The Secret Tribunal A Play. In Five Acts |
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EPILOGUE, By the Author of the Play. Spoken by MISS WALLIS. |
 | The Secret Tribunal |  |
EPILOGUE, By the Author of the Play. Spoken by MISS WALLIS.
SUCH the dread scenes of a benighted age,
Now only known in the historic page:
Thence by our Poet drawn, but to display
Old English Justice in unclouded day.
Now only known in the historic page:
Thence by our Poet drawn, but to display
Old English Justice in unclouded day.
But are these institutions quite destroy'd?
Secret Tribunals, are none now employ'd?
Thousands. Yes, while we sink in soft repose,
Our Judges eyes no gentle slumbers close:
The Heart is the tribunal which we fear,
For ever hid, and yet for ever near;
Its Agents are the Senses, and they gain
Intelligence for that shrewd Judge the Brain.
The mighty censure, carefully conceal'd,
Until the doom is fix'd lies unreveal'd.
Secret Tribunals, are none now employ'd?
Thousands. Yes, while we sink in soft repose,
Our Judges eyes no gentle slumbers close:
The Heart is the tribunal which we fear,
For ever hid, and yet for ever near;
Its Agents are the Senses, and they gain
Intelligence for that shrewd Judge the Brain.
The mighty censure, carefully conceal'd,
Until the doom is fix'd lies unreveal'd.
Lo! the warm Patriot, that, with ceaseless din,
Clamours against his rival, who is in;
Who loads the land with ruin and disgrace,
And paints the charms of Revolution's face—
What says the Heart to this?—He wants a Place.
Clamours against his rival, who is in;
Who loads the land with ruin and disgrace,
And paints the charms of Revolution's face—
What says the Heart to this?—He wants a Place.
The wrinkled Tabby, who, on youthful joy,
Frowns like a fiend, as eager to destroy;
Who wears her poor thin frame to skin and bone,
In hopes she may detect some pair alone—
Let but our Secret Court the motive scan,
The Heart will tell us—all she hopes is Man:
Give but that banquet to her eager tooth,
“And Virtue may be Wax to flaming Youth.”
Frowns like a fiend, as eager to destroy;
Who wears her poor thin frame to skin and bone,
In hopes she may detect some pair alone—
The Heart will tell us—all she hopes is Man:
Give but that banquet to her eager tooth,
“And Virtue may be Wax to flaming Youth.”
The poor old Soldier, whom, in rending pains,
Some pious Daughter's tender breast sustains;
Whose plain memorial, still in vain renew'd,
Speaks him by unrequited toil subdu'd;
Though passive sufferance he can not command,
Yet in his heart acquits his native land:
From his last efforts these proud accents rise,
“Blest be my King, my Country!” and he dies.
Such the decisions of our Court, the Heart,
Some pious Daughter's tender breast sustains;
Whose plain memorial, still in vain renew'd,
Speaks him by unrequited toil subdu'd;
Though passive sufferance he can not command,
Yet in his heart acquits his native land:
From his last efforts these proud accents rise,
“Blest be my King, my Country!” and he dies.
O! may the touches of the Poet's art,
Win there an int'rest for his injur'd Maid,
And feeling fix our doom with Candour's aid.
| The Secret Tribunal | |