Aloft the rustling curtain flew,
That gave the mimic scene to view;
How gaudy was the suit he wore!
His cheeks with red how plaster'd o'er!
Poor veteran! that in life's late day,
With tottering step, and locks of gray,
Essay'st each trick of antic glee,
Oh! my heart bleeds at sight of thee.
A laugh thy triumph! and so near
The closing act, and humble bier;
This thy ambition? this thy pride?
Far better thou had'st earlier died!
Though memory long has own'd decay,
And dim the intellectual ray,
Thou toil'st, from many an idle page,
To cram the feeble brain of age.
And stiff the old man's arms have grown.
And scarce his folded hands alone
Half raised in whisper'd prayer they see,
To bless the grandchild at his knee.
But here—'tis action lends a zest
To the dull, pointless, hacknied jest;
He saws the air 'mid welcome loud
Of laughter from the barren crowd.
A tear creeps down his cheek—with pain
His limbs the wasted form sustain;
Ay—weep! no thought thy tears are worth,
So the Pit shakes with boist'rous mirth.
And now the bustling scene is o'er,
The weary actor struts no more;
And hark, "The old man needed rest,"
They cry; "the arm-chair suits him best."
His lips have moved with mutter'd sound—
A pause—and still the taunt goes round;
"Oh! quite worn out—'tis doting age,
Why lags the driveller on the stage?"
Again the halting speech he tries,
But words the faltering tongue denies,
Scarce heard the low unmeaning tone,
Then silent—as tho' life were flown.
The curtain falls, and rings the bell,
They know not 'tis the Player's knell;
Nor deem their noise and echoing cry
The dirge that speeds a soul on high!
Dead in his chair the old man lay,
His colour had not pass'd away;—
Clay-cold, the ruddy cheeks declare
What hideous mockery lingers there!
Yes! there the counterfeited hue
Unfolds with moral truth to view,
How false—as every mimic part—
His life—his labours—and his art!
The canvass-wood devoid of shade,
Above, no plaintive rustling made;
That moon, that ne'er its orb has fill'd,
No pitying, dewy tears distill'd.
The troop stood round—and all the past
In one brief comment speaks at last;
"Well, he has won the hero's name,
He died upon his field of fame."
A girl with timid grace draws near,
And like the Muse to sorrow dear,
Amid the silvery tresses lays
The torn stage-wreath of paper bays!
I saw two men the bier sustain;—
Two bearers all the funeral train!
They left him in his narrow bed,
No smile was seen—no tear was shed!