 | Alfred |  |
While
our grave Hermit, busy above stairs,
Employs his serious head on state affairs,
Gallants, look here—faith I have plaid the rogue,
And stole his wand—by way of epilogue.
You critics, there below, had best be civil:
For I, with this same rod, can play the devil;
Ty all your busy tongues up, one by one,
And turn what share of brains you have—to stone:
The beau's soft scull convert to solid rock—
What then?—the wig will always have it's block,
But for the men of sad and solemn face,
The deep dark sages in or out of place,
Who much in port and politics delight,
Small change, God knows, will make them statues quite.
The ladies too—but now these witlings sneer—
No, fair ones, you shall meet no insult here:
I only hint my power—that, if I list,
I yet can charm you two long hours from whist.
But, cards are ready, you are all bespoke—
To spoil a dozen drums, would be no joke.
Besides, 'twould be mere arbitrary sway:
Such as, of old, was us'd at Nero's play,
Who, when he sung and fiddled to the town,
Still, as his subjects yawn'd, would knock them down.
No, sirs; to gain a heart, we must not teize:
Who would engage it, first should aim to please.
This part be mine: and, if I now succeed
To my own wish, you will be pleas'd indeed.
Then—for a trial: thus, I wave my hand,
To prove the power of this inchanting wand.
On waving her wand,
The scene opens, and discovers a beautiful valley, bordered on each hand by forest trees, rising irregularly, and forming from space to space various groves. The prospect behind is a landschape of woodlands, and of mountains that ascend above one another, till the last seem to lose themselves in the sky. From the summit of the nearest hill a river pours down, by several falls, in a natural cascade. The warbling of birds is heard.
Employs his serious head on state affairs,
Gallants, look here—faith I have plaid the rogue,
And stole his wand—by way of epilogue.
You critics, there below, had best be civil:
For I, with this same rod, can play the devil;
Ty all your busy tongues up, one by one,
And turn what share of brains you have—to stone:
The beau's soft scull convert to solid rock—
What then?—the wig will always have it's block,
But for the men of sad and solemn face,
The deep dark sages in or out of place,
Who much in port and politics delight,
Small change, God knows, will make them statues quite.
The ladies too—but now these witlings sneer—
No, fair ones, you shall meet no insult here:
I only hint my power—that, if I list,
I yet can charm you two long hours from whist.
But, cards are ready, you are all bespoke—
To spoil a dozen drums, would be no joke.
Besides, 'twould be mere arbitrary sway:
Such as, of old, was us'd at Nero's play,
68
Still, as his subjects yawn'd, would knock them down.
No, sirs; to gain a heart, we must not teize:
Who would engage it, first should aim to please.
This part be mine: and, if I now succeed
To my own wish, you will be pleas'd indeed.
Then—for a trial: thus, I wave my hand,
To prove the power of this inchanting wand.
On waving her wand,
The scene opens, and discovers a beautiful valley, bordered on each hand by forest trees, rising irregularly, and forming from space to space various groves. The prospect behind is a landschape of woodlands, and of mountains that ascend above one another, till the last seem to lose themselves in the sky. From the summit of the nearest hill a river pours down, by several falls, in a natural cascade. The warbling of birds is heard.
| Alfred | |