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Show IMii T'10 Argonaut lllls discovered a comparatively 1 I'MEe unknown poem by Bret Harte, written when the ijNKaSl California theatre was opened in San Francisco in lffjXfif January, 1870. - None of the poet's more ambitious tf fifi work shows more clearly his great -gift of sllhouot- iiJljt'lfcBI t,nR' vividly and at the same time screening in a f IP veil of rhythmic beauty a theme so common place 1 1- thai, in less artistic hands, it would be but a ted- ious recital. He had something of that splendid ;tth I nrt of Poe, whereby that greatest of all American '.V?, j I poots would from a bleak and platitudinous outline ' 'V i v evolve a picture so startling in its poetic grandeur f , I that the men of two continents were awed at such i virile and unusual genius. 1i H; Mr. Harte's tribute to the memorable old play-t "T fl; house, now standing gaunt amid a thousand ruins, Iff S U1S remoiuce: p'j' ii' Brief words, when actions wait, are well; , I'.-.', rj The prompter's hand is on tha bell; 1 p,( The coming heroes, lovers, king', 1 V.i if Are idly lounging at the wings; i i i Behind the curtain's mystic fold I tf, I i The glowing future lies unrolled i I Ancl yet' one nl0ment for tne Pns ''ffiBi'' ne rotrosPect tne first an lnst I; j; jHj "The world's a stage," the master said, '; Tonight a mightier truth is read: f Kj Not in the shifting canvas screen. The flash of gas or tinsel sheen; mk '. Not in the skill whose signal calls ;V1, From empty boards baronial halls; i-jjjji But, fronting sea and curving bay, ' j Behold the players and the play, kill Ah, friends, beneath your real skies .ft' 111 The actor's short-lived triumph dies; On tnat uroad stage of empira won, "' ffJfflg Whose footlights were the setting sun, iHI "Whose flats a distant background rose, In trackless peaks of endless snows; Here genius bows, and talent waits, To copy that but One creates. Your shifting scenes; tho-league of sand, An avenue by ocean spanned; Tho narrow beach of straggling tents, A mile of stately monuments; Your standard, lo! a flag unfurled, Whose clinging folds clasp half the world This is your drama built in facts, With "twenty yenrs between the acts." One moment more; if here we raise The oft-sung hymn of local praise, Before the curtain facts must sway; Here waits the moral of your play. Glassed in the poet's thought, you view What money can yet cannot do; The faith that soars, the deeds that shine, Above the gold that builds the shrine. And oh! when others take our place, And earth's green curtain hides our face, Ere on the stage, so silent now. The last new hero makes his bow; So may our deeds, recalled once more In Memory's sweet but brief encore, Down all the circling ages run, With the world's plaudit of "Well done!" |