Shapes of Clay

Come, gentlemen—your gold.

Thanks: welcome to the show.

To hear a story told

In words you do not know.

Now, great Salvini, rise

And thunder through your tears,

Aha! friends, let your eyes

Interpret to your ears.

Gods! 't is a goodly game.

Observe his stride—how grand!

When legs like his declaim

Who can misunderstand?

See how that arm goes round.

It says, as plain as day:

"I love," "The lost is found,"

"Well met, sir," or, "Away!"

And mark the drawing down

Of brows. How accurate

The language of that frown:

Pain, gentlemen—or hate.

Those of the critic trade

Swear it is all as clear

As if his tongue were made

To fit an English ear.

Hear that Italian phrase!

Greek to your sense, 't is true;

But shrug, expression, gaze—

Well, they are Grecian too.

But it is Art! God wot

Its tongue to all is known.

Faith! he to whom 't were not

Would better hold his own.

Shakespeare says act and word

Must match together true.

From what you've seen and heard,

How can you doubt they do?

Enchanting drama! Mark

The crowd "from pit to dome",

One box alone is dark—

The prompter stays at home.

Stupendous artist! You

Are lord of joy and woe:

We thrill if you say "Boo,"

And thrill if you say "Bo."