PAGKEITIRY YRUV UA iy 
EPILOGUE # EUDORA, a Tragedy. 
By Mr. Har ey. 
Oo! what a fubjeé’s here for modern fpleen! 
The curtain drops upon a bloodlefs {cene ! 
No featter’d daggers here appai the fight, 
No heroes the unduited carpet bite, 
Nor broken groans cke out the dying rant, 
And leave the fpeaker when itone dead, to pant! 
The heroine too— how ipiritleis and poor! 
Cut from her wonted graces—on the floor! 
?Twas her’s “in airy threads to {pin her breath, 
« And like the filk-worm {pin herfelf to death. 
«© On lap of confidant, her eye-lids c!os’d,” 
In fatin folds her rage-tir’d limbs compos’d; 
Till in her trance prepar’d, with change of feature, 
She ftarts again to life, a new-form’d creature: 
. Each look, each gefture of a former kind 
Left, with the tkin of Tragedy, behind ; 
Pert, flippant, playful, pat for comic vogue, 
Behold the butterfly—an Epilogue— 
See how on fancy’s wing fhe flits away, 
And culls the opening humours of the day! 
Heav’ns! what a growth this rich parterre fupplies } 
How fafhion fhoots! how whim diverfifies ! 
What buds of folly on the ftem of reafon ! 
Tis all unnatural! bloom this open feafon; 
And Nature, baffled in her plaftic power, 
The extract mocks, the promife of the flower. 
Thus may the maiden-blufh that faireft fhows 
Prove, on the teft, an artificial rofe; 
And full-blown widows breathing fweets —of money, 
When tafted, yield—ftrange compound! — bitter honey. 
Now into critic heads the rover dips— 
How our poor author trembles as fhe fips ! 
Speak for yourielves, dread firs! fevere or placid! 
Will you difpenfe your fugar—or your acid? 
Some fmile, propitious as the genial morn, 
And others fhake their heads—of withering thorn. 
Here ceafe the trifling of this gew-gaw worm— 
The ferious Mufe refumes her priftine form. 
The fcenes of guilt from foreign climes fhe drew, 
But for the virtues kept this foil in view, 
Where cultur’d honour blooms, in manly youth, 
And beauty’s bofom proves the bed of truth. 
EPILOGUE 
