Page:The poems of Edmund Clarence Stedman, 1908.djvu/445

THE COMEDIAN'S LAST NIGHT 'T is not so very late with me;

I'm not so old as that, you know,

Though work and trouble—as you see—

(Not years) have brought me somewhat low.

I failed, you say? No, no, not yet!

Or, if I did,—with such a past,

Where is the man would have me quit

Without one triumph at the last?

But one night more,—a little thing

To you,—I swear 't is all I ask!

Once more to make the wide house ring,—

To tread the boards, to wear the mask,

To move the coldest as of yore,

To make them laugh, to make them cry,

To be—to be myself once more,

And then, if must be, let me die!

The prompter's bell! I'm here, you see:

By Heaven, friends, you'll break my heart!

Nat Gosling's called: let be, let be,—

None but myself shall act the part!

Yes, thank you, boy, I'll take your chair

One moment, while I catch my breath.

D' ye hear the noise they're making there?

'T would warm a player's heart in death.

How say you now? Whate'er they write,

We've put that bitter gibe to shame;

I knew, I knew there burned to-night

Within my soul the olden flame!

Stand off a bit: that final round,—

I'd hear it ere it dies away

The last, last time!—there's no more sound:

So end the player and the play.

The house is cleared. My senses swim;

I shall be better, though, anon,— 415