University of Virginia Library

To-night the poet will give a masque,
In his attic room, when the town is dumb,
And past a doubt it is surely true
That of all the multitude he will ask
Not any guest will refuse to come.
Grotesque in their contrasts, weird to view,
O'er the bare plank floor they will glide along,
The ghosts of story, the ghosts of song,
And the ghosts of history, two by two! ...
Napoleon the Great, in rough array,
With forelock dark on his brow serene,
With the snows of Russia, in some odd way,
On his massive coat well buttoned up,
Will bring the famous Egyptian queen,
Who hands him wine in a jewelled cup,
Where may be melted, for all we know,
Some marvellous pearl from tropic seas.
And after, closely following these,
Imperial Cæsar, with laurelled head,
And purple toga of stately flow,
A grave majestic measure will tread
(Paganini himself, it should be said,
Will fiddle till morning, fast or slow)
Beside sweet Marie Stuart, that star
And flower of beauty, whose tender style
Of making her deep eyes vaguely smile
Was the ruin of poor dead Chastelard!
And next, with crescent of gems half-hid
In his turban of splendid stuffs, behold
The illustrious Haroun Alraschid,
In silks of luxurious tinges clad;
And at his side, with tresses of gold,
And robes that no gorgeous words can paint,
Languorous, gentle and somewhat sad,
The bloom on her pure cheek rich though faint,
Comes floating, with loveliness untold,
Lucretia Borgia, that well-known saint.
And next grim Richard, third of his name,
Who swam through blood for the English crown,
With bad lean face, in its chronic frown,
And humpbacked shape, walking very lame,
Will bring the Spartan queen on his arm
In her classic dress with its glowing zone,
Greek Helen, fatally, grandly fair,—
In curve and coloring, eyes and hair,
So touched with a strange Olympian charm
Divinely and dazzlingly her own!
Then Faust, transformed to a gallant youth,
With velvet mantle and bending plume,
With curly blond beard and sword-hilt bright,
Will bring to the merry masque—why, whom
But meek Cinderella, in ragged plight,
Barefooted, and looking, poor young maid,
Very pretty but very much afraid!
And then, with solemn sculptural face,
That shows what his mournful heart broods o'er,
With head bowed low and loitering pace,
Pale Hamlet will come from Elsinore.
And tripping near him, in rompish grace,
Still rubbing both eyes from her long sleep,
With gypsy hat and a ribboned crook
And petticoat made of twenty hues
But worn not in any wise too deep
For showing her small rosetted shoes,
Up here to this lofty attic-nook
Will come, in search of her missing sheep,
Beside grave Hamlet, little Bo-Peep!
Then brave Godiva, clad in the light
Of her wondrous yellow hair, will appear
Beside Othello, as black as night,
With a great gold ear-ring in each ear
And a gaudy raiment of cachemire.
And next the beautiful Guinevere
Will come with that Spaniard, droll and grim,
The lank Don Quixote, leaning to hear
While she murmurs gracious words to him,
As though in her memory were not
Any Arthur or any Launcelot!

And so all night a crowd will stream
Through the poet's door, till rise of sun;
And though these masquers, every one,
Are the children of unsubstantial dream,
Yet the soul of a poet often sees
Traits far more real in things that seem
Than in life's most firm realities.
And not the haughtiest king may deem
His pride or pleasurement half so strong
When courtiers in his palace throng,
As the poet's, when through his attic door
Come gliding over the bare plank floor,
Grotesque in their contrasts, weird to view,
The ghosts of story, the ghosts of song,
And the ghosts of history, two by two!