THE RUSTIC AT THE PLAY

Our youth is like a rustic at the play

That cries aloud in simple-hearted fear,

Curses the villain, shudders at the fray,

And weeps before the maiden's wreathed bier.

Yet once familiar with the changeful show,

He starts no longer at a brandished knife,

But, his heart chastened at the sight of woe,

Ponders the mirrored sorrows of his life.

So tutored too, I watch the moving art

Of all this magic and impassioned pain

That tells the story of the human heart

In a false instance, such as poets feign;

I smile, and keep within the parchment furled

That prompts the passions of this strutting world.