Classic Poem

Flanked by such comrades, I am loath to lift
A trembling voice, as one who is the rift
Within the lute; for how can I aspire
To rival all the past and future fire
Of incense burned before this gifted pair, —
Sothern and Marlowe — two beyond compare!

August is Thomas, waiting by my side,
To prove that words and wit are fast allied —
And if he can't suffice in his short span
To stir the house to homage — Otto Kahn!
And Agnes Repplier, she of rapier blade,
Has cast all other speakers in the shade —
Except that one whose method no one shames,
So nobly conscious is he of his Ames!

Now mark 'em all, yes, Edwin Markham too, —
To think that I should follow one like you,
Poet and prophet, master of the flow
That makes a hero wield for sword, a hoe!
So, listen, Friends, with kind and lenient ear
To these few lines that I would have you hear, —
Lines only worth your favor since they dwell
On two we honor, — two we love as well!

First to the man, — though ladies should be first, —
Who but remembers how he slaked our thirst
For high Romance, — when tried, and true, and tender,
He made us all believe there was a Zenda, —
Or, who forgets him, gay and debonair,
Inimitable, laughing Letterblair — !
And Chumley — echoes from a brilliant sire
The memory of hours that could not tire.
Magnetic magic, joined to all that's human —
Of course he knew " the way to win a woman " !
And so he won her, — she who had already
Inflamed our brains and made our hearts unsteady —
Who, by the wonder of her low, deep voice
Could make an audience tremble or rejoice,
Whose Barbara Frietchie thrilled us overmuch,
(Methinks she'd sensed e'en then the Sothern touch),
She who with dainty grace and poignant power,
Had made us live " When Knighthood was in Flower " !
He won her — and, as one, they climbed the height
Of Shakespeare's " Jocund Morn " or " dreadful night "
And we, who enter now a holy place,
Would bend with reverend knee, though lifted face,
Before the fair presentments they have made. —

Here is our tribute, — May it then be laid
With loving ardor at the Altar-Throne
Of two who made great Shakespeare all their own. —
This " wise young Judge, " this madcap Rosalind,
Gay shrew untamed, and yet not half unkind, —
Fair Juliet, so bewitching, her caress
Had left sweet Romeo in a sorry stress —
Or Viola, part boy, yet wholly woman,
Capricious, tender, petulant and human!
And now, in turn, behold, as in a glass
The fawning Shylock, or Malvolio pass,
Or, suddenly, with quick vibrating pain
We sense the torture of the noble Dane,
Or, yield ourselves, philosophers as well,
To " melancholy Jacques' " potent spell —
We crown them with their vast achievement — Rise
And honor those who read the mysteries
Of Avon's Bard, and read them all aright.
Who would not then be Julia's Satellite,
Or Sothern's slave? Once more the laurel bring
To her, the Queen of Queens " If he were King! "