For who, to careless _nonchalance_ a prey, Of self-importance never gave one hint, Pass’d idly by the red bills of the day, Nor cast one look to see himself in print? Ambition on our mimic stage will rise, Trueman survives, when Barnwell yields his breath, Emilia raves, when Desdemona dies; The bleeding captain emulates Macbeth. For thee, who mindful of thy brethren dead, Dost in these lines their useful toils relate, If chance by curiosity misled, Some gentle critic shall enquire thy fate, Haply the leader of the band may say: “Oft have I seen him standing there aloof, “Eager to write, as well as act a play, “And wooing Phœbus frowning on the roof. “There on the boards he often play’d his part “Up to his ears in business of the stage; “He ey’d the boxes oft with aching heart, “And trembling, strove their favor to engage. “Fronting the audience, in a double mood, “Muttering his dialogue, now brisk, now sad: “Sometimes, as actor, tolerably good, “Always, as bard, intolerably bad. “One night they hiss’d him in the accustom’d scene, “I thought the play was damn’d――ah, woe is me! “Another came, with scarce a pause between, “They hiss’d again――in doleful plight was he. “The third with dirges due, in sad array, “The prompter’s sheep-bell rang our poet’s knell, “Approach and read (none else will read) the play, “If not, the epilogue may do as well.” ―――― THE EPILOGUE. Here rests his head upon prompter’s shelf, A bard to wisdom and to wit unknown; Thalia smil’d not on the scribbling elf, But gentle dulness mark’d him for her own. Coy from his suit the Muses turn’d away, “_A Day in London_” ill his toil requites; He gave the town, t’was all he had――a play; The town denied his only wish――nine nights! No further seek his writings to deride, Nor try to mend what sentiment has marr’d, Oblivion’s veil his comedy shall hide, And shroud in night the actor and the bard. From _The British Minerva_. Printed in Hamburgh. 1818. ――――:o:―――― ELEGY, _Written at a Christmas Feast in the country_. The clock proclaims the welcome dinner hour, The guests are met――and ev’ry brow unbent, Swift circles round the draught of potent power, Inspiring mirth, and banishing restraint. Now crowd the Christmas dainties on the sight, And all the room is hush’d in silence deep; Save where the plates with jarring sounds unite, And busy jaws a ceaseless murmur keep. Save that from yonder bench, with hollow groan, The faithful Tray does to himself complain Of those that, mindful of themselves alone, Allow him not a portion to obtain.