BEFORE THE CURTAIN.
ISS PEACOCK 's called." And who demurs?
Not I who write, for certain;
"M
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.
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?
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 !
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?
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?
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 un Benefit-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 !
A NIGHTINGale in KENSINGTON GARDENS. 169
A NIGHTINGALE IN KENSINGTON
GARDENS.
THE
HEY paused,-the cripple in the chair,
More bent with pain than age;
The mother with her lines of care;
The many-buttoned page;
The noisy, red-cheeked nursery-maid,
With straggling train of three ;
The Frenchman with his frogs and braid ;—
All, curious, paused to see,
If possible, the small, dusk bird
That from the almond bough,
Had poured the joyous chant they heard,
So suddenly, but now.
And one poor POET stopped and thought—
How many a lonely lay
That bird had sung ere fortune brought
It near the common way,
Where the crowd hears the note.
What birds must sing the song,
To whom that hour of listening men
Could ne'er in life belong!
But "Art for Art !" the Poet said,
""Tis still the Nightingale,
That sings where no men's feet will tread,
And praise and audience fail."
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