 | Mutius Scaevola ; or, The Roman Patriot |  |
89
EPILOGUE.
WRITTEN BY A FRIEND.
OUR Play concluded, where's the heart of steel
That would not die to save our public weal?
Shew me the man whose ardor would not prove,
That like a Mutius he would act and love.
I see our hero stamp'd on ev'ry face,
And British dames array'd in Clelia's grace.
To the Upper Gallery:
That would not die to save our public weal?
Shew me the man whose ardor would not prove,
That like a Mutius he would act and love.
I see our hero stamp'd on ev'ry face,
And British dames array'd in Clelia's grace.
But homage first unto the gods be given;
I mean the thundering host in yonder heav'n.
What do I see? the sons of Neptune brave—
They need not speak; they've prov'd they'll die to save:
France, Spain, and Denmark can attest 'tis true,
And give each tar the praise to Mutius due.
To the first Gallery:
I mean the thundering host in yonder heav'n.
What do I see? the sons of Neptune brave—
They need not speak; they've prov'd they'll die to save:
France, Spain, and Denmark can attest 'tis true,
And give each tar the praise to Mutius due.
Beneath, a strange assortment I behold,
Whose industry supplies the realm with gold:
They to maintain the state would gladly die,
And gain like Mutius immortality.
To the Boxes:
Whose industry supplies the realm with gold:
They to maintain the state would gladly die,
And gain like Mutius immortality.
But now I'm dazzled, as around I gaze,
Such grace, such beauty fill me with amaze:
No simp'ring now, no languishing is here;
Each front displays a bold contempt of fear;
Each seems to boast a Clelia in her breast,
And pluck a spray from glory's budding crest.
Beside them, fathers, husbands, sons, are seen,
While Roman energy arrays each mien.
The reverend sage, by his forefathers taught,
By wisdom still maintains the rights he bought:
The father, willing, yields his store to save,
And snatches poverty from out the grave:
The youths, by their example, burn to show,
That rising Britons own the Roman glow.
Such is the scene: I gaze upon the book—
I read bright virtue in each British look.
To the Pit:
Such grace, such beauty fill me with amaze:
No simp'ring now, no languishing is here;
Each front displays a bold contempt of fear;
Each seems to boast a Clelia in her breast,
And pluck a spray from glory's budding crest.
Beside them, fathers, husbands, sons, are seen,
While Roman energy arrays each mien.
The reverend sage, by his forefathers taught,
By wisdom still maintains the rights he bought:
90
And snatches poverty from out the grave:
The youths, by their example, burn to show,
That rising Britons own the Roman glow.
Such is the scene: I gaze upon the book—
I read bright virtue in each British look.
But soft! a throng sedate I now address,
Whose mighty pow'r e'en Mutius doth confess;
With whom the critic and the man of wit,
From times remote, was always used to sit.
(Pauses, and looks round.)
Whose mighty pow'r e'en Mutius doth confess;
With whom the critic and the man of wit,
From times remote, was always used to sit.
Good heav'ns! how strange! the wonted scene is fled:
Then Mutius lives—since criticism's dead.
Oh, spare me, for I fly to ease the pain;
Revive our bard, nor let him hope in vain.
Ye gods! in mercy thunder forth your praise—
'Twill Mutius' spirits and your author's raise.
Then Mutius lives—since criticism's dead.
Oh, spare me, for I fly to ease the pain;
Revive our bard, nor let him hope in vain.
Ye gods! in mercy thunder forth your praise—
'Twill Mutius' spirits and your author's raise.
| Mutius Scaevola ; or, The Roman Patriot | |