And what I lost, grows real and undying.
PRELUDE AT THE THEATRE
MANAGER ==== DRAMATIC POET ==== MERRY-ANDREW
8
MANAGER
You two, who oft a helping hand Have lent, in need and tribulation. Come, let me know your expectation
Of this, our enterprise, in German land!
I wish the crowd to feel itself well treated, Especially since it lives and lets me live;
The posts are set, the booth of boards completed. And each awaits the banquet I shall give.
Already there, with curious eyebrows raised, They sit sedate, and hope to be amazed.
I know how one the People's taste may flatter,
Yet here a huge embarrassment I feel:
What they're accustomed to, is no great matter, But then, alas! they've read an awful deal.
How shall we plan, that all be fresh and new,--
Important matter, yet attractive too?
For 'tis my pleasure-to behold them surging, When to our booth the current sets apace, And with tremendous, oft-repeated urging,
Squeeze onward through the narrow gate of grace: By daylight even, they push and cram in
To reach the seller's box, a fighting host,
And as for bread, around a baker's door, in famine, To get a ticket break their necks almost.
This miracle alone can work the Poet
On men so various: now, my friend, pray show it. POET
Speak not to me of yonder motley masses,
Whom but to see, puts out the fire of Song!
Hide from my view the surging crowd that passes, And in its whirlpool forces us along!
No, lead me where some heavenly silence glasses The purer joys that round the Poet throng,-- Where Love and Friendship still divinely fashion
The bonds that bless, the wreaths that crown his passion! Ah, every utterance from the depths of feeling
The timid lips have stammeringly expressed,-- Now failing, now, perchance, success revealing,-- Gulps the wild Moment in its greedy breast;
Or oft, reluctant years its warrant sealing, Its perfect stature stands at last confessed!
What dazzles, for the Moment spends its spirit: What's genuine, shall Posterity inherit.
MERRY-ANDREW
Posterity! Don't name the word to me! If I should choose to preach Posterity, Where would you get contemporary fun?
9
That men will have it, there's no blinking:
A fine young fellow's presence, to my thinking,
Is something worth, to every one. Who genially his nature can outpour,
Takes from the People's moods no irritation; The wider circle he acquires, the more Securely works his inspiration.
Then pluck up heart, and give us sterling coin! Let Fancy be with her attendants fitted,-- Sense, Reason, Sentiment, and Passion join,-- But have a care, lest Folly be omitted!
MANAGER
Chiefly, enough of incident prepare!
They come to look, and they prefer to stare. Reel off a host of threads before their faces, So that they gape in stupid wonder: then
By sheer diffuseness you have won their graces, And are, at once, most popular of men.
Only by mass you touch the mass; for any
Will finally, himself, his bit select:
Who offers much, brings something unto many, And each goes home content with the effect,
If you've a piece, why, just in pieces give it: A hash, a stew, will bring success, believe it!
'Tis easily displayed, and easy to invent. What use, a Whole compactly to present?
Your hearers pick and pluck, as soon as they receive it! POET
You do not feel, how such a trade debases; How ill it suits the Artist, proud and true!
The botching work each fine pretender traces
Is, I perceive, a principle with you.
MANAGER
Such a reproach not in the least offends; A man who some result intends
Must use the tools that best are fitting.
Reflect, soft wood is given to you for splitting,
And then, observe for whom you write! If one comes bored, exhausted quite, Another, satiate, leaves the banquet's tapers, And, worst of all, full many a wight
Is fresh from reading of the daily papers. Idly to us they come, as to a masquerade, Mere curiosity their spirits warming:
The ladies with themselves, and with their finery, aid,
Without a salary their parts performing.
What dreams are yours in high poetic places? You're pleased, forsooth, full houses to behold? Draw near, and view your patrons' faces!
The half are coarse, the half are cold.
One, when the play is out, goes home to cards;
A wild night on a wench's breast another chooses:
10
Why should you rack, poor, foolish bards, For ends like these, the gracious Muses?
I tell you, give but more--more, ever more, they ask:
Thus shall you hit the mark of gain and glory. Seek to confound your auditory!
To satisfy them is a task.--
What ails you now? Is't suffering, or pleasure? POET
Go, find yourself a more obedient slave! What! shall the Poet that which Nature gave, The highest right, supreme Humanity,
Forfeit so wantonly, to swell your treasure? Whence o'er the heart his empire free?
The elements of Life how conquers he?
Is't not his heart's accord, urged outward far and dim, To wind the world in unison with him?
When on the spindle, spun to endless distance, By Nature's listless hand the thread is twirled, And the discordant tones of all existence
In sullen jangle are together hurled,
Who, then, the changeless orders of creation
Divides, and kindles into rhythmic dance?
Who brings the One to join the general ordination, Where it may throb in grandest consonance?
Who bids the storm to passion stir the bosom? In brooding souls the sunset burn above?
Who scatters every fairest April blossom
Along the shining path of Love?
Who braids the noteless leaves to crowns, requiting
Desert with fame, in Action's every field? Who makes Olympus sure, the Gods uniting? The might of Man, as in the Bard revealed.
MERRY-ANDREW
So, these fine forces, in conjunction,
Propel the high poetic function,
As in a love-adventure they might play! You meet by accident; you feel, you stay, And by degrees your heart is tangled;
Bliss grows apace, and then its course is jangled; You're ravished quite, then comes a touch of woe, And there's a neat romance, completed ere you know! Let us, then, such a drama give!
Grasp the exhaustless life that all men live!
Each shares therein, though few may comprehend: Where'er you touch, there's interest without