His weapon still was bright, His shield was lifted high To slay the wrong, to save the right, What happier hour to die? Thou orderest all things well; Thy servant's work was dore; He lived to hear Oppression's knell, The shouts for Freedom won. Hark! from the opening skies The anthem's echoing swell, "O mourning Land, lift up thine eyes! God reigneth. All is well!' ADDRESS FOR THE OPENING OF THE FIFTH AVENUE THEATRE, NEW YORK, DECEMBER 3, 1873. HANG out our banners on the stately tower! It dawns at last the long-expected hour! The steep is climbed, the star-lit summit won, The builder's task, the artist's labor done; Before the finished work the herald stands, And asks the verdict of your lips and hands! Shall rosy daybreak make us all forget The golden sun that yester-evening set ? Fair was the fabric doomed to pass away Ere the last headaches born of New Year's Day; With blasting breath the fierce destroyer came And wrapped the victim in his robes of flame; The pictured sky with redder morning blushed, Forests ablaze and rivers all on fire, The scenes dissolved, the shrivelling curtain fell, Art spread her wings and sighed a long farewell! Mourn o'er the Player's melancholy plight, Falstaff in tears, Othello deadly white, Poor Romeo reckoning what his doublet cost, And Juliet whimpering for her dresses lost, Their wardrobes burned, their salaries all undrawn, Their cues cut short, their occupation gone! "Lie there in dust," the red-winged demon cried, "Wreck of the lordly city's hope and pride!" Silent they stand, and stare with vacant gaze, While o'er the embers leaps the fitful blaze; When, lo a hand, before the startled train, Writes in the ashes, "It shall rise again, Rise and confront its elemental foes !"-With scorching streams the naiad's foun- The word was spoken, and the walls arose, With kindling mountains glowed the And ere the seasons round their brief tain gushed, funeral pyre, career The new-born temple waits the unborn | In mortal semblance now and then ap year. Ours was the toil of many a weary day pears, Stealing the fairest earthly shape she can Sontag or Nilsson, Eind or Malibran ; Your smiles, your plaudits, only can With these the spangled houri of the We are the monarchs of the painted What shaft so dangerous as her melting glance, scenes, You, you alone the real Kings and As poised in air she spurns the earth Queens! below, Lords of the little kingdom where we And points aloft her heavenly-minded The realm you rule, for this is haunted With wandering Sindbad ploughs the ground! stormy sea, Here stalks the Sorcerer, here the Fairy With Gotham's sages hears the billows Here limps the Witch with malice- (Illustrious trio of the venturous bowl, Too early shipwrecked, for they died too working lips, ling eye, soon To see their offspring launch the great balloon); Tracks the dark brigand to his moun tain lair, Slays the grim giant, saves the lady fair, Laughs at the brood of follies as they Fights all his country's battles o'er again fly; She of the dagger and the deadly bowl, Whose charming horrors thrill the trem bling soul; She who, a truant from celestial spheres, From Bunker's blazing height to Lundy's lane; Floats with the mighty Captains as they sailed Before whose flag the flaming red-cross paled, And claims the oft-told story of the Zampa or Magic Flute or William Tell, The crash is o'er the crinkling curtain furled, Children of later growth, we love the And lo! the glories of that brighter PLAY, We love its heroes, be they grave or gay, From squeaking, peppery, devil-defying Punch world! Behold the offspring of the Thespian cart, To roaring Richard with his camel- This full-grown temple of the magic art, hunch; Adore its heroines, those immortal Where all the conjurors of illusion meet, And please us all the more, the more dames, Time's only rivals, whom he never tames, Whose youth, unchanging, lives while thrones decay (Age spares the Pyramids and Dejazet); The saucy-aproned, razor-tongued soubrette, The blond-haired beauty with the eyes of jet, The gorgeous Beings whom the viewless wires Lift to the skies in strontian-crimsoned fires, And all the wealth of splendor that awaits The throng that enters those Elysian gates. See where the hurrying crowd impa tient pours, they cheat. These are the wizards and the witches too Who win their honest bread by cheating you With cheeks that drown in artificial tears And lying skull-caps white with seventy years, Sweet-tempered matrons changed to scolding Kates, Maids mild as moonbeams crazed with murderous hates, Kind, simple souls that stab and slash and slay And stick at nothing, if it's in the play! Would all the world told half as harmless lies! Would all its real fools were half as wise With noise of trampling feet and flap- As he who blinks through dul! Dun ping doors, dreary's eyes! Streams to the numbered seat each Would all the unhanged bandits of the age pasteboard fits And smooths its caudal plumage as it Were like the peaceful ruffians of the Waits while the slow musicians saunter Would all the cankers wasting town and Dealers in watered milk and watered Feel each in turn the stinging lash of wit, stocks, Who lead us lambs to pasture on the And as it tingles on some tender part The rings of rogues that rob the luckless As in the pictures of our play to-night. Here shall the Statesman rest his weary OLD Rip Van Winkle had a grandson, Here shall the youthful Lover, nestling In two brief cantos, if you listen well. near The shrinking maiden, her he holds most The times were hard when Rip to man dear, Gaze on the mimic moonlight as it falls On painted groves, on sliding canvas walls, And sigh, "My angel! What a life of bliss We two could live in such a world as this!" Here shall the tumid pedants of the schools, hood grew; They always will be when there's work to do; He tried at farming - found it rather slow And then at teaching - what he didn't know; Then took to hanging round the tavern bars, To frequent toddies and long-nine cigars, The gilded boors, the labor-scorning Till Dame Van Winkle, out of patience, The grass-green rustic and the smoke- With preaching homilies, having for dried it, their text |