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! ’tis 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, ’tis true;
But shrug, expression, gaze—
Well, they are Grecian too.
But it is Art! God wot
Art’s tongue to all is known.
Faith! he to whom ’twere not
Would better hold his own.
Shakespeare says act and word
Should match together true.
For 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.”