"Tis a sombre end for so bright a piece, This dull fifth act of the parting soul, Ere the last sad exit has brought release,
And the great green curtain begins to roll! Yet, though they have left me, those trusted friends, I cannot but fancy their absence means That they wait outside till my own part ends,
And will join me somewhere behind the scenes.
I see them here while I dream and doze
There was Ralph, too reckless and wild by half, With his ludicrous Punchinello nose,
And his full, superb light comedy laugh! There was chubby Larry, with flaxen hair, Who secretly longed to be dark and slight, And believed his Hamlet a great affair, But was better in Falstaff any night.
There was lean, grim Peter, so much in vogue, Who could govern an audience by his wink; There was brilliant Hugh, with his witty brogue, His leaky purse and his love for drink; And then there was rosy old Robert, too, With whom bitter fortunes were hard at strife, Who felt himself born a Macready, and who Had been handing in letters all his life.
But more than these there was brown-eyed Kate, True, generous, brave, and her own worst foe, With a love no insults could alienate
From the bad little husband who wronged her soi Poor Kate! she would call to her lovely face
That radiant smile, in the nights long fled,
And act Lady Teazle with dazzling grace,
While the heart in her bosom ached and bled!
Your love as a friend's love, weak of worth, Though we swore the most sacred promise known, And were bound by the strongest bond on earth Ah, me! at the summons of Death's weird spell, I can see you while pangs of memory start, In the waiting-maid roles you did so well, Pirouetting with sweet unconscious art.
I remember the play where first we met- How your glad eyes haunted me from afar As you tripped and prattled, a pert soubrette, While I was a grave, majestic "star!" I remember wnen wedded joys were new The dawn of the troubles, the scandals coarse,
The last mad, passionate interview,
The wrangle of lawyers, the stern divorce.
Those dear, lost friends, they have grouped afresh In the green-room quite as they used to do, And Ralph has been laughing at Larry's flesh, And Peter is growling a joke to Hugh, And Robert complains of his lowly lot, And Emily gossips with Kate - You may all be shadow, but I am not, While I listen here for the Prompter's bell.
LITTLE ROCKET'S CHRISTMAS. VANDYKE BROWN.
I'll tell you how the Christmas came To Rocket-no, you never met him, That is, you never knew his name, Although 'tis possible you've let him Display his skill upon your shoes; A bootblack-Arab, if you choose. Has inspiration dropped to zero When such material makes a hero?
And who was Rocket? Well, an urchin, A gamin, dirty, torn, and tattered, Whose chiefest pleasure was to perch in The Bowery gallery; there it mattered But little what the play might be-- Broad farce or point-lace comedy— He meted out his just applause By rigid, fixed, and proper laws.
A father once he had, no doubt, A mother on the Island staying, Which left him free to knock about And gratify a taste for straying Through crowded streets. "Twas there he found Companionship and grew renowned.
An ash-box served him for a bed
As good, at least, as Moses' rushes
And for his daily meat and bread,
He earned them with his box and brushes.
An Arab of the city's slums,
With ready tongue and empty pocket,
Unaided left to solve life's sums,
But plucky always-that was Rocket!
'Twas Christmas eve, and all the day The snow had fallen fine and fast; In banks and drifted heaps it lay
Along the streets. A piercing blast Blew cuttingly. The storm was past, And now the stars looked coldly down Upon the snow-enshrouded town. Ah, well it is if Christmas brings Good will and peace which poet sings! How full are all the streets to-night With happy faces, flushed and bright! The matron in her silks and furs,
The pompous banker, fat and sleek, The idle, well-fed loiterers,
The merchant trim, the churchman meek, Forgetful now of hate and spite, For all the world is glad to-night! All, did I say? Ah, no, not all, For sorrow throws on some its pall; And here, within the broad, fair city, The Christmas time no beauty brings To those who plead in vain for pity,
To those who cherish but the stings Of wretchedness and want and woe, Who never love's great bounty know. Whose grief no kindly hands assuage, Whose misery mocks our Christian age. Pray ask yourself what means to them That Christ is born in Bethlehem!
But Rocket? On this Christmas eve
You might have seen him standing where
The city's streets so interweave
They form that somewhat famous square Called Printing House. His face was bright, And at this gala, festive season
You could not find a heart more light
I'll tell you in a word the reason:
By dint of patient toil in shining
Patrician shoes and Wall street boots,
He had within his jacket's lining, A dollar and a half-the fruits Of pinching, saving, and a trial Of really Spartan self-denial.
That dollar and a half was more Than Rocket ever owned before. A princely fortune, so he thought,
And with those hoarded dimes and nickels What Christmas pleasures may be bought! A dollar and a half! It tickles
The boy to say it over, musing Upon the money's proper using; 'I'll go a gobbler, leg and breast, With cranberry sauce and fixin's nice, And pie, mince pie, the very best, And puddin'-say a double slice! And then to doughnuts how I'll freeze; With coffee-guess that ere 's the cheese! And after grub I'll go to see The 'Seven Goblins of Dundee.' If this yere Christmas ain't a buster, I'll let yer rip my Sunday duster!"
So Rocket mused as he hurried along,
Clutching his money with grasp yet tighter, And humining the air of a rollicking song,
With a heart as light as his clothes-or lighter. Through Centre street he makes his way, When, just as he turns the corner at Pearl, He hears a voice cry out in dismay, And sees before him a slender girl,
As ragged and tattered in dress as he, With hand stretched forth for charity.
In the street-light's fitful and flickering glare He caught a glimpse of the pale, pinched face- So gaunt and wasted, yet strangely fair,
With a lingering touch of childhood's grace On her delicate features. Her head was bare, And over her shoulders disordered there hung A mass of tangled, nut-brown hair.
In misery old as in years she was young, She gazed in his face. And, oh! for the eyes- The big, blue, sorrowful, hungry eyes,-
That were fixed in a desperate frightened stare.
Hundreds have jostled her by to-night
The rich, the great, the good, and the wise, Hurrying on to the warmth and light Of happy homes-they have jostled her by, And the only one who has heard her cry, Or, hearing, has felt his heartstrings stirred, Is Rocket-this youngster of coarser clay, This gamin, who never so much as heard The beautiful story of Him who lay In the manger of old on Christmas day! With artless pathos and simple speech, She stands and tells him her pitiful tale; Ah, well if those who pray and preach Could catch an echo of that sad wail!
She tells of the terrible battle for bread, Tells of a father brutal with crime, Tells of a mother lying dead,
At this, the gala Christmas-time; Then adds, gazing up at the starlit sky, "I'm hungry and cold, and I wish I could die.
What is it trickles down the cheek
Of Rocket-can it be a tear?
He stands and stares, but does not speak; He thinks again of that good cheer Which Christmas was to bring; he sees Visions of turkey, steaming pies, The play-bills-then, in place of these, The girl's beseeching, hungry eyes; One mighty effort, gulping down The disappointment in his breast, A quivering of the lip, a frown,
And then, while pity pleads her best, He snatches forth his cherished hoard, And gives it to her like a lord!
"Here, freeze to that; I'm flush, yer see, And then you needs it more 'an me!" With that he turns and walks away, So fast the girl can nothing say, So fast he does not hear the prayer That sanctifies the winter air.
But He who blessed the widow's mite Looked down and smiled upon the sight.
No feast of steaming pies or turkey, No ticket for the matinee,
All drear and desolate and murky, In truth, a very dismal day. With dinner on a crust of bread, And not a penny in his pocket,
A friendly ash-box for a bed
Thus came the Christmas day to Rocket, And yet-and here's the strangest thingAs best befits the festive season,
The boy was happy as a king
I wonder can you guess the reason?
WHEN SHALL WE THREE MEET AGAIN
When shall we three meet again
When shall we three meet again? Oft shall glowing hope expire,
Oft shall wearied love retire,
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