 | Remorse |  |
EPILOGUE
Oh! the procrastinating idle rogue,
The Poet has just sent his Epilogue;
Ay, 'tis just like him!—and the hand!
[Poring over the manuscript.
The Poet has just sent his Epilogue;
Ay, 'tis just like him!—and the hand!
The stick!
I could as soon decipher Arabic!
But, hark! my wizard's own poetic elf
Bids me take courage, and make one myself!
An heiress, and with sighing swains in plenty
I could as soon decipher Arabic!
But, hark! my wizard's own poetic elf
Bids me take courage, and make one myself!
From blooming nineteen to full-blown five-and-twenty,
Life beating high, and youth upon the wing,
‘A six years' absence was a heavy thing!’
Heavy!—nay, let's describe things as they are,
With sense and nature 'twas at open war—
Mere affectation to be singular.
Yet ere you overflow in condemnation,
Think first of poor Teresa's education;
'Mid mountains wild, near billow-beaten rocks,
818
Bred in the spot where first to light she sprung,
With no Academies for ladies young—
Academies—(sweet phrase!) that well may claim
From Plato's sacred grove th' appropriate name!
No morning visits, no sweet waltzing dances—
And then for reading—what but huge romances,
With as stiff morals, leaving earth behind 'em,
As the brass-clasp'd, brass-corner'd boards that bind 'em.
Knights, chaste as brave, who strange adventures seek,
And faithful loves of ladies, fair as meek;
Or saintly hermits' wonder-raising acts,
Instead of—novels founded upon facts!
Which, decently immoral, have the art
To spare the blush, and undersap the heart!
Oh, think of these, and hundreds worse than these,
Dire disimproving disadvantages,
And grounds for pity, not for blame, you'll see,
E'en in Teresa's six years' constancy.
[Looking at the manuscript.
But stop! what's this?—Our Poet bids me say,
That he has woo'd your feelings in this Play
By no too real woes, that make you groan,
Recalling kindred griefs, perhaps your own,
Yet with no image compensate the mind,
Nor leave one joy for memory behind.
He'd wish no loud laugh, from the sly, shrewd sneer,
To unsettle from your eyes the quiet tear
That Pity had brought, and Wisdom would leave there.
Now calm he waits your judgment! (win or miss),
By no loud plaudits saved, damn'd by no factious hiss.
[S. T. C.]
| Remorse | |