Epilogue

No longer now in pomp of grief array'd, No longer Editha, the Captive Maid; Prepared t' examine this same Tragic story, In my own person I advance before ye. My critic art at least this once to try, And scan our Bard's defects with nicest eye.

Yet some apology th' attempt may need— But by your looks embolden'd, I'll proceed.

Who, without terror, Rodolph's fury traces? Why, tho' a Dane, was he refused the Graces? Were such the manners of those Northern Climes? Why not have bent them to our gentler times? To seek his Mistress' life!—So desperate grown!— He should have rather fled, and saved his own.

Surely that Albert might have spoke more plain. The City's Praefect—but my dying Swain. Why had he not some crafty scheme devised? And ventured 'mid the Danish camp disguised? He should have crept, or swam, or fought, or strove, And hazarded his trust—to gain his Love.

Th' affection of a Brother!—How misplaced! And what a violence to modern Taste!

A soul defying death! and accents Roman! How could they suit with any British Woman!

The simple, and the natural!—How stupid! I should have ransack'd all the stores of Cupid. Hopes, fears, doubts, jealousies, and warm desires, Darts, arrows, daggers, poison'd bowls, and fires.

Are to a Tragic Piece my powers decreed? Let it be great and Tragical indeed. Let Passion cease the guiding rein t' obey, Let Grief be strain'd to its sublimest key, In frantic fury let me curse the light, And die enchantingly, with all my might.

But egotisms and irony apart— Say, have our Author's numbers touch'd the heart? Have they from Pity stole th' ingenuous sigh? And raised the trembling tear in Virtue's eye?

This is th' unerring comment; this the test— And all remarks besides—like mine—a jest.