 | [Poems by Payne in] John Howard Payne ... his life and writings |  |
EPILOGUE TO THE WANDERER,
AN AMERICAN PLAY, ACTED AT THE NEW YORK THEATRE.
[_]
Written at the age of fourteen, spoken by Mrs. Jones, who performed the part of Julia, the Wanderer.
So, then methinks we'll leave, without repining,
This sobbing, monkish, methodistic whining:
One serious part (at least, if they will tease one)
Is quantum sufficit for half the season.
Oh, dear! I scarce can force a smile to ask
How you approve our author's infant task?
If to his “Wanderer” a home you'll give
And bid the hope of trembling genius live?—
“Pshaw!” cries old ten-per-cent, “don't talk to me
Of trembling genius, hope, and—
(Hesitating, then with a mimicking flourish,)
ti-tum-tee!
This sobbing, monkish, methodistic whining:
One serious part (at least, if they will tease one)
Is quantum sufficit for half the season.
Oh, dear! I scarce can force a smile to ask
How you approve our author's infant task?
If to his “Wanderer” a home you'll give
And bid the hope of trembling genius live?—
“Pshaw!” cries old ten-per-cent, “don't talk to me
Of trembling genius, hope, and—
(Hesitating, then with a mimicking flourish,)
ti-tum-tee!
All stuff and nonsense! If the cash be rare—
What, genius, is thy boasted lot?—despair!
Though his bold flight reached worlds at every bound,
Its end—what is it? two-pence in the pound!
The silly wight is left at last to curse
His learned noddle, with an empty purse!
Give me your plodding man of common sense,
Whose wiser study is to soar at pence;
Who thinks no style like invoice half so terse is,
And contra credit worth a ton of verses!
If wits will write, why, let them write, and starve;
For me, thank Heav'n! I have my goose to carve,
And cellar furnish'd to my heart's desire:—
Prithee what more can man or beast require?”
This said, he takes his quid, looks wise, and stirs the fire.
From judges such as these we gladly turn
To eyes that sparkle, and to hearts that burn,
That conscious, kindle at Columbia's name,
Proud of their country's letters, as her fame!
That rear th' exotic, if the flowers be fair,
But guard the native plant with tenfold care;
Nourish its tendrils like the dew of dawn,
And bid it bloom to cheer its parent lawn!
Warmed by such favor, Genius learns to rise,
Like our own Eagle, a career to run,
Free as the air, and brilliant as the sun!
A devious “Wanderer” fondly turns to you,
To ask indulgence, not to claim a due;
And oh, believe her! she would rather roam
O'er any wilds, however far from home,
Than fail to court, in modest merit's cause,
The sanction of your smile—the fame of your applause!
What, genius, is thy boasted lot?—despair!
Though his bold flight reached worlds at every bound,
Its end—what is it? two-pence in the pound!
The silly wight is left at last to curse
His learned noddle, with an empty purse!
Give me your plodding man of common sense,
Whose wiser study is to soar at pence;
Who thinks no style like invoice half so terse is,
And contra credit worth a ton of verses!
If wits will write, why, let them write, and starve;
For me, thank Heav'n! I have my goose to carve,
And cellar furnish'd to my heart's desire:—
301
This said, he takes his quid, looks wise, and stirs the fire.
From judges such as these we gladly turn
To eyes that sparkle, and to hearts that burn,
That conscious, kindle at Columbia's name,
Proud of their country's letters, as her fame!
That rear th' exotic, if the flowers be fair,
But guard the native plant with tenfold care;
Nourish its tendrils like the dew of dawn,
And bid it bloom to cheer its parent lawn!
Warmed by such favor, Genius learns to rise,
Like our own Eagle, a career to run,
Free as the air, and brilliant as the sun!
A devious “Wanderer” fondly turns to you,
To ask indulgence, not to claim a due;
And oh, believe her! she would rather roam
O'er any wilds, however far from home,
Than fail to court, in modest merit's cause,
The sanction of your smile—the fame of your applause!
| [Poems by Payne in] John Howard Payne ... his life and writings | |