A Parody.
I, too, at length discerned great Hercules
energy mighty,-
Saw his shade. He himself was not,
alas, to be seen.
Round him were heard, like the screaming of
birds,
the screams of tragedians,
And, with the baying of dogs, barked dramaturgists
around.
There stood the giant in all his terrors; his
bow was extended,
And the bolt, fixed on the string, steadily
aimed at the heart.
What still hardier action, unhappy one,
dost thou now venture,
Thus to descend to the grave of the departed
souls here?-
Tis to see Tiresias I come, to
ask of the prophet
Where I the buskin of old, that now has
vanished, may find?
If they believe not in Nature, nor the
old Grecian, but vainly
Wilt thou convey up from hence that dramaturgy
to them.
Oh, as for Nature, once more to tread
our stage she has ventured,
Ay, and stark-naked beside, so that each
rib we count.
What? Is the buskin of old to be
seen in truth on your stage, then,
Which even I came to fetch, out of mid-Tartarus
gloom?-
There is now no more of that tragic bustle,
for scarcely
Once in a year on the boards moves thy
great soul, harness-clad.
Doubtless tis well! Philosophy
now has refined your sensations,
And from the humor so bright fly the affections
so black.-
Ay, there is nothing that beats a jest
that is stolid and barren,
But then een sorrow can please,
if tis sufficiently moist.
But do ye also exhibit the graceful dance
of Thalia,
Joined to the solemn step with which Melpomene
moves?-
Neither! For naught we love but
what is Christian and moral;
And what is popular, too, homely, domestic,
and plain.
What? Does no C?sar, does no Achilles,
appear on your stage now,
Not an Andromache een, not an Orestes,
my friend?
No! there is naught to be seen there
but parsons,
and syndics of commerce,
Secretaries perchance, ensigns, and majors
of horse.
But, my good friend, pray tell me, what
can such people eer meet with
That can be truly called great?-what
that is great can they do?
What? Why they form cabals, they
lend upon mortgage, they pocket
Silver spoons, and fear not een
in the stocks to be placed.
Whence do ye, then, derive the destiny,
great and gigantic,
Which raises man up on high, een
when it grinds him to dust?-
All mere nonsense! Ourselves, our
worthy acquaintances also,
And our sorrows and wants, seek we, and
find we, too, here.
But all this ye possess at home both
apter and better,-
Wherefore, then, fly from yourselves,
if tis yourselves that ye seek?
Be not offended, great hero, for that
is a different question;
Ever is destiny blind,-ever
is righteous the bard.
Then one meets on your stage your own
contemptible nature,
While tis in vain one seeks there
nature enduring and great?
There the poet is host, and act the fifth
is the reckoning;
And, when crime becomes sick, virtue sits
down to the feast!
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