Harebell

"Grant him," I said, "a well-earned name,The stage's knight, the keen assayerOf parts whence all save greatness came,But—not a player.

"Strange, as of fate's perverseness, thisProud, eager soul, this fine-strung creatureShould seem forever just to missThat touch of nature;

"The instinct she so lightly givesSome fellow at his rivals snarling,Some churl who gains the boards, and livesTransformed—her darling!"

"You think so?" he replied. "Well, IThought likewise, maugre Lanciotto,And Yorick, though his Cassius nighWon Hamlet's motto.

"But would you learn, as I, his clewTo nature's heart, and judge him fairly—Go see his rustic bard, go viewHis Man o' Airlie.

"See that defenceless minstrel broughtFrom hope to wan despair, from laughterTo frenzy's moan: the image wroughtWill haunt you after.

"Then see him crowned at last! If suchA guerdon waits the stricken poet,'T were well, you 'll own, to bear as much—Even die, to know it."

"Bravo!" cried I, "I too, the thrillMust feel which thus your blood can waken."And once I saw upon the billThat part retaken;

But leagues of travel stretched betweenMe and that idyl played so rarely:And then—his death! nor had I seen"The Man o' Airlie."

My failure; not the actor's, lovedBy all to art and nature loyal;Not his, whom Harebell's passion provedOf the blood royal.

1891