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.”

ANOTHER WAY.

  I lay in silence, dead.  A woman came
    And laid a rose upon my breast and said: 
  “May God be merciful.”  She spoke my name,
    And added:  “It is strange to think him dead.

  “He loved me well enough, but ’t was his way
    To speak it lightly.”  Then, beneath her breath: 
  “Besides”—­I knew what further she would say,
    But then a footfall broke my dream of death.

  To-day the words are mine.  I lay the rose
    Upon her breast, and speak her name and deem
  It strange indeed that she is dead.  God knows
    I had more pleasure in the other dream.

  ART.

  For Gladstone’s portrait five thousand pounds
    Were paid, ’t is said, to Sir John Millais. 
    I cannot help thinking that such fine pay
  Transcended reason’s uttermost bounds.

  For it seems to me uncommonly queer
    That a painted British stateman’s price
    Exceeds the established value thrice
  Of a living statesman over here.

AN ENEMY TO LAW AND ORDER.

  A is defrauded of his land by B,
  Who’s driven from the premises by C.
  D buys the place with coin of plundered E. 
  “That A’s an Anarchist!” says F to G.

TO ONE ACROSS THE WAY.

  When at your window radiant you’ve stood
    I’ve sometimes thought—­forgive me if I’ve erred—­
    That some slight thought of me perhaps has stirred
  Your heart to beat less gently than it should. 
  I know you beautiful; that you are good
    I hope—­or fear—­I cannot choose the word,
    Nor rightly suit it to the thought.  I’ve heard
  Reason at love’s dictation never could. 
  Blindly to this dilemma so I grope,
    As one whose every pathway has a snare: 
      If you are minded in the saintly fashion
  Of your pure face my passion’s without hope;
    If not, alas!  I equally despair,
    For what to me were hope without the passion?

THE DEBTOR ABROAD.

  Grief for an absent lover, husband, friend,
  Is barely felt before it comes to end: 
  A score of early consolations serve
  To modify its mouth’s dejected curve. 
  But woes of creditors when debtors flee
  Forever swell the separating sea. 
  When standing on an alien shore you mark
  The steady course of some intrepid bark,
  How sweet to think a tear for you abides,
  Not all unuseful, in the wave she rides!—­
  That sighs for you commingle in the gale
  Beneficently bellying her sail!