THE DRAMA OF THE DOCTOR'S WINDOW. IN THREE ACTS, WITH A PROLOGUE. "A tedious brief scene of young Pyramus, MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM. PROLOGUE. WELL, I must wait!" The Doctor's room, "WELL 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— That brought to mind a gallowsAn empty kennel, mouldering, And two dyspeptic aloes. 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 Still "hold the boards," and still are played, "With new effects and dresses." Small, lonely" three-pair-backs " behold, To-day, Alcestis dying; How fell an Indian Hector; Still clubs discuss Achilles' steeds, Briseis' next protector ;— Still Menelaus brings, we see, G 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 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-uttercd 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, |