 | Collected poems |  |
154
BEFORE THE CURTAIN
“Miss peacock's called.” And who demurs?
Not I who write, for certain;
If praise be due, one sure prefers
That some such face as fresh as hers
Should come before the curtain.
Not I who write, for certain;
If praise be due, one sure prefers
That some such face as fresh as hers
Should come before the curtain.
And yet, most strange to say, I find
(E'en bards are sometimes prosy)
Her presence here but brings to mind
That undistinguished crowd behind
For whom life's not so rosy.
(E'en bards are sometimes prosy)
Her presence here but brings to mind
That undistinguished crowd behind
For whom life's not so rosy.
The pleased young premier led her on,
But where are all the others?
Where is that nimble servant John?
And where's the comic Uncle gone?
And where that best of Mothers?
But where are all the others?
Where is that nimble servant John?
And where's the comic Uncle gone?
And where that best of Mothers?
Where is “Sir Lumley Leycester, Bart.”?
And where the crafty Cousin?—
That man may have a kindly heart,
And yet each night ('tis in the part)
Must poison half-a-dozen!
And where the crafty Cousin?—
That man may have a kindly heart,
And yet each night ('tis in the part)
Must poison half-a-dozen!
155
Where is the cool Detective,—he
Should surely be applauded?
The Lawyer, who refused the fee?—
The Wedding Guests (in number three)?—
Why are they all defrauded?
Should surely be applauded?
The Lawyer, who refused the fee?—
The Wedding Guests (in number three)?—
Why are they all defrauded?
The men who worked the cataract?
The plush-clad carpet lifters?—
Where is the countless host, in fact,
Whose cue is not to speak, but act,—
The “supers” and the shifters?
The plush-clad carpet lifters?—
Where is the countless host, in fact,
Whose cue is not to speak, but act,—
The “supers” and the shifters?
Think what a crowd whom none recall,
Unsung,—unpraised,—unpitied;
Women for whom no bouquets fall,
And men whose names no galleries bawl,
The Great unBenefit-ed!
Unsung,—unpraised,—unpitied;
Women for whom no bouquets fall,
And men whose names no galleries bawl,
The Great unBenefit-ed!
Ah, Reader, ere you turn the page,
I leave you this for Moral:—
Remember those who tread Life's stage
With weary feet and scantest wage,
And ne'er a leaf for laurel!
I leave you this for Moral:—
Remember those who tread Life's stage
With weary feet and scantest wage,
And ne'er a leaf for laurel!
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