 | The poems of Edmund Clarence Stedman |  |
THE COMEDIAN'S LAST NIGHT
Not yet! No, no,—you would not quote
That meanest of the critic's gags?
'T was surely not of me they wrote
Those words, too late the veteran lags:
'T is not so very late with me;
I'm not so old as that, you know,
Though work and trouble—as you see—
(Not years) have brought me somewhat low.
I failed, you say? No, no, not yet!
Or, if I did,—with such a past,
Where is the man would have me quit
Without one triumph at the last?
That meanest of the critic's gags?
'T was surely not of me they wrote
Those words, too late the veteran lags:
415
I'm not so old as that, you know,
Though work and trouble—as you see—
(Not years) have brought me somewhat low.
I failed, you say? No, no, not yet!
Or, if I did,—with such a past,
Where is the man would have me quit
Without one triumph at the last?
But one night more,—a little thing
To you,—I swear 't is all I ask!
Once more to make the wide house ring,—
To tread the boards, to wear the mask,
To move the coldest as of yore,
To make them laugh, to make them cry,
To be—to be myself once more,
And then, if must be, let me die!
The prompter's bell! I'm here, you see:
By Heaven, friends, you'll break my heart!
Nat Gosling 's called: let be, let be,—
None but myself shall act the part!
To you,—I swear 't is all I ask!
Once more to make the wide house ring,—
To tread the boards, to wear the mask,
To move the coldest as of yore,
To make them laugh, to make them cry,
To be—to be myself once more,
And then, if must be, let me die!
The prompter's bell! I'm here, you see:
By Heaven, friends, you'll break my heart!
Nat Gosling 's called: let be, let be,—
None but myself shall act the part!
Yes, thank you, boy, I'll take your chair
One moment, while I catch my breath.
D' ye hear the noise they 're making there?
'T would warm a player's heart in death.
How say you now? Whate'er they write,
We 've put that bitter gibe to shame;
I knew, I knew there burned to-night
Within my soul the olden flame!
Stand off a bit: that final round,—
I 'd hear it ere it dies away
The last, last time!—there 's no more sound:
So end the player and the play.
One moment, while I catch my breath.
D' ye hear the noise they 're making there?
'T would warm a player's heart in death.
How say you now? Whate'er they write,
We 've put that bitter gibe to shame;
I knew, I knew there burned to-night
Within my soul the olden flame!
Stand off a bit: that final round,—
I 'd hear it ere it dies away
The last, last time!—there 's no more sound:
So end the player and the play.
The house is cleared. My senses swim;
I shall be better, though, anon,—
One stumbles when the lights are dim,—
'T is growing late: we must be gone.
Well, braver luck than mine, old friends!
A little work and fame are ours
While Heaven health and fortune lends,
And then—the coffin and the flowers!
These scattered garments? let them lie:
Some fresher actor (I'm not vain)
Will dress anew the part;—but I—
I shall not put them on again.
I shall be better, though, anon,—
416
'T is growing late: we must be gone.
Well, braver luck than mine, old friends!
A little work and fame are ours
While Heaven health and fortune lends,
And then—the coffin and the flowers!
These scattered garments? let them lie:
Some fresher actor (I'm not vain)
Will dress anew the part;—but I—
I shall not put them on again.
November 17, 1875.
| The poems of Edmund Clarence Stedman | |