  I. “When Shakespeare died the Drama died.” This cry Has echoed down the ages as a truth None would gainsay, until, today, forsooth, Like weaklings we all fear to make reply, But suckle at Tradition’s milkless breast. O Art! your name to mingle with the dust Of dead men’s bones, and scarred with sordid rust Of years, and in a catacomb to rest! O Youth! throw off the shackles of the Past, It is the Present that is yours alone; The excellence you seek can never last If linked to models that today’s outgrown. II. How long shall we perpetuate untruth And teach that Art does not exist today? That only idols crumbling with decay Are meet as shrines for eager, suppliant youth? How long shall we bow down to foreign gods And worship them with lips, but not with heart? We are ashamed to recognize our art, We sneer and call our native writers clods. But from the prairies of the grander West— Free from the ancient gyves that bind and gall— Are men and women rising to the call, Intent on only what is new and best. The East is dead and buried in the Past, The West alone can do what work will last! |
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