Classic Poem

ON HIS PRODUCING ON THE STAGE VOLTAIRE'S " Mahomet . "

Can it be thou thyself, who led us back
From rigid rule to truthful Nature's track,
Thou, who, a child in arms, destroyed the worm
Whose threatening coils our genius would deform,
Upon whose long-time consecrated brow
The arts have bound their fillet, is it thou
Who now on ruined altars dost restore
The bastard Muse, whom we esteem no more?

Domestic art is proper to this scene,
No foreign idols shall our stage demean;
Laurels we proudly boast — our very own —
On our dear native German Pindus grown.
The German genius has dared to climb
To the most sacred heights of art sublime,
And, learning from the Briton and the Greek,
Would a more glorious renown bespeak.

For there , where slaves bow down, and despots rule,
Where bastard greatness smacks of ridicule,
There can no art true noble form portray,
No Louis there shows the artistic way;
Its life in its own consciousness is found,
Borrowing nothing from the world around.
With truth alone can it be found allied,
And to the free alone it is a guide.

Not, then, to reimpose the chains of old
Dost thou this scene of former days unfold,
Thou would'st not lead us back again to gaze
Upon our undiscerning childish days —
It were in vain, nay, 'twere a very crime
To plunge into the whirling orb of time;
The winged hours slip silently away,
Old fashions pass, and new ones have their day.

A wider scene the modern stage affords,
And all the world now populates its boards;
No more rhetorical conceits are prized,
What we demand is nature undisguised;
Banished is fashion's artificial tone,
The hero acts and feels as man alone.
The freest, fullest notes from passion spring,
And real beauty to the truth must cling.

An airy vehicle is Thespis' wain,
And like the bark of Acheron is fain
Ethereal shadow-forms alone to bear.
And if the press of life should venture near,
The flimsy wherry threatens to capsize —
Only for spirit passengers it plies.
No outward semblance can the truth attain,
Where creature triumphs, art may strive in vain.

For in the worldly setting of the stage
A world ideal must our thoughts engage.
Nothing is genuine, save tears alone;
Emotions are from no illusion grown.
Melpomene does not exaggerate,
Nor does she fables for the truth relate,
The true Muse knows that truth alone can charm,
The false assumes it only to disarm.

Now threatens art to vanish from the boards,
And to fantastic visions room accords;
These will the stage and world alike consume,
To high and low adjudge a common doom.
Art was more common with the Frank, 'tis true,
Yet its supreme conception missed his view;
His unrelenting rule upon her lies
With heavy hand, so that she cannot rise.

A sanctuary is to him the stage;
And banished from its cheerful appanage
Are nature's tones which harsh and careless halt;
He to a song mere language can exalt;
A realm it is of harmony and grace,
Each member finds its well-appointed place,
The whole becomes one great and solemn fane,
And the gay dance brings motion in its train.

No, never let the Frank our art dictate!
He lacks the living soul to elevate;
The ostentatious attitude of pride
Disdains the mind which makes of truth its guide!
Guide us it shall up to a higher sphere,
And like a vanished spirit shall appear
To render fit our much-polluted scene
For great Melpomene, the tragic Queen.