 | Manuel |  |
85
EPILOGUE, SPOKEN BY MRS. MARDYN.
Clos'd is the scene; and, hush'd by Death's relief,
Lie Manuel's madness and Ximena's grief:
Let me then o'er their graves roam broken-hearted,
And read the epitaphs on all departed.
Lie Manuel's madness and Ximena's grief:
Let me then o'er their graves roam broken-hearted,
And read the epitaphs on all departed.
No formal burial needs, for, be it known,
Parnassus has a church-yard of its own;
There, honor'd all, with fitting tombs recline
The fabled heroes of the glowing Nine.
There stands the sepulchre, where Rapture views
Entomb'd the offspring of our Shakspeare's Muse;
And on its base has many a Bard and Sage
His comments grav'd through every after-age,—
By honoring them has made himself be known,
And by their names immortaliz'd his own.
There Norval rests, there Zanga's guilty pride,—
There Jaffier sleeps by Belvidera's side;
Thence at your potent call they rise, and here
Revive, and live again their short career;
Then sink, as your applause or frowns may doom,
To short repose, or an eternal tomb.
Then let me try to deck with fitting glory
Those heroes who, to-night, have fall'n before you.
Parnassus has a church-yard of its own;
There, honor'd all, with fitting tombs recline
The fabled heroes of the glowing Nine.
There stands the sepulchre, where Rapture views
Entomb'd the offspring of our Shakspeare's Muse;
And on its base has many a Bard and Sage
His comments grav'd through every after-age,—
By honoring them has made himself be known,
And by their names immortaliz'd his own.
There Norval rests, there Zanga's guilty pride,—
There Jaffier sleeps by Belvidera's side;
Thence at your potent call they rise, and here
Revive, and live again their short career;
Then sink, as your applause or frowns may doom,
To short repose, or an eternal tomb.
Then let me try to deck with fitting glory
Those heroes who, to-night, have fall'n before you.
Here lies Alonzo, slain by murderers grim;
And, faith! but little else is known of him.
He, says Report, was Spain's defence and pride;
His life is hearsay,—but we know he died.
How many men (I thus his moral give)
Live but to die!—The warrior dies to live!
And, faith! but little else is known of him.
He, says Report, was Spain's defence and pride;
His life is hearsay,—but we know he died.
How many men (I thus his moral give)
Live but to die!—The warrior dies to live!
86
Here Manuel lies; how many a tottering sire,
Of half his years, lacks half his youthful fire?
Was not, speak ye who viewed him through the scene,
His impulse genuine, and his spirit Keen?
The moral string our Poet meant to touch
Is that of doting on your sons too much.
At his child's death, the widower quitted life;
He'd liv'd for years after he lost his wife!
Of half his years, lacks half his youthful fire?
Was not, speak ye who viewed him through the scene,
His impulse genuine, and his spirit Keen?
The moral string our Poet meant to touch
Is that of doting on your sons too much.
At his child's death, the widower quitted life;
He'd liv'd for years after he lost his wife!
Here lies De Zelos,—a great villain,—granted;
He kill'd the younker whose estate he wanted.
A bungling knave! could he not find, by skill,
Flaw in the deed, or doubt upon the will?
Or, should we on his tomb this axiom carve,
“Better to kill at once than leave to starve?”
He kill'd the younker whose estate he wanted.
A bungling knave! could he not find, by skill,
Flaw in the deed, or doubt upon the will?
Or, should we on his tomb this axiom carve,
“Better to kill at once than leave to starve?”
Here lies young Torrismond, of noble race,
Who fell the victim of his sire's disgrace.
He found, and 'twas enough the youth to stagger,
His father's name upon the murd'rer's dagger.
Take heed, ye sires! ('tis this our Poet aims,)
Have special caution where ye write your names;
And never sign it, thus your children pray,
To any instrument—you give away.
Who fell the victim of his sire's disgrace.
He found, and 'twas enough the youth to stagger,
His father's name upon the murd'rer's dagger.
Take heed, ye sires! ('tis this our Poet aims,)
Have special caution where ye write your names;
And never sign it, thus your children pray,
To any instrument—you give away.
Here doth the mourner, sad Ximena, lie
In death;—but hold!—one question—Did she die?
What tho' she fell, and rail'd on life's restraint,
Women talk thus who only mean to faint.
Well, then, for her we'll e'en delay our sorrow,
Till critics ascertain her fate to-morrow;
And, if you please, to fix the matter quite,
I'll meet you here again to-morrow night.
In death;—but hold!—one question—Did she die?
What tho' she fell, and rail'd on life's restraint,
Women talk thus who only mean to faint.
Well, then, for her we'll e'en delay our sorrow,
Till critics ascertain her fate to-morrow;
And, if you please, to fix the matter quite,
I'll meet you here again to-morrow night.
| Manuel | |