Stones from The Quarry | ||
THE ENGLISH DRAMA.
Thou didst not crawl to slow maturity,Muse of the mask, with buskin on one foot,
Sock on the other, face to either suit;
With smiles upon thy lip, tears in thine eye;
Now holding both thy sides, now heaving sigh
“Nine fathom deep,” and sad as funeral-mute;
All things to all men; now in motley coat,
Now cassock, Tartuffe-like, demure and sly.
Thou didst not creep long in thy petty pace,
But fly almost as soon as walk the stage.
Need was of all thy growth as all its space,
When Time cried, marking “Shakspear” on the page
Just turned, foreshadowed in his magic-glass,
“My ward this, till, Fame's heir, he come of age!”
Stones from The Quarry | ||