 | Hours of life, and other poems |  |
168
THE DRAMA.
SPOKEN AT THE OPENING OF THE THEATRE IN PROVIDENCE, NOVEMBER 27, 1838.
What new enchantment hovers in the air?
Soft music breathes and festal torches glare;
A roseate light illumes the storied wall,
And youth and beauty throng the lofty hall.
Lo, where the Drama, through the shades of night,
Bursts in soft splendor on the ravished sight;
Here lurks Thalia with bewildering glance,
In the gay masque of Folly or Romance;
There proud Melpomene, in pall and plume,
Trails her imperial purples through the gloom.
Immortal sisters in Art's fairy train,
Long lost, long mourned, resume your genial reign!
Can we forget when first in childhood's hour,
Our footsteps sought your vision-haunted bower?
When trembling, wondering 'mid the enraptured throng,
We quaffed the tide of eloquence and song;
While, stood revealed, the creatures of our dream,
Bright, breathing, palpable! scarce could we deem
That earth confessed such beauty;—to abide
With these were life—vain shadows all beside.
O cold the hearts that from such 'witching sway
Could turn unmoved and passionless away.
Soft music breathes and festal torches glare;
A roseate light illumes the storied wall,
And youth and beauty throng the lofty hall.
Lo, where the Drama, through the shades of night,
Bursts in soft splendor on the ravished sight;
Here lurks Thalia with bewildering glance,
In the gay masque of Folly or Romance;
There proud Melpomene, in pall and plume,
Trails her imperial purples through the gloom.
Immortal sisters in Art's fairy train,
Long lost, long mourned, resume your genial reign!
169
Our footsteps sought your vision-haunted bower?
When trembling, wondering 'mid the enraptured throng,
We quaffed the tide of eloquence and song;
While, stood revealed, the creatures of our dream,
Bright, breathing, palpable! scarce could we deem
That earth confessed such beauty;—to abide
With these were life—vain shadows all beside.
O cold the hearts that from such 'witching sway
Could turn unmoved and passionless away.
Yet, though less genial prove our sordid age
To Art's bright reign than when the Grecian stage
Enthroned the Drama's triumph and her pride,
To sacred rights and royal deeds allied;—
When priests and scholars sought her scenic halls
And conquering heroes gathered to her walls,
While the vast area of her temples saw
Tumultuous Athens hushed in breathless awe;
Still do her structures rise, her altars blaze
Where late the savage tracked the pathless maze;
By many a stormy river of the West,
By many a lake that stays its mountain guest,
Far through the wild her festal notes are borne
Ere fade the echoes of the huntsman's horn.
To Art's bright reign than when the Grecian stage
Enthroned the Drama's triumph and her pride,
To sacred rights and royal deeds allied;—
When priests and scholars sought her scenic halls
And conquering heroes gathered to her walls,
While the vast area of her temples saw
Tumultuous Athens hushed in breathless awe;
Still do her structures rise, her altars blaze
Where late the savage tracked the pathless maze;
By many a stormy river of the West,
By many a lake that stays its mountain guest,
170
Ere fade the echoes of the huntsman's horn.
Oft when the wint'ry storms shall hurtle round,
Or silent snow-flakes print the frozen ground,
When the cold rain comes rattling on the blast,
And mantling clouds night's blazing host o'ercast,
Here shall we sit, in this enchanted hall,
Where breathing thoughts and burning words enthral,
Regardless of the cold world's sordid strife,
And all the hollow mimicries of life,
Where vainer actors idler pageants play,
And wear their masks in the broad eye of day.
Or silent snow-flakes print the frozen ground,
When the cold rain comes rattling on the blast,
And mantling clouds night's blazing host o'ercast,
Here shall we sit, in this enchanted hall,
Where breathing thoughts and burning words enthral,
Regardless of the cold world's sordid strife,
And all the hollow mimicries of life,
Where vainer actors idler pageants play,
And wear their masks in the broad eye of day.
Here shall we see again, with martial stalk,
‘The buried majesty of Denmark’ walk;
Macbeth shall shudder at the ghost of crime,
Nor spoil, for us, ‘the pleasure of the time.’
Here fair Hermione, long tranced to stone—
Fixed like a statue on her marble throne—
Descending from her pedestal, shall move
And breathe and tremble at the voice of love.
Here royal Katherine, love's sweet claim denied,
Shall plead the rights of an imperial bride;
And with such haughty eloquence inspire,
Our ‘drops of tears shall turn to sparks of fire.’
‘The buried majesty of Denmark’ walk;
Macbeth shall shudder at the ghost of crime,
Nor spoil, for us, ‘the pleasure of the time.’
Here fair Hermione, long tranced to stone—
Fixed like a statue on her marble throne—
Descending from her pedestal, shall move
And breathe and tremble at the voice of love.
171
Shall plead the rights of an imperial bride;
And with such haughty eloquence inspire,
Our ‘drops of tears shall turn to sparks of fire.’
Manhood shall here cast off earth's coiling care,
And weary Age remember life was fair;
Entranced and spell-bound by her potent sway
Who ‘calls each slumbering passion into play’—
Exulting, trembling, as her accents flow
In varying strains of triumph or of woe—
Now decked in smiles, and now her brow o'erfraught
With the pale cast of melancholy thought.
And weary Age remember life was fair;
Entranced and spell-bound by her potent sway
Who ‘calls each slumbering passion into play’—
Exulting, trembling, as her accents flow
In varying strains of triumph or of woe—
Now decked in smiles, and now her brow o'erfraught
With the pale cast of melancholy thought.
Far through the twilight vistas of the past,
Where gathering years their cloudy mantles cast,
Oft turns her eagle eye, and, at its glance,
The shadows vanish from that drear expanse—
Lo, at her gaze, night melteth into day,
And the dark mist of ages rolls away!
She hath ‘called spirits from the vasty deep,’
Roused kings and heroes from their dreamless sleep,
Restored the scenes of a chivalrous age
Where knightly forms heroic conflicts wage;—
The victor's triumph on the ensanguined field,
The plume, the pennon, and the bazoned shield;
Bade the dead lover's clay-cold bosom glow,
And the slain warrior meet once more his foe;
And caused them, for a night, on earth to roam,
Then pass like spectres to their silent home.
Where gathering years their cloudy mantles cast,
Oft turns her eagle eye, and, at its glance,
The shadows vanish from that drear expanse—
Lo, at her gaze, night melteth into day,
And the dark mist of ages rolls away!
She hath ‘called spirits from the vasty deep,’
Roused kings and heroes from their dreamless sleep,
172
Where knightly forms heroic conflicts wage;—
The victor's triumph on the ensanguined field,
The plume, the pennon, and the bazoned shield;
Bade the dead lover's clay-cold bosom glow,
And the slain warrior meet once more his foe;
And caused them, for a night, on earth to roam,
Then pass like spectres to their silent home.
And now she comes with all her shadowy train
To hold her court within this gorgeous fane;
Here her bright banner fearlessly unfurls,
Nor heeds the pointless shaft the bigot hurls.
She comes in living beauty to restore
The wondrous deeds of legendary lore,
Or, in light vaudevilles and comic mimes,
To paint ‘the form and pressure of the times;’
With lofty themes to rouse the languid heart,
Or stern reproof with subtle grace impart,—
To wake the noble love of well-earned fame
And teach the glory of a deathless name.
To hold her court within this gorgeous fane;
Here her bright banner fearlessly unfurls,
Nor heeds the pointless shaft the bigot hurls.
She comes in living beauty to restore
The wondrous deeds of legendary lore,
Or, in light vaudevilles and comic mimes,
To paint ‘the form and pressure of the times;’
With lofty themes to rouse the languid heart,
Or stern reproof with subtle grace impart,—
To wake the noble love of well-earned fame
And teach the glory of a deathless name.
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She shows how heroes lived and martyrs died,
In life dishonored and in death denied,
Yet nerved the powers of death and hell to scorn
When holy Honor sounds her bugle horn.
Such themes new vigor to the heart supply,
Flush every cheek and light up every eye.
In life dishonored and in death denied,
Yet nerved the powers of death and hell to scorn
When holy Honor sounds her bugle horn.
Such themes new vigor to the heart supply,
Flush every cheek and light up every eye.
Whether in gorgeous drapery she is seen,
Moving before us like an empire's queen—
Or clothed in all the majesty of woe,
Bids beauty's tears like molten diamonds glow—
Or wreathed in smiles, with soft, seducing glance,
Makes the warm life-blood through the pulses dance—
Still, ever beautiful, she meets the sight,
Taking all shapes to furnish new delight,
Forever changing, yet forever true
To one, fond aim—approving smiles from you.
Long may those smiles our virgin temple grace,
And Shakspeare's spirit hallow all the place.
Moving before us like an empire's queen—
Or clothed in all the majesty of woe,
Bids beauty's tears like molten diamonds glow—
Or wreathed in smiles, with soft, seducing glance,
Makes the warm life-blood through the pulses dance—
Still, ever beautiful, she meets the sight,
Taking all shapes to furnish new delight,
Forever changing, yet forever true
To one, fond aim—approving smiles from you.
Long may those smiles our virgin temple grace,
And Shakspeare's spirit hallow all the place.
| Hours of life, and other poems | |