Sir Henry Irving

"Thou trumpet made for Shakespeare's lips to blow!"     No more for thee the music and the lights,      Thy magic may no more win smile nor frown;     For thee, 0 dear interpreter of dreams,      The curtain hath rung down.     No more the sea of faces, turned to thine,      Swayed by impassioned word and breathless pause;     No more the triumph of thine art - no more      The thunder of applause.     No more for thee the maddening, mystic bells,      The haunting horror - and the falling snow;     No more of Shylock's fury, and no more      The Prince of Denmark's woe.     Not once again the fret of heart and soul,      The loneliness and passion of King Lear;     No more bewilderment and broken words      Of wild despair and fear.     And never wilt thou conjure from the past      The dread and bitter field of Waterloo;     Thy trembling hands will never pluck again      Its roses or its rue.     Thou art no longer player to the court;      No longer red-robed cardinal or king;     To-day thou art thyself - the Well-Beloved -      Bereft of crown and ring.     Thy feet have found the path that Shakespeare found,      Life's lonely exit of such far renown;     For thee, 0 dear interpreter of dreams,      The curtain hath rung down.      October, 1905.