Interludes and Undertones, or, Music at Twilight By Charles Mackay |
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| VI. | VI. HOMER AND SHAKSPEARE. |
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 | Interludes and Undertones, or, Music at Twilight |  |
VI. HOMER AND SHAKSPEARE.
“A dream, which was not all a dream!”
Homer and Shakspeare, mighty pair,
Passed o'er my presence like a gleam
Of moonlight on the summer air.
Homer and Shakspeare, mighty pair,
Passed o'er my presence like a gleam
Of moonlight on the summer air.
And hark! they spoke! 'Twas Homer first:
“What silly fools are men!” he said,
“Neglecting living worth, to burst
In thunderous praises of the dead!
“What silly fools are men!” he said,
“Neglecting living worth, to burst
In thunderous praises of the dead!
168
I never wrote the Iliad, no!
Only some ballads which I sung
For daily bread, long long ago
When Greece was valorous and young.
Only some ballads which I sung
For daily bread, long long ago
When Greece was valorous and young.
“As time wore on my ballads grew
By small addition line on line,
And swoll to bulk I never knew,
And swelling, were no longer mine.
I loathe the Iliad! but the ruck
Of pedants trumpet it aloud;
Dear Shakspeare, is it wit or luck
That makes us favourites of the crowd?”
By small addition line on line,
And swoll to bulk I never knew,
And swelling, were no longer mine.
I loathe the Iliad! but the ruck
Of pedants trumpet it aloud;
Dear Shakspeare, is it wit or luck
That makes us favourites of the crowd?”
“Dear Homer!” said the younger bard,
“Fame's but a word at random spread,
It leaves our best in disregard,
And vaunts our very worst instead.
My poems! darlings of my heart!
Men spurn or utterly ignore,
But plays I did not write, impart
Joy to dense donkeys by the score.
“Fame's but a word at random spread,
It leaves our best in disregard,
And vaunts our very worst instead.
My poems! darlings of my heart!
Men spurn or utterly ignore,
But plays I did not write, impart
Joy to dense donkeys by the score.
“They bray, they prate in long debate,
And call poor drivel quite divine,
Only because, whoever wrote,
They've learned to think the drivel mine.
Are there no critics to be born
Bright as the sunshine, clear as dew,
Who without prejudice or scorn
Will hold the balance fairly true?”
And call poor drivel quite divine,
Only because, whoever wrote,
They've learned to think the drivel mine.
Are there no critics to be born
Bright as the sunshine, clear as dew,
Who without prejudice or scorn
Will hold the balance fairly true?”
169
“Never!” said Homer; “never more!
The race has perished from the sod.
But why lament them, or deplore?
There are no critics left but God!”
The race has perished from the sod.
But why lament them, or deplore?
There are no critics left but God!”
| Interludes and Undertones, or, Music at Twilight | |