Miracle, and Other Poems

<h2 id="id00373" style="margin-top: 4em">SIR HENRY IRVING</h2> <p id="id00374"> "Thou trumpet made for Shakespeare's lips to blow!"</p> <p id="id00375" style="margin-top: 2em">No more for thee the music and the lights,<br/> Thy magic may no more win smile nor frown;<br/> For thee, 0 dear interpreter of dreams,<br/> The curtain hath rung down.<br/></p> <p id="id00376">No more the sea of faces, turned to thine,<br/> Swayed by impassioned word and breathless pause;<br/> No more the triumph of thine art—no more<br/> The thunder of applause.<br/></p> <p id="id00377">No more for thee the maddening, mystic bells,<br/> The haunting horror—and the falling snow;<br/> No more of Shylock's fury, and no more<br/> The Prince of Denmark's woe.<br/></p> <p id="id00378">Not once again the fret of heart and soul,<br/> The loneliness and passion of King Lear;<br/> No more bewilderment and broken words<br/> Of wild despair and fear.<br/></p> <p id="id00379">And never wilt thou conjure from the past<br/> The dread and bitter field of Waterloo;<br/> Thy trembling hands will never pluck again<br/> Its roses or its rue.<br/></p> <p id="id00380">Thou art no longer player to the court;<br/> No longer red-robed cardinal or king;<br/> To-day thou art thyself—the Well-Beloved—<br/> Bereft of crown and ring.<br/></p> <p id="id00381">Thy feet have found the path that Shakespeare found,<br/> Life's lonely exit of such far renown;<br/> For thee, 0 dear interpreter of dreams,<br/> The curtain hath rung down.<br/></p> <p id="id00382"> October, 1905.</p> <div style="break-after:column;"></div><br />