Sir Henry Irving
By Virna Sheard
"Thou trumpet made for Shakespeare's lips to blow!"
No more for thee the music and the lights,
Thy magic may no more win smile nor frown;
For thee, 0 dear interpreter of dreams,
The curtain hath rung down.
No more the sea of faces, turned to thine,
Swayed by impassioned word and breathless pause;
No more the triumph of thine art - no more
The thunder of applause.
No more for thee the maddening, mystic bells,
The haunting horror - and the falling snow;
No more of Shylock's fury, and no more
The Prince of Denmark's woe.
Not once again the fret of heart and soul,
The loneliness and passion of King Lear;
No more bewilderment and broken words
Of wild despair and fear.
And never wilt thou conjure from the past
The dread and bitter field of Waterloo;
Thy trembling hands will never pluck again
Its roses or its rue.
Thou art no longer player to the court;
No longer red-robed cardinal or king;
To-day thou art thyself - the Well-Beloved -
Bereft of crown and ring.
Thy feet have found the path that Shakespeare found,
Life's lonely exit of such far renown;
For thee, 0 dear interpreter of dreams,
The curtain hath rung down.
October, 1905.