(_A Cabriolet._)
I hired me a hack,
I cried out “Alack!”
I must dine upon bread;
I gave up my purse.
Never ride in a hack
Unless you are dead;
Then ride in a hearse,
Lying flat on your back.
I hired me a hack!
I would I were dead!
“PELLUCID HER EYE.”
(_A Pantalet._)
But, oh! I was dry,
And the starved dancers crushed,
Till my shirt-front was mushed.
The champagne was dry—
I cannot say why;
But the night-bird was hushed,
Yet the throstle-wits thrushed—
I cannot say why;
(The champagne was dry).
Ah, pellucid her eye!
And her oval cheek flushed
Like a strawberry crushed.
How pellucid her eye!
I cannot say why—
(The champagne was dry).
I sighed, “Let us fly!”
She smiled not nor gushed,
But from me she rushed.
Maphap I seemed “fly”
The wine was quite dry.
But pellucid her eye,
I cannot say why.
This report having been voted correct, and ordered to be inscribed
on the minutes, Mr. Howard M. Ticknor then recited, with excellent
elocutionary point, the following “Greeting to Ellen Terry”:—
“Honor,” said Cassius, “is my story’s theme.”
Honor shall best my verse to-night beseem.
* * * * *
For some, how safe, how permanent, how sure!
Written in characters that will endure,
Until this world begins to melt away
And crumble to its ultimate decay.
The picture fades; but color still is there,
Even in ruin is the statue fair;
The province won, the city burnt or built,
The inwrought consequence of good or guilt,
Shape after epochs to time’s latest span,
And link enduringly a man to man.
But he who is himself artist and art,
Whose greatest works are of himself a part;
Who, sculptor, moulds his hand, his form, his face;
Who, painter, on the air his lines must trace;
Musician, make an instrument his voice,
And tell, not write, the melody of his choice;
Whose eloquence of gesture, pose and eye
Flashes aglow, in instant dark to die;—
Where are for him the honor and the fame?
A face on canvas, and perhaps a name
Extolled awhile, and then an empty word
At sound of which no real thrill is stirred.
What, then, shall recompense his loss? What make
Atonement for the ignorant future’s sake?
What but the tribute of his honor now,
The native wreath to deck his living brow?
Then, as he passes beyond the mortal ken,
His glory shall go with him even then,
Not as a hope, a doubt, and a desire,
But as a spark of his own living fire,
Of his eternal self a priceless part,
Eternal witness to his mind and heart.
And so, to-night, when she who comes from far
To show in one what many women are,
Sits at our board, and makes our evening shine,
Breaks bread with us, and pledges in our wine,
Let us be quick to honor in our guest
So many a phase of life by her expressed.
Portia’s most gracious, yet submissive word—
“You are my king, my governor, my lord;”
Her courage, dignity, and force,
Warning the Jew that justice shall have course;
The trenchant wit of Beatrice, and her pride,
Her loyalty as friend, her faith as bride;
Letitia’s stratagems; the tragic fate
Of sweet Ophelia, crushed by madness’ weight.
How many chords of happiness or woe,
Her lips that quiver and her cheeks that glow;
Her speech now clear, now clouded, and her eyes
Filling by turns with anguish, mirth, surprise—
Can wake to throb, again to rest can still—
Potent her power as Prospero’s magic will!
Present alone is hers—alone is ours,
Now, while she plants, must we, too, cull the flowers?
For future wreaths she has no time to wait;
Unready now, they are for aye too late.
Now is the moment our regard to show,
Let every face with light of welcome glow;
Let smiles shine forth, glad words be spoken;
Formality for once be broken.
Let hand strike hand, let kerchiefs wave,
Keep not her laurels for her grave;
Twine our proud chaplet for her fair, smooth brow,
And bid her take our share of tribute now;
Then shall it be a recollection dear,
That we to-night greet Ellen Terry here!