|
Perplexing case!—your pardon, Friends, I pray,—
My head so turns, I know not what to say;—
However, since I've dared to come before ye,
I'll stop the whirligig,—
(Clapping his hand to his forehead,)
and tell my story:
Though 'tis so strange, that I've a pre-conviction
It may by some, perhaps, be judged a fiction.
Learn, gentle Audience, then, with just surprise,
That, when, to-night, you saw the curtain rise,
Our poet's epilogue was still unwrit:
The devil take him for neglecting it!
Nay though,—'twas not neglected; 'twas deferr'd
From certain motives—which were most absurd;
For, trusting blindly to his rhyming vein,
And still-prepared inventiveness of brain,
He'd form'd the whimsical, foolhardy plan,
To set about it when the play began;
Thus purposing the drama's fate to know,
Then write his epilogue quite à propos.
The time at last arrives—the signal rings,
Sir Bard, alarm'd, to pen and paper springs,
And, snug in listening-corner, near the scene,
With open'd ears, eyes, mouth-suspended mien,—
Watches opinion's breezes as they blow,
To kindle fancy's fire, and bid his verses flow.
Now I, kind Auditors! by fortune's spite
Was doom'd, alack! to speak what he should write,
And therefore, as you'll naturally suppose,
Could not forbear, at times, to cock my nose
Over his shoulder, curiously to trace
His progress;—zounds! how snail-like was his pace!
Feeling, at length, my sore-tried patience sicken,
Good Sir, I cried, your tardy motions quicken:
'Tis the fourth act, high time, Sir, to have done!
As if his ear had been the touch-hole of a gun,
My tongue a match, the Bard, on fire, exploded;
He was—excuse the pun—with grape high-loaded.
Hence, prating fool! return'd he, in a roar,
Push'd me out, neck and heels, and bang'd the door.
But lest, here too, like hazard I should run;}
I'll end my story. When the play was done,}
The epilogue was—look! 'tis here—begun:}
Such as it is, however, if you will,
I'll read it; shall I, Friends? (They clap.)
Your orders I fulfil.
(He reads.)
'Tis come! the fateful hour! list! list! the bell
Summons me—Duncan-like, to heaven or hell;
See, see, the curtain draws;—it now commences;
Fear and suspense have frozen up my senses:
But let me to my task:—what noise is this?
They're clapping, clapping, O ye gods, what bliss!
Now then, to work, my pen:—descend, O Muse!
Thine inspiration through my soul infuse;
Prompt such an epilogue as ne'er before
Has been imagined,—never will be more.
What subject? hark! new louder plaudits rise,
I'm fired, and, like a rocket, to the skies
Dart up triumphantly in flames of light:—
They hiss, I'm quench'd, and sink in shades of night.
Again they clap, O extacy!—
Having thus far indulged his rhyming vein,
He halts,—reads,—curses,—and begins again;
But not a single couplet could he muster;
How should he, with his soul in such a fluster,
All rapture, gratitude, for your applause?
Be then, the effect excused in favour of the cause!
|