 | The Works of Thomas Love Peacock |  |
209
EPILOGUE
Though grave were our judges, their office, 'tis certain,
Was dissolved and annulled by the fall of the curtain;
Unless your warm plaudits command repetition,
And affix your great seal to their lasting commission.
From the bench of their judgment now humbly descending,
From your higher tribunal their sentence attending,
Oh! if justly they judge, discompose not their gravity!
Let them still reward virtue, and punish depravity:
And let not your keen and impartial discernment
Pronounce on their court sine die adjournment.
From our more modern courts a wise practice to borrow,
Whose word is to-morrow, to-morrow, to-morrow,
To avoid all the dangers of precipitation,
May we move that this cause have rē-cōnsideration?
Was dissolved and annulled by the fall of the curtain;
Unless your warm plaudits command repetition,
And affix your great seal to their lasting commission.
From the bench of their judgment now humbly descending,
From your higher tribunal their sentence attending,
Oh! if justly they judge, discompose not their gravity!
Let them still reward virtue, and punish depravity:
And let not your keen and impartial discernment
Pronounce on their court sine die adjournment.
From our more modern courts a wise practice to borrow,
Whose word is to-morrow, to-morrow, to-morrow,
To avoid all the dangers of precipitation,
May we move that this cause have rē-cōnsideration?
Alas! our poor bard fears his chance is precarious,
So numerous his judges, with fancies so various!
So numerous his judges, with fancies so various!
When the long-besieged turrets of Ilion were burning,
And the storm-beaten Greeks in confusion returning,
Meneläus, whom fate had long tost like a feather,
Was in Pharos detained by the force of bad weather,
Where his comrades, for want of more delicate dishes,
Were forced to subsist on the raw little fishes.
The nymph Halosydne, old Proteus's daughter,
Who heard him lament by the side of the water,
Assured him, his fortunes would never be better,
Unless his bold cunning old Proteus could fetter.
It called forth the whole of his skill and his vigor,
To bind the wild god of the changeable figure:
For he danced, flounced, and bounded, in ceaseless mutation,
And filled Meneläus with strange consternation;
Now a bubble, a doctor, a cabbage, a tailor,
A jackall, a courtier, a lion, a sailor;
Now a lord, all perfume, protestation, and paper;
Now a talkative patriot, that vanished in vapor.
In his own shape at last, he addressed him adagio,
And wished him fair breezes, and buono viaggio.
And the storm-beaten Greeks in confusion returning,
Meneläus, whom fate had long tost like a feather,
Was in Pharos detained by the force of bad weather,
210
Were forced to subsist on the raw little fishes.
The nymph Halosydne, old Proteus's daughter,
Who heard him lament by the side of the water,
Assured him, his fortunes would never be better,
Unless his bold cunning old Proteus could fetter.
It called forth the whole of his skill and his vigor,
To bind the wild god of the changeable figure:
For he danced, flounced, and bounded, in ceaseless mutation,
And filled Meneläus with strange consternation;
Now a bubble, a doctor, a cabbage, a tailor,
A jackall, a courtier, a lion, a sailor;
Now a lord, all perfume, protestation, and paper;
Now a talkative patriot, that vanished in vapor.
In his own shape at last, he addressed him adagio,
And wished him fair breezes, and buono viaggio.
Now taste is a Proteus, you critics well know it,
And to bind him oft baffles the strength of a poet.
Here smiling, there frowning, here blighting, there blooming,
I see him at once all his figures assuming.
Then well may the prospect of failure dismay us,
For our author feels sure, he is no Meneläus.
Yet since strenuous his aim, in reflection to render
A ray of our ancient theatrical splendor,
On his humble attempt be such fortune attendant,
As to-night o'er this Proteus to gain the ascendant,
That the gales of your favor, with generous commotion,
May waft his glad bark through the critical ocean!
And to bind him oft baffles the strength of a poet.
Here smiling, there frowning, here blighting, there blooming,
I see him at once all his figures assuming.
Then well may the prospect of failure dismay us,
For our author feels sure, he is no Meneläus.
Yet since strenuous his aim, in reflection to render
A ray of our ancient theatrical splendor,
On his humble attempt be such fortune attendant,
As to-night o'er this Proteus to gain the ascendant,
That the gales of your favor, with generous commotion,
May waft his glad bark through the critical ocean!
| The Works of Thomas Love Peacock | |