II.
Mimes, dressed in fashion now gone by,
Mutter and mumble low,
And hither and thither fly:
Mere puppets they who come and go
At the bidding of a huge formless Thing
That shifts the scenery to and fro,
Ruling the World from flat and wing--
Paris and Pimlico!
III.
That motley drama--oh, be sure
It shall not be forgot!
With its Phantom chased for evermore
By a crowd that seize it not,
Through a circle that ever returneth in
To the self-same spot;
With much of Folly, and waste of Tin,
And Vanity soul of the plot.
IV.
But see, amid the mimic rout
A mystic shape intrude!
A formless thing that writhes from out
The scenic solitude!
It writhes! it squirms!--with mortal pangs,
Mocked at by laughter rude;
There's no more snap in its sharp fangs,
Which once that crowd subdued.
V.
Out--out are the lights--out all!
And over each pallid form,
The curtain, Mode's funeral pall,
Comes down amidst hisses in storm;
And the audience, dowdy, but human,
Uprising proclaim, with wild mirth,
That the play is the Comedy "Woman,"
And the hero the conquered "WORTH."
* * * * *
EXTREMES MEET.
It is a noticeable thing
That when Kent bines produce their crop,
Swelldom is always "on the wing,"
And Slumdom "on the Hop"!
* * * * *
THE LATEST WEATHER-WISE DOGGEREL.
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