I.
AWAKE! for Sun – down brings the garish Night,
That flings the stone that puts our Shame to Flight;
And from our sordid ‘Digs’ we sally forth
To stand before you in a Blaze of Light .
II.
Dreaming to snatch success from one poor line,
I heard the Actor -Manager – divine –
A crushing whisper, heard by me alone:
‘This Stage is Mine, all Mine, and only Mine!’
III.
And he – the Busker – singing on the Beach!
Shall we revile him then with bitter speech?
Nay, for he travels, though by humbler paths,
Toward the Heights that we would gladly reach.
IV.
Oft without Contract, hither hurried, whence?
And, without asking whither, hurried thence,
By Managers, whose brass consisted but
Of a thrice – cursed Brazen Insolence.
V.
Some crave the London Flesh -pots; yet I vow,
Some fish and chips, a jug of ale, and Thou
Sitting beside me in the Provinces;
And Birkenhead were Paradise enow!
VI.
I Sometimes think , that never rings so loud
The Laughter of the vast, impulsive Crowd,
As when some hoary jest is cracked, at which
Some buried Cæsar’s head with laughter bowed.
VII.
Waste not your Hour in striving hard to be
Something entirely new, — it cannot be:
Better be jocund with an ancient ‘Gag,’
Than sadden with Originality.
VIII.
Art for Art’s sake, men set their hearts upon:
They prosper — vide Press — and yet anon,
Like to a Candle guttering in the draught,
Their Public wavers, flickers, and is gone.
IX.
Some for the Glories of the Halls; and some
Sigh for an Ideal Drama, yet to come.
Ah! take the Cash, and let the Drama go!
The violin? Pish! bang an empty drum!
X.
Myself, when young, did eagerly frequent
Chorus, and Stars, and heard great Argument
About it, and about; yet Evermore
Came out with less of Cash than in I went.
XI.
And there the seeds of Folly did I sow,
Striving to find what made the Piece to go;
And each and every person whom I asked,
From Chorus -girl to Star, said : ‘ I’m the Show!’
XII.
What’s this Success of which the Poet sings?
An Oof -bird, bearing Fame upon its wings?
And Fame? An Orchid, or a wayside Weed?
Then grasp thy Nettle firmly, for it stings.
XIII.
Then to the Highest Star himself I cried,
Asking: What Magic Lamp hast Thou, to guide
The struggling Actor, stumbling in the Dark?’
And but, “The great god, Fortune! he replied.
XIV.
Then to a Lesser light I pleaded: Hark
To one as thee, who seeks to make his Mark.
How win Success?’ and he but answered me:
‘The Public know, but We are in the Dark!’
XV.
Ah! fill the Cup! We know for what we seek,
When over -full, the Vessel sure will leak,
And babble over of great Yesterdays;
What if to -morrow’s thirty bob a week?
XVI.
How long! how long! in infinite distress
Chase we th’ elusive Phantom called Success?
Surely to prate: What was!’ ‘What might have been!’
May salve our Vanity, or more, or less.
XVII.
There is a Door to which we have the Key,
From Make – Believe to Life’s Reality.
But whether on this side we stand – or That?
Ask of some wiser man, but not of me.
XVIII.
Oft for the Lips of some fair Maid I yearned,
And sated, to a rosier pair I turned;
For Both the Flame of Love consumed my Heart;
Was it less true, because so swift it burned?
XIX.
Nay! Take the rosy lips and drink your fill;
‘Inconstant Lover!’ let him say who will.
May we not then believe in Make – Believe?
The Glamour of the Grease-paint lingers still.
XX.
Indeed! Indeed! Love’s Passion oft before
I swore; did I believe it when I swore?
And then and then You came, and softly knocked,|
And crept into my heart and closed the Door.
XXI.
Dear Heart, could you and I with Love conspire
To grasp the meaning of this sweet Desire
That draws us closer, knowing all the Pain
That comes with parting? Should we quench the fire?
XXII.
And though Love prove an Infidel to such
As we, who love too little, or too much:
I sometimes wonder, what were half so sweet
As Kisses from the Lips we may not touch?
XXIII.
Old Omar says, that we are but a row
Of moving shadow -shapes, that come, and go.
What wonder that our Ego wavers then;
A picture -show, within a picture -show!
XXIV.
This is our Fate!-to know ourselves and see
That Life’s a Farce, yet take it seriously.
To drown our Ego deep in Tragedy;
And find it safe in broadest Comedy!
XXV.
And if the Love we lost, the Heart we broke,
End in what all begins and ends in,–smoke!
‘Tis but the Suttee of the Make- believe:
And yet We lit the pyre; – where lies the Joke?
XXVI.
The Careless Critic writes, and having writ,
Goes back to bed, and thinks no more of it:
But the poor struggling Actor writhes alone,
Nipped in the bud his Tragedy, or Wit.
XXVII.
And that despotic power we call the Press:
Lift not your hands to it for help, unless
You fill them first with good red Gold, to buy
That shrewd advertisement, which spells success.
XXVIII.
Lo , some we praised, the greatest, and the best;
By Rumour, Critic, Public, sore oppressed;
Now haunt the Lounge, or Rules, in Maiden Lane;
Like evil Spirits, vainly shunning ‘Rest’.
XXIX.
And we, who now make merry in the Room
Which once was theirs, and don our nightly bloom,
Of ‘Carmine,’ Number Three,’ and ‘Water -Black’;
Shall we be just a Warning – and to whom?
XXX.
Ah! Moon of my Delight, that know’st no wane:
How oft in journeying down Maiden Lane,
By Agent’s Office, Pub, or Corner Stone,
Thou’lt seek for me, and seek for me in vain!
XXXI.
And when Thyself, with high, uplifted head,
Shalt pass those cobble -stones I used to tread:
I only pray, that with thy bosom friends,
Thou’lt leave of my poor Character one shred.
XXXII.
Listen again! One evening at the close
Of the Performance, ere I sought repose,
In an old Dressing-room I stood alone,
Where Wigs and Costumes hung in serried rows.
XXXIII.
And wondering, and tired and scarce awake,
Eyeing the Costumes of old – fashioned make,
I asked Myself this question: Which is I?
Myself? or what I with these costumes take?’
XXXIV.
And, as a near -by Bell commenced to toll,
I heard an empty Voice, which seemed to roll
In echoing Vastness: Thou art like to them!
An empty Something, waiting for a Soul!’
