 | The Siege of Aquileia |  |
EPILOGUE. Spoken by Mrs. Cibber.
Our
Author, as I'm told, is not to seek
In antient Lore; in Latin, nor in Greek.
I therefore did advise him, as a friend,
To make his learning serve some useful end:
And let me know, what rules he had observ'd,
What unities of time and place preserv'd.
He answer'd, Poetry is not an art;
'Tis nature only frames the poet's heart:
Still as he thinks, the scene he feels along,
And from his bosom bursts the raptur'd song.
This is the sacred oracle, the shrine
The bard consults, and here, the tuneful Nine.
With the same fire, the hearer's soul must glow,
Else vain to him, the tale of tragick woe.
There is a temper, which is all in all:
That sounds responsive to the poet's call.
Like Memnon's harp, which pour'd harmonious lays,
Whene'er its strings were touch'd by Phæbus' rays.
This temper of the soul is sweet and wild;
It sobs, or smiles, as sudden as a child;
To woes imagin'd tears unfeigned gives,
And in the poet's world of fancy lives.
Whilst thus he spoke, a bell was heard to ring;
In antient Lore; in Latin, nor in Greek.
I therefore did advise him, as a friend,
To make his learning serve some useful end:
And let me know, what rules he had observ'd,
What unities of time and place preserv'd.
He answer'd, Poetry is not an art;
'Tis nature only frames the poet's heart:
Still as he thinks, the scene he feels along,
And from his bosom bursts the raptur'd song.
This is the sacred oracle, the shrine
The bard consults, and here, the tuneful Nine.
With the same fire, the hearer's soul must glow,
Else vain to him, the tale of tragick woe.
There is a temper, which is all in all:
That sounds responsive to the poet's call.
Like Memnon's harp, which pour'd harmonious lays,
Whene'er its strings were touch'd by Phæbus' rays.
This temper of the soul is sweet and wild;
It sobs, or smiles, as sudden as a child;
To woes imagin'd tears unfeigned gives,
And in the poet's world of fancy lives.
He stop'd, and started like a guilty thing;
Ere the aread curtain rose, in haste withdrew,
And at a distance waits his doom from you.
FINIS.
| The Siege of Aquileia | |