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THE DRAMA OF THE DOCTOR'S WINDOW.
IN THREE ACTS, WITH A PROLOGUE.
"A tedious brief scene of young Pyramus,
LL, I must wait!" The Doctor's room,
Where I used this expression,
Wore the severe official gloom
Attached to that profession;
Rendered severer by a bald
And skinless Gladiator,
Whose raw robustness first appalled
The entering spectator.
No one would call "The Lancet" gay,-
That Jones, "On Muscular Decay,"
Is, as a rule, depressing:
So, leaving both, to change the scene,
Below, the Doctor's garden lay,
If thus imagination
May dignify a square of clay
Unused to vegetation,
Filled with a dismal-looking swing-
No sparrow chirped, no daisy sprung,
A dreary spot! And yet, I own, Half hoping that, perchance, it Might, in some unknown way, atone
For Jones and for "The Lancet,"
I watched; and by especial grace,
Within this stage contracted, Saw presently before my face A classic story acted.
Ah, World of ours, are you so gray
For lo! the same old myths that made
The early "stage successes,"
Still "hold the boards," and still are played, "With new effects and dresses."
Small, lonely "three-pair-backs" behold,
To-day, Alcestis dying;
Ulysses' bones are lying;
Still in one's morning "Times
How fell an Indian Hector; Still clubs discuss Achilles' steeds, Briseis' next protector ;—
Still Menelaus brings, we see,
And here, the Doctor's sill beside,
Do I not now discover
A Thisbe, whom the walls divide
ACT THE FIRST.
Act I. began. Some noise had scared
Passed wearily towards the swing,
A child of five, with eyes that were
A mournful mouth, and tangled hair
Seemed to sardonically mock
The plaintive, slender figure.
What was it? Something in the dress That told the girl unmothered;
Or was it that the merciless
Black garb of mourning smothered
Then, as I looked, across the wall
And round, bright eyes, that wore a stare
Rounder they grew by slow degrees,
Until the swinger, swerving, Made, all at once, alive to these Intentest orbs observing,
Gave just one brief, half-uttered cry, And, as with gathered kirtle, Nymphs fly from Pan's head suddenly Thrust through the budding myrtle,
Fled in dismay. A moment's space,