Harebell: A Reparation

“ GRANT him,” I said, “ a well-earned name,
The stage’s knight, the keen essayer
Of parts whence all save greatness came,
But — not a player.

舠 Strange, as of fate’s perverseness, this
Proud, eager soul, this fine-strung creature,
Should seem forever just to miss
That touch of nature ;

“ The instinct she so lightly gives
Some fellow at his rivals snarling,
Some churl who gains the boards, and lives
Transformed — her darling ! ”
“You think so?” he replied — “ Well, I
Thought likewise, maugre Lanciotto,
And Yoriek, — though his Cassius nigh
Won Hamlet’s motto.

“But would you learn, as I, his clue
To nature’s heart, and judge him fairly, —
Go see his rustic bard, go view
His Man o’ Airlie.

“ See that defenseless minstrel brought
From hope to wan despair, from laughter
To frenzy’s moan : — the image wrought
Will haunt you after.

“ Then see him crowned at last! If such
A 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 thrill
Must feel, which thus your blood can waken.”
And once I saw upon the bill
That part retaken;

But leagues of travel stretched between
Me and that idyl played so rarely :
And then — his death ! nor had I seen
“ The Man o’ Airlie.”

My failure ; not the actor’s, loved
By all to art and nature loyal ;
Not his. whom Harebell’s passion proved
Of the blood royal.