 | The Battle of Hastings |  |
PROLOGUE. Spoken by Mr. HENDERSON.
To
holy land in superstition's day,
When bare foot pilgrims trode their weary way,
By mother church's unremitting law
Scourg'd into grace, with shoulders red and raw;
Kneeling demure before the sacred shrine,
On the hard flint thy begg'd the boon divine;
Pardon for what offending flesh had done,
And pity for the long long course they'd run,
Fines, pains and penalties, securely past,
Slow pac'd forgiveness met their prayer at last,
Full absolution from conceeding Rome,
Cancell'd all sin, past, present and to come.
When bare foot pilgrims trode their weary way,
By mother church's unremitting law
Scourg'd into grace, with shoulders red and raw;
Kneeling demure before the sacred shrine,
On the hard flint thy begg'd the boon divine;
Pardon for what offending flesh had done,
And pity for the long long course they'd run,
Fines, pains and penalties, securely past,
Slow pac'd forgiveness met their prayer at last,
Full absolution from conceeding Rome,
Cancell'd all sin, past, present and to come.
Your Poet thus prophanely led aside
To range o'er Tragic land without a guide,
To pick perhaps, with no invidious aim,
A few cast fallings from the tree of fame.
Damn'd, tho' untried, by the despotic rule
Of the stern Doctors in detraction's school;
Lash'd down each column of a public page,
And driv'n o'er burning ploughshares to the stage,
Be rhim'd, be ridicul'd with doggrel wit,
Sues out a pardon from his Pope—the Pit.
Pensive he stands in penitential weeds,
With a huge rosary of untold beads;
Sentenc'd for past offences to rehearse,
Ave Apollo's to the God of verse;
And sure there's no one but an Author knows
The Penance, which an Author undergoes.
To range o'er Tragic land without a guide,
To pick perhaps, with no invidious aim,
A few cast fallings from the tree of fame.
Damn'd, tho' untried, by the despotic rule
Of the stern Doctors in detraction's school;
Lash'd down each column of a public page,
And driv'n o'er burning ploughshares to the stage,
Be rhim'd, be ridicul'd with doggrel wit,
Sues out a pardon from his Pope—the Pit.
Pensive he stands in penitential weeds,
With a huge rosary of untold beads;
Sentenc'd for past offences to rehearse,
Ave Apollo's to the God of verse;
And sure there's no one but an Author knows
The Penance, which an Author undergoes.
If then your worships a few stripes award
Let not your beadles lay them on too hard;
For in the world there's not a thing so thin,
So full of feeling, as your Poet's skin:
What if, perchance, he snatch'd a playful kiss
From that free hearted romp the Comic Miss;
That frolick's past, he's turn'd to years of grace,
And a young sinner now supplies his place.
Sure you'll not grudge a little sober chat
With this demure old tabby Tragic cat;
No charge lies here of conversation crim
He hopes you'll think her fame, no worse for him.
Let not your beadles lay them on too hard;
For in the world there's not a thing so thin,
So full of feeling, as your Poet's skin:
What if, perchance, he snatch'd a playful kiss
From that free hearted romp the Comic Miss;
That frolick's past, he's turn'd to years of grace,
And a young sinner now supplies his place.
Sure you'll not grudge a little sober chat
With this demure old tabby Tragic cat;
No charge lies here of conversation crim
He hopes you'll think her fame, no worse for him.
| The Battle of Hastings | |