when men their object miss,
There are who like to hear the serpent hiss.
One thing there is, which I must not disguise;
Tho' brave, heroic, generous, and wise,
The lover, tam'd, aside his club could throw,
Chain'd to the distaff, like a modern beau.
A chief renown'd from my embraces torn.
Well might a widow weep the best of men!
Oh! such a husband I shan't have again.
With bright renown he fill'd the Eastern climes,
And differ'd, ladies, from these modern times.
In life's first dawn, to deeds of terror bred,
The youthful hero crush'd the serpent's head.
In these our days, when men their object miss,
There are who like to hear the serpent hiss.
One thing there is, which I must not disguise;
Tho' brave, heroic, generous, and wise,
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Chain'd to the distaff, like a modern beau.
Yet, all his toils and all his labours past,
By Death ev'n Envy was subdued at last.
We read,—(so says our bard) in Ovid's stile
How for himself he rais'd the funeral pile.
There on his club reclining,—like a guest
With garlands crown'd—he sunk to endless rest.
Yet even now, in these degenerate days,
Heroic virtue still can merit praise.
When round the ship, in the deep roaring tide,
Devouring flames advance on ev'ry side;
Lo! on the anchor where the hero lies,
With look serene, and still the foe defies,
He views the flame, he views the brawling wave,
Then sinks—undaunted sinks in glory's grave.
By Death ev'n Envy was subdued at last.
We read,—(so says our bard) in Ovid's stile
How for himself he rais'd the funeral pile.
There on his club reclining,—like a guest
With garlands crown'd—he sunk to endless rest.
Yet even now, in these degenerate days,
Heroic virtue still can merit praise.
When round the ship, in the deep roaring tide,
Devouring flames advance on ev'ry side;
Lo! on the anchor where the hero lies,
With look serene, and still the foe defies,
He views the flame, he views the brawling wave,
Then sinks—undaunted sinks in glory's grave.
May his example every breast inspire,
And kindle thro' the land our antient fire.
For nought,—as Shakspeare sings, “can make us rue
“If Britain to herself will prove but true.”
And kindle thro' the land our antient fire.
For nought,—as Shakspeare sings, “can make us rue
“If Britain to herself will prove but true.”
THE END.
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