EPILOGUE TO “COUNT OF NARBONNE.”
81
And then at last by dagger or by bowl,
To freeze the blood and harrow up the soul;
All this achieved, the bard at ease carouses,
And dreams of laurels and o'erflowing houses;
Alas, poor man! his work is done but half,
He has made you cry—but now must make you laugh:
And the same engine, like the fabled steel,[1]
Must serve at once to wound you and to heal.
Our bard of this had ta'en too little care,
And by a friend he sought me to appear.
“Madam,” he said, “so oft you've graced the scene,
An injured princess or a weeping queen,
So oft been used to die in anguish bitter,
And then start up to make the audience titter,
That doubtless you know best what is in vogue,
And can yourself invent an Epilogue.
You can supply an author's tardy quill,
And gild the surface of his tragic pill;
Your ready wit a recipe can bring
For this capricious serio-comic thing.”
A recipe for Epilogues! “Why not?
Have you each vaunting chronicle forgot?
Have we not recipes each day, each hour,
To give to mortal man immortal power?
To give the ungraceful timid speaker breath,[2]
And save his quivering eloquence from death.
Have we not now a geometric school
To teach the cross-legged youth to snip by rule?[3]
When arts like these each moment meet our eyes,
Why should receipts for Epilogues surprise?"
“Well, sir, I'll try.” I first advance with simper,
Forgotten quite my tragic state, and whimper.
Ladies, to-night my fate was surely hard,
What could possess our inconsiderate bard
A wife to banish that his miss might wed,
When modern priests allow them both one bed.
To freeze the blood and harrow up the soul;
All this achieved, the bard at ease carouses,
And dreams of laurels and o'erflowing houses;
Alas, poor man! his work is done but half,
He has made you cry—but now must make you laugh:
And the same engine, like the fabled steel,[1]
Must serve at once to wound you and to heal.
Our bard of this had ta'en too little care,
And by a friend he sought me to appear.
“Madam,” he said, “so oft you've graced the scene,
An injured princess or a weeping queen,
So oft been used to die in anguish bitter,
And then start up to make the audience titter,
That doubtless you know best what is in vogue,
And can yourself invent an Epilogue.
You can supply an author's tardy quill,
And gild the surface of his tragic pill;
Your ready wit a recipe can bring
For this capricious serio-comic thing.”
A recipe for Epilogues! “Why not?
Have you each vaunting chronicle forgot?
Have we not recipes each day, each hour,
To give to mortal man immortal power?
To give the ungraceful timid speaker breath,[2]
And save his quivering eloquence from death.
Have we not now a geometric school
To teach the cross-legged youth to snip by rule?[3]
When arts like these each moment meet our eyes,
Why should receipts for Epilogues surprise?"
“Well, sir, I'll try.” I first advance with simper,
Forgotten quite my tragic state, and whimper.
Ladies, to-night my fate was surely hard,
What could possess our inconsiderate bard
A wife to banish that his miss might wed,
When modern priests allow them both one bed.
