EPILOGUE To the Translation of ATHALIAH, A TRAGEDY

So fell, dethron'd, the murd'rer of her race, So rose the orphan-king to fill her place! I saw your breasts, when impious blood was spilt, Exult that virtue triumph'd over guilt:— Nor do I come to banish from your breasts, Those fine sensations by some foolish jests; But rather, shunning trite theatric tricks, I wish a moral in your minds to fix.

LOOK round this world! the Arbiter of fates, Holds in his hand the destiny of states; Makes duty and advantage still accord, And gives to worthy deeds a just reward.

OFT ruin waits on vice—by discord hurl'd, The bolts of vengeance desolate the world.— Go—search all lands, with philosophic views, Go—read the records of th' historic muse! Where are the mighty states, of former times, Which brav'd ev'n Heav'n by greatness and by crimes; The hundred gates of Thebes, with threat'ning walls, The hieroglyphic lore of Egypt's halls? Where the proud boasts of Babylon and Tyre, The Attic muses and the Roman fire?

SEE in that land, where late our scene was laid, What dreadful havoc, giant discord made! From want of virtue such dire suff'rings flow, And want of union laid fair Salem low!— 'Twas want of virtue, want of union spread Flames thro' her domes and heap'd her streets with dead; Usher'd to light immortal deeds of shame— Infernal deeds—and deeds without a name— Bade dearest friends by hidden daggers bleed, And famish'd mothers on their infants feed; Destroy'd the dwelling of th' ETERNAL SIRE, His altars whelm'd in human blood and fire; Uptore the tow'ring bulwarks from their base, While ruin drove her plough-share o'er the place.

OH discord! parent of each woe and crime, Far be thy influence from our happy clime! Far be ambition, which vindictive hurl'd Ruin on ruin round a wasted world!

THOU union! guide our senatorial band, The chosen few, the fathers of our land! 'Tis theirs, with patience and enlighten'd zeal, To toil incessant for the public weal; To raise lost credit from its low abyss, And point the zenith of Columbia's bliss!

SAY ye! who sought for peace, in martial strife, What forms the greatest good of social life? What constitutes the real strength of states? Is it their floating tow'rs? their brazen gates? Their troops innumerable?—'Tis one soul, One vital spirit that pervades the whole, 'Tis CONCORD!—glorious offspring of the skies, Which binds frail mortals in fraternal ties!—

OH favor'd race! in toils of empire brave, Defend those rights which God and nature gave! Heav'ns!—what the price those rights confirm'd have cost, What treasures lavish'd, and what heroes lost? And yet I hear those forms, from many a plain, Exulting cry, "WE HAVE NOT BLED IN VAIN!" I see blest WARREN rise—an awful shade! And great MONTGOM'RY wave the crimson'd blade; Mild MERCER, dreadful in the day of war, Brave BROWN, deform'd with many a savage scar; SCAMMEL—the pride of hosts!—the Britons' shame!— And young DE HART in the first field of fame; WOOSTER, with locks of age defil'd in gore, And LAURENS! friend to freedom!—NOW NO MORE!—

FROM high they hail the scenes that now appear, And point th' effulgent dawn of glory near!— 'Rapt in extatic visions—now my eyes Pierce the dun curtains of incumbent skies: What streams of light through western tracks descend, Fire the wide welkin, and the concave rend! Thy suns, Columbia! roll o'er scenes more bright, And happier ages burst upon my sight! And hark! what music strikes th' enraptur'd ear? Hear sounds prophetic!—mystic numbers hear!