 | Boadicia |  |
EPILOGUE. Spoken by Mr. Harvard.
Now we have shewn the fatal fruits of strife,A hero bleeding with a virtuous wife,
A field of war embru'd with a nation's gore,
Which to the dust the hopes of Albion bore;
If weak description, and the languid flow
Of strains unequal to this theme of woe
Have fail'd to move the sympathyzing breast,
And no soft eyes their melting sense express;
Not all the wit, this after scene might share,
Can give success, where you refus'd a tear;
Much less, if haply still the poet's art
Hath stol'n persuasive to the feeling heart.
Will he with fancy's wanton hand efface
From gen'rous minds compassion's pleasing trace,
Nor from their thoughts, while pensive they pursue
This maze of sorrow, snatch the moral clue:
If yet to him those pow'rs of sacred song
To melt the heart and raise the mind belong.
Dar'd be to hope, this sketch of early youth
Might stand th'award of nature and of truth:
Encourag'd thus, hereafter might he soar
With double strength, and softier scenes explore,
And following fortune through her various wiles,
Shew struggling virtue, dress'd in tears, or smiles;
Perhaps his grateful labours would requite
With frequent off'rings one propitious night.
| Boadicia | |