 | Mirandola |  |
vii
PROLOGUE
SPOKEN BY MR. CHAPMAN.(WRITTEN BY A FRIEND.)
Though, for two hundred years, the stage has been
A varying story, shifting scene by scene
From wit to ribaldry, as veered the age,
'Till both were lost in one wide sea of rage;
Yet, for a time, a crowd of mighty men
Flourished in Britain, their sole arms—the pen,
The Poet's pencil, dipp'd in living light,
That flowed from beaming day or starry night;
Their music such as sprang from winds or floods,
Their colours those which hung the waving woods,
The rocks, the vallies, and the circling sky;
Their spirit the same which has thro' years gone by
Lived—oh! and still, as fair as in its youth,
Survives,—immutable, immortal Truth;
Their words—(no heavy coinage of the brain,
Wrought with dull toil and uninspired pain,)
Came from the gently-stricken heart's rebound,
Like natural echoes from some pleasant sound.
A varying story, shifting scene by scene
From wit to ribaldry, as veered the age,
'Till both were lost in one wide sea of rage;
Yet, for a time, a crowd of mighty men
Flourished in Britain, their sole arms—the pen,
The Poet's pencil, dipp'd in living light,
That flowed from beaming day or starry night;
Their music such as sprang from winds or floods,
Their colours those which hung the waving woods,
The rocks, the vallies, and the circling sky;
Their spirit the same which has thro' years gone by
Lived—oh! and still, as fair as in its youth,
Survives,—immutable, immortal Truth;
Their words—(no heavy coinage of the brain,
Wrought with dull toil and uninspired pain,)
Came from the gently-stricken heart's rebound,
Like natural echoes from some pleasant sound.
Of late some Poets of true mind have writ
Lines that have relished of the ancient wit:
To-night, another, not unknown—yet one
Who feels that much is to be lost—and won,
Comes with a few plain words, honestly told,
Like those his mightier masters spoke of old,
And anxious that his story may by you
Be found to every answering feeling true.—
On no huge sounding words he rests his fame;
No mighty sentences his pride proclaim:
To woo you—win you,—as they did of yore,
In better times, he asks—and asks no more.
Lines that have relished of the ancient wit:
To-night, another, not unknown—yet one
Who feels that much is to be lost—and won,
Comes with a few plain words, honestly told,
Like those his mightier masters spoke of old,
And anxious that his story may by you
Be found to every answering feeling true.—
On no huge sounding words he rests his fame;
No mighty sentences his pride proclaim:
To woo you—win you,—as they did of yore,
In better times, he asks—and asks no more.
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