SIR HENRY IRVING

No more for thee the music and the lights,

Thy magic may no more win smile nor frown;

For thee, o 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, o dear interpreter of dreams,

The curtain hath rung down.