Classic Poem

If from their Paradise in starry spaces
Where with their friends, the Muses and the Graces,
Our Gentle Will and Rare Ben blissful dwell,
We might compel them by a potent spell,
'Gainst which in spite of thought-devouring distance
No spirit could assert his will's resistance,
To leave those haunts and visit earth again
And mingle with the hosts of mortal men,
Where think you their bewildered steps would wander,
On what strange scenes would first their memories ponder?
What wild expression of intense surprise
Would quick-dilate their long oblivious eyes
At seeing London city's boundless bounty
Spread splendid over more than half a county?

But where's the “Globe” and where that narrow stage
Which yet contained the glory of an age?
And where's the “Mermaid,” where that jolly tavern
Too full of light to be misnamed “a cavern”?
All, all the ancient landmarks are destroyed;
The very fulness seems to make a void.
But through their hearts might run a tender quiver:
It is the Thames, it is the dear old river!
Yet that is changed; its crystal stream is plowed
By puffing steamboats and a motley crowd
Of monstrous buildings dress the stone embankment,
Once smiling meadows for the eyes of rank meant.

But while the charms of London could not pall,
A mightier wonder would their hearts enthrall:
A distant land beyond the boundless ocean
Would stir them to a new and sweet emotion—
A land once settled by bright Pleasure's foes,
By Puritans in whose veins the thin blood froze.
Here is the El Dorado of the actor;
The Stage is still Reform's most potent factor,
And Shakespeare's plays retain their pristine power
To sway Imagination for an hour.

Hither they come, those visitants from far lands,
Decked with bright asphodel for living garlands,
And by our spell's coercion seek the town
Whereof the golden dome's the glittering crown.
And hastening to the great theatric center,
The brightly-lighted palace playhouse enter.
Here they will pause to see how art of man
Had skill to decorate, had power to plan,
The purest taste combined with blazoned splendor,
The rich and bright, the contrast soft and tender;
Each panelled wall, each ceiling archèd high,
Where all the colors satisfy the eye;
The gilded lobbies with their decorations,
The softened lights with myriad scintillations,
And then the auditorium's lofty grace,
Where every comfort finds its fitting place;
And last the stage, behind the picture-curtain
Eager to rise, to win its victory certain.

Shakespeare should speak a prolog for this night;
Jonson should follow to our keen delight.
What would they say? What utterance immortal
To stir the theater to its utmost portal?
To praise the enterprise, to place the crown
Upon this benefaction of the town;
To lift the voice against Art's prostitution,
To ask a home for highest Elocution
That stirs in Tragedy the seeds of worth,
In Comedy awakens harmless mirth;
That sends its darts of satire through the vitals
Of Vice audacious, making just requitals;
That punctures shams and castigates the Age;
For it is the mission of the honest Stage
To teach, chastise, amuse, and banish sadness,
Here is the home for such a Muse of gladness!

We cannot summon Shakespeare from the skies,
Nor any of the vanished Great and Wise,
But here's a promise in our first fulfilment:
Our wish to do has done what our best will meant,
And now our house a welcome warm extends
To our kind patrons, to our generous friends.