THE MARIONETTES

Let the foul Scene proceed:

There's laughter in the wings;

‘ Tis sawdust that they bleed,

But a box Death brings.

How rare a skill is theirs

These extreme pangs to show,

How real a frenzy wears

Each feigner of woe!

Gigantic dins uprise!

Even the gods must feel

A smarting of the eyes

As these fumes upsweal.

Strange, such a Piece is free,

While we Spectators sit,

Aghast at its agony,

Yet absorbed in it!

Dark is the outer air,

Cold the night draughts blow

Mutely we stare, and stare

At the frenzied Show.

Yet heaven hath its quiet shroud

Of deep, immutable blue —

We cry “An end!” We are bowed

By the dread, “‘ Tis true!”

While the Shape who hoofs applause

Behind our deafened ear,

Hoots — angel-wise — “the Cause!”

And affright even fear.