Come, gentlemen—your gold.
Thanks: welcome to the
show.
To hear a story told
In words you do not know.
Now, great Salvini, rise
And thunder through your tears,
Aha! friends, let your eyes
Interpret to your ears.
Gods! ’t is a goodly game.
Observe his stride—how
grand!
When legs like his declaim
Who can misunderstand?
See how that arm goes round.
It says, as plain as day:
“I love,” “The lost
is found,”
“Well met, sir,”
or, “Away!”
And mark the drawing down
Of brows. How accurate
The language of that frown:
Pain, gentlemen—or
hate.
Those of the critic trade
Swear it is all as clear
As if his tongue were made
To fit an English ear.
Hear that Italian phrase!
Greek to your sense, ’t
is true;
But shrug, expression, gaze—
Well, they are Grecian too.
But it is Art! God wot
Its tongue to all is known.
Faith! he to whom ’t were not
Would better hold his own.
Shakespeare says act and word
Must match together true.
From what you’ve seen and heard,
How can you doubt they do?
Enchanting drama! Mark
The crowd “from pit
to dome”,
One box alone is dark—
The prompter stays at home.
Stupendous artist! You
Are lord of joy and woe:
We thrill if you say “Boo,”
And thrill if you say “Bo.”
ANOTHER WAY.
I lay in silence, dead. A woman came
And laid a rose upon my breast
and said:
“May God be merciful.”
She spoke my name,
And added: “It
is strange to think him dead.
“He loved me well enough, but ’t
was his way
To speak it lightly.”
Then, beneath her breath:
“Besides”—I knew
what further she would say,
But then a footfall broke
my dream of death.
To-day the words are mine. I lay
the rose
Upon her breast, and speak
her name and deem
It strange indeed that she is dead.
God knows
I had more pleasure in the
other dream.
ART.
For Gladstone’s portrait five thousand
pounds
Were paid, ’t is said,
to Sir John Millais.
I cannot help thinking that
such fine pay
Transcended reason’s uttermost bounds.
For it seems to me uncommonly queer
That a painted British stateman’s
price
Exceeds the established value
thrice
Of a living statesman over here.
