Poems by Violet Fane [i.e. M. M. Lamb] :: :: University of Virginia Library

I meant to write of Hamlet; how he mouth'd
Or did not mouth enough, or how he seem'd
More mad than should a prince in ecstasy,
Or strangely sane: of what was Shakespeare's mind
Concerning Hamlet: Whether 'twas his will
To make him mad, or merely seeming so,
Because he dared not set such lib'ral speech
Into a sane man's mouth in times like his.
And next I meant to cavil at the dress,
The feather'd bonnet, and the silken hose;
Then laud the earnest effort made, and ask
If this were genius, and then reply
I know not wholly what. . . .

Then had I praised,
And more than praised, nor nearly praised enough,
The fair Ophelia, form and voice and face
Seeming a sweet incarnate revelation
Of the great Master's mind. Or, like a saint
Frighten'd from off some high cathedral-pane

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By sun or moonbeam, essence of a dream,
Too fair for flesh and blood, yet shedding tears,
Real briny tears, for love of mortal man!

Thus had I meant to write; but, looking round
From where I sat in cosy cushion'd chair,
I saw, above, below, in box and stall,
A serried line of critics, with their gaze
Intent and fix'd, all “eager for the fray;”
Dealers of thunderbolts, which, ready poised,
Would fall to-morrow. Then I felt abash'd,
And half-ashamed, and murmur'd to myself,
“Wilt thou, poor poet, lift thy pigmy pen
And pass thy raw opinion on the players,
When even these may fail to read them right,
And blunder with their bombshells?”

So I turn'd
From black-browed Hamlet with his waving plume,
From golden-hair'd Ophelia and her flowers,
From guilty King and “seeming-virtuous” Queen,
From old Polonius, staunch Horatio,
Rosencrantz, Guildenstern, well-favour'd Osric,
Gravediggers, courtiers, players; I left the lot,
Lacking the nerve to tackle e'en the Ghost,
And went, forthwith, and took the lowest place

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As critic of the least amongst them all—
A silent actor—only a sad skull,
Upheaved not even from a natural grave.
“Alas, poor Yorick!” He that play'd the part
Of that poor pate of thine play'd passing well,
And spoke, in silence, plainer than the rest!
My heart went out to him, and wonder'd whether
His freed soul watch'd the actors, Hamlet-wise,
And if in anger, or in sympathy,
Gnawing the feathers from a phantom-fan,
Or clapping kindly with his spirit-hands?
And what had been that other part he play'd,
Play'd out (how long ago?) as king or clown,
Soldier or scholar, honest man or knave?
Whether from desecrated marble urn,
Or from the quicklime of a felon's grave,
These bones were gather'd that played here tonight?

There must be cruel choice of dead men's bones
Whilst rulers make new wars, and martyr'd saints',
Whilst men, misnamed of peace, arise, and fan
The smould'ring fires betwixt opposing creeds,
Thinking to do God service.

So, poor skull,

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It may be that thou hast roll'd hitherward
(Bereft of aureole or warrior's helm)
From the sad cell of some sweet Magdalen,
Or from the furrows of a tented field
Whereon thou wert a victor! Who can say?
But, be thou that which little Peterkin
Found, “smooth and round,” “beside the rivulet,”
A waif from Blenheim, or some virgin's skull
Filch'd from the far-famed thousands at Cologne,
Thou'st play'd thy part right well, and told tonight
An old, old story!

Moralising thus,
I don my cloak, and clasp a careless arm,
Then drive to supper. . . .