* * * * *
Great figure loses, little figure wins.
* * * * *
Ungrateful blushes and disorder'd sighs,
Which love disclaims nor even shame supplies.
* * * * *
Gay smiles, which once belong'd to mirth alone,
And startling tears, which pity dares not own."
The following stray couplet would seem to have been intended for his description of Corilla:—
"A crayon Cupid, redd'ning into shape,
Betrays her talents to design and scrape."
The Epilogue, which I am about to give, though apparently finished, has not, as far as I can learn, yet appeared in print, nor am I at all aware for what occasion it was intended.
"In this gay month when, through the sultry hour,
The vernal sun denies the wonted shower,
When youthful Spring usurps maturer sway,
And pallid April steals the blush of May,
How joys the rustic tribe, to view displayed
The liberal blossom and the early shade!
But ah! far other air our soil delights;
Here 'charming weather' is the worst of blights.
No genial beams rejoice our rustic train,
Their harvest's still the better for the rain.
To summer suns our groves no tribute owe,
They thrive in frost, and flourish best in snow.
When other woods resound the feather'd throng,
Our groves, our woods, are destitute of song.
The thrush, the lark, all leave our mimic vale,
No more we boast our Christmas nightingale;
Poor Rossignol—the wonder of his day,
Sung through the winter—but is mute in May.
Then bashful spring, that gilds fair nature's scene,
O'ercasts our lawns, and deadens every green;
Obscures our sky, embrowns the wooden shade,
And dries the channel of each tin cascade!
Oh hapless we, whom such ill fate betides,
Hurt by the beam which cheers the world besides!
Who love the ling'ring frost, nice, chilling showers,
While Nature's Benefit—is death to ours;
Who, witch-like, best in noxious mists perform,
Thrive in the tempest, and enjoy the storm.
O hapless we—unless your generous care
Bids us no more lament that Spring is fair,
But plenteous glean from the dramatic soil,
The vernal harvest of our winter's toil.
For April suns to us no pleasure bring—
Your presence here is all we feel of Spring;
May's riper beauties here no bloom display,
Your fostering smile alone proclaims it May."