Edwin Booth
An old actor at the Player’s Club told me that Edwin Booth
first impersonated Hamlet when a barnstormer in California.
There were few theatres, but the hotels were provided
with crude assembly rooms for strolling players.
The youth played in the blear hotel.
The rafters gleamed with glories strange.
And winds of mourning Elsinore
Howling at chance and fate and change;
Voices of old Europe’s dead
Disturbed the new-built cattle-shed,
The street, the high and solemn range.
The while the coyote barked afar
All shadowy was the battlement.
The ranch-boys huddled and grew pale,
Youths who had come on riot bent.
Forgot were pranks well-planned to sting.
Behold there rose a ghostly king,
And veils of smoking Hell were rent.
When Edwin Booth played Hamlet, then
The camp-drab’s tears could not but flow.
Then Romance lived and breathed and burned.
She felt the frail queen-mother’s woe,
Thrilled for Ophelia, fond and blind,
And Hamlet, cruel, yet so kind,
And moaned, his proud words hurt her so.
A haunted place, though new and harsh!
The Indian and the Chinaman
And Mexican were fain to learn
What had subdued the Saxon clan.
Why did they mumble, brood, and stare
When the court-players curtsied fair
And the Gonzago scene began?
And ah, the duel scene at last!
They cheered their prince with stamping feet.
A death-fight in a palace! Yea,
With velvet hangings incomplete,
A pasteboard throne, a pasteboard crown,
And yet a monarch tumbled down,
A brave lad fought in splendor meet.
Was it a palace or a barn?
Immortal as the gods he flamed.
There in his last great hour of rage
His foil avenged a mother shamed.
In duty stern, in purpose deep
He drove that king to his black sleep
And died, all godlike and untamed.
. . . . .
I was not born in that far day.
I hear the tale from heads grown white.
And then I walk that earlier street,
The mining camp at candle-light.
I meet him wrapped in musings fine
Upon some whispering silvery line
He yet resolves to speak aright.
poem by Vachel Lindsay
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
Epitaphs For Two Players
I. EDWIN BOOTH
An old actor at the Player's Club told me that Edwin Booth first impersonated Hamlet when a barnstormer in California. There were few theatres, but the hotels were provided with crude assembly rooms for strolling players.
The youth played in the blear hotel.
The rafters gleamed with glories strange.
And winds of mourning Elsinore
Howling at chance and fate and change;
Voices of old Europe's dead
Disturbed the new-built cattle-shed,
The street, the high and solemn range.
The while the coyote barked afar
All shadowy was the battlement.
The ranch-boys huddled and grew pale,
Youths who had come on riot bent.
Forgot were pranks well-planned to sting.
Behold there rose a ghostly king,
And veils of smoking Hell were rent.
When Edwin Booth played Hamlet, then
The camp-drab's tears could not but flow.
Then Romance lived and breathed and burned.
She felt the frail queen-mother's woe,
Thrilled for Ophelia, fond and blind,
And Hamlet, cruel, yet so kind,
And moaned, his proud words hurt her so.
A haunted place, though new and harsh!
The Indian and the Chinaman
And Mexican were fain to learn
What had subdued the Saxon clan.
Why did they mumble, brood, and stare
When the court-players curtsied fair
And the Gonzago scene began?
And ah, the duel scene at last!
They cheered their prince with stamping feet.
A death-fight in a palace! Yea,
With velvet hangings incomplete,
A pasteboard throne, a pasteboard crown,
And yet a monarch tumbled down,
A brave lad fought in splendor meet.
Was it a palace or a barn?
Immortal as the gods he flamed.
There in his last great hour of rage
His foil avenged a mother shamed.
In duty stern, in purpose deep
He drove that king to his black sleep
And died, all godlike and untamed.
I was not born in that far day.
I hear the tale from heads grown white.
And then I walk that earlier street,
The mining camp at candle-light.
I meet him wrapped in musings fine
Upon some whispering silvery line
He yet resolves to speak aright.
II. EPITAPH FOR JOHN BUNNY, MOTION PICTURE COMEDIAN
In which he is remembered in similitude, by reference to Yorick, the king's jester, who died when Hamlet and Ophelia were children.
Yorick is dead. Boy Hamlet walks forlorn
Beneath the battlements of Elsinore.
Where are those oddities and capers now
That used to "set the table on a roar"?
And do his bauble-bells beyond the clouds
Ring out, and shake with mirth the planets bright?
No doubt he brings the blessed dead good cheer,
But silence broods on Elsinore tonight.
That little elf, Ophelia, eight years old,
Upon her battered doll's staunch bosom weeps.
("O best of men, that wove glad fairy-tales.")
With tear-burned face, at last the darling sleeps.
Hamlet himself could not give cheer or help,
Though firm and brave, with his boy-face controlled.
For every game they started out to play
Yorick invented, in the days of old.
The times are out of joint! O cursed spite!
The noble jester Yorick comes no more.
And Hamlet hides his tears in boyish pride
By some lone turret-stair of Elsinore.
poem by Vachel Lindsay
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
John Bunny, Motion Picture Comedian
In which he is remembered in similitude, by reference to Yorick,
the king’s jester, who died when Hamlet and Ophelia were children.
Yorick is dead. Boy Hamlet walks forlorn
Beneath the battlements of Elsinore.
Where are those oddities and capers now
That used to “set the table on a roar”?
And do his bauble-bells beyond the clouds
Ring out, and shake with mirth the planets bright?
No doubt he brings the blessed dead good cheer,
But silence broods on Elsinore tonight.
That little elf, Ophelia, eight years old,
Upon her battered doll’s staunch bosom weeps.
(”O best of men, that wove glad fairy-tales.”)
With tear-burned face, at last the darling sleeps.
Hamlet himself could not give cheer or help,
Though firm and brave, with his boy-face controlled.
For every game they started out to play
Yorick invented, in the days of old.
The times are out of joint! O cursed spite!
The noble jester Yorick comes no more.
And Hamlet hides his tears in boyish pride
By some lone turret-stair of Elsinore.
poem by Vachel Lindsay
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Tragedy Of Hamlet, Prince Of Denmark!
I write with sorrow -real and stark-
'The Tragedy Of Hamlet Prince Of Denmark'
Like Othello, The Tempest and king Lear
It's a marvel by the pen of Shakespeare
Who paints the perils of his life...
Stretched by caution, crushed by strife
He cries for the matters of the Prince
Laden with sorrows, full of sufferings
Caused by the death of Hamlet, the king
Whose love was the song he used to sing.
His mother, the queen named Gertrude
Was frail n fickle but not so rude...
Again she married Claudius, the rake,
Her brother-in-law for passions sake;
Began new life with joys and rest
Which was for all a damned incest...
Black robe clad young Hamlet alone
Was tense for the honor of Danish throne.
His mourning thoughts eclipsed his looks
Fondness for books n sports forsook...
Being in grief he lost his mirth-
Lost the pleasures touching his worth
A horrid rumour reached his ears,
shook his mind, enhanced his fears
Based on a report of three sentinels
That a ghost appeared from flames of hell
Resembling the warring late Monarch
Who fought Fortinbras, an enemy of Denmark.
No sooner he heard about this wonder
decided to watch it despite the thunder.
With guards he reached the post n then
The clock struck one and shocked the men
The ghost then appeared, beckoned the son
Who trod ahead and left everyone...
He followed it in fondness and fear
in a really tough and tense atmosphere
The heaven and earth did try to observe
His limbs as hardy as Nemean lion's nerve.
At once the Ghost disclosed with frown
That Claudius killed him for his crown
By pouring potion his life he stole
Then Queen and throne gained as goal.
So slept the king by the brother's hand
And left forever this mortal land
For the Queen he said, 'despite her dodge
Leave her to thorns, in her bosom lodge.'
After narrating the murder so foul
The Ghost, in pain, began to howl
Demanded from him revenge of the act
If he had, by nature, a gut to react
The Prince, then, tried to check his might
Found himself as unable to fight
Lacking stimulus to take revenge
His teeth and fists, he used to clench
At last decided in utter sadness
To leave his rest by putting on madness
Wished he hadn't been born at all
To set things right whether big or small.
Now rise the curtains in room of Polonius
The state's counselor, old and loquacious
Beside a son, he had one daughter
Whose love for Hamlet, he used to slaughter
Possessing a heart precious as pearls
Fair she was of all Shakespeare's girls
Like gorgeous Perdita, but unlike Cordelia
Submissive she was -the fair Ophelia
Reported she once to her father with fear
About the Prince's odd behavior
Who strangely came in her private closet
With sleeves inside out, eyes out of sockets
Made with sighs some painful sounds
cast a glance so piteous, so profound
Her heart bled at this odd view
But the old man found another clue
He termed it as an ecstasy of love
In stature though Hamlet was far above
He thought it fit to tell the king
that the Prince was out of reason's ring
He took her hand and left the room
To put his daughter's fate in gloom.
Right away he went to the Danish court
To tell the royal pair of this report
In short they decided to secretly spy
And used his daughter as a decoy
But Hamlet was a sane insane
He understood their efforts vain.
Maltreated her despite his love
Though knew her well as pretty dove.
By manner changed, he broke her heart
Like actor's good, he played his part.
Ophelia was compelled to think
Of their past love and worthy link.
So cautious then young Hamlet was
Of Guidenstern and Rosencrantz;
'Cause they were sent to check his mind
By the Queen and king seemingly kind
They felt themselves so much helpless
Bent their heads and did confess.
Then Hamlet said to them, 'on earth
I know not where I lost my mirth.'
For cure of mental grievous layers
The Prince was told of city players.
He keenly took interest in them
With open arms he bade welcome.
The players had prospects shining bright
In whom he used to take delight
Requested he to an actor boy
To recite the tragedy of the king of Troy.
That passage was a fiery one
Impressive was its tragic tone
The scene incited him to think
Of Hecuba and the player's link.
If he had his pains and fears
he'd have drowned stage with tears.
For making Claudius his only prey
The prince conceived a plan to play
Based on one Gonzago's life,
Stung by treachery of his wife
Just to avoid certain mishap
He named it as a mousetrap.
The play was the only pregnant thing
To read the mind of the guilty king.
Now Guildenstern informed the king
That he didn't notice anything
And could not find any proof
Because with a craft he kept aloof
Asked the Queen with motherly passion:
'Did he talk in a normal fashion? '
The servants of the royal court
Replied and gave that new report:
'To stage a play the Prince intends,
Invites your grace with all your friends
To watch the play arranged by him'
(In fact to be really caught by him.)
The king replied with a cunning art
That he would go with 'all his heart.'
With all the lords he left the scene
Along with the pretty foolish Queen.
Now Hamlet appeared on the stage
With a tinge of sorrow and of rage
He knew not whether to live or die
His mental state had gone awry.
While he was lost in painful thought
Then all his gifts Ophelia brought
Tried to give them back to him
With teeming eyes and voice so dim
She said that, 'for to the noble mind
Gifts lose worth if giver is unkind.'
The genius prince advised the girl
That 'honesty is like a pearl
So save your pearl and be a nun
Leave this world and everyone.'
With changing tone he said at once:
'Not now but I did love you once.'
The girl in her excess of grief...
lost her comforts and relief...
Recalled with pain his state of mind
So fair and fine, so nice and kind
She thought of Hamlet's wretched tone
That a noble mind was overthrown
Who, once, was a flower of the state
The glass of grace and finer taste
But he had lost his wisdom's range
She sobbed and wept over this change
Then entered the king with crafty men
And hurriedly disclosed his plan.......
To send the Prince in stark exile
By art, by force or by some guile.
Now Hamlet had the only way,
To check the king, he staged a play
The scenes, in fact, did resemble
His father's murder by his uncle
The players did enact on the stage
At which the king expressed his rage
He left the hall with temper lost
with shivering heart and senses frost
The play removed his outer layers
And credit went to all the players
There wasn't anything to hide
Hamlet was quite satisfied...
His heart and conscience had no fear
The great confusion was now clear
He got a message from the Queen
Who was under impact of spleen
Meanwhile came the king so stern
With Rosencrantz and Guildenstern
Ordered them to leave the land
With Hamlet and a dispatch by hand
They promised and then left the king
With aching heart and eyes running
When the king was left alone there
In melancholic atmosphere
His conscience started pricking him
In prayers he tried to utter a hymn
His prayers were full of confession
With no prospects of his salvation
So bad and foul was his offense
He found no shield for his defense
His sin was foul as black as death
He prayed to God with broken breath
When Hamlet saw him lost in prayers
Thought of his incestuous pleasures
He thought, 'I 'll kill him for his crime
That would be much better time
While he would be asleep or drunk
Or in rage he would be sunk....'
While thinking this, his flaw subdued,
Delayed his act, and left the lewd;
Proceeded to his Mother's chamber
To speak bitter words like dagger
Present was Polonius there.........
Of his fate quite unaware..............
Hid himself behind the curtain
Neither life nor death was certain.
Hamlet called her not his mother
but loving wife of husband's brother.
His rashness caused her louder shriek
Harassed the Queen as a freak
Severely tried to show her a glass
The Man was shocked behind the arras
That voice raised in him a storm
He stabbed at where the cry came from
The man (behind) , cried again
In painful voice, 'O, I am slain.'
So justly killed was the king's friend
And act of spying became his end.
Hamlet's thoughts were not sinister
But he became his scourge n minister
By dagger words he op'd her eyes
His wretched voice shook the skies
Convinced her, and disclosed atlast
He wasn't mad 'but mad in craft.'
He told her in his accent flat:
'I must to England, you know that? '
He painfully this news revealed
That letters of the king were sealed
Then dragged the body of the man
In grief there did Queen remain...
She told the king of 'the heavy deed, '
So then he started taking heed..........
He said, 'I see it writ on wall...
His life is full of threats to all.'
By ready hands at once he wrote
To the king of England a cunning note
Touching Hamlet's present death
Till then he wont take joyous breath.
For those who know Shakespeare's art
This story has another part..............
Young Fortinbras came there at last
For Hamlet served a big contrast.
That tender Prince, a man of mission
Was burned by fire of great ambition
Without any reason-big and sound
Went to Poland for a patch of ground;
Suffering from the thirst for fame
Not profit but for the sake of name.
This act opened Hamlet's eyes
The hidden flames began to rise.
He thought then that, 'from this time forth
My thoughts be bloody or be nothing worth.'
A gentleman informed Gertrude
About Ophelia's madness as a fruit
Of her father's sad demise;
Entered she with half-shut eyes.
Nobody there could bear so long
The grief reflected from her songs.
A noise was heard from outside the hall
Which confused every big and small.
The mob was crying against the king
By, 'Laertes shall be the Danish king.'
Laertes full of fiery passions...........
Ordered them to have patience
Entered with full zest and wrath
From the mouth flowed angry froth
Blamed the king for the father's murder
Spoke to him with a mighty thunder.
The vile king was good at game
Laertes, by him, was easily tamed
By cunning words turned all attention
Towards Hamlet moved his tension.
Hamlet, who was sent to England,
by chance couldn't reach that land.
Piracy -an ugly, criminal act,
Became for him a lucky fact.
He left his ship to fight with pirates
His 'fellows'unknowingly then left.
He got saved from being killed
By king of England 'against his will.
England killed on orders stern
Rosencrantz and Guildenstern-
On fortunes favors who can depend?
By hands of justice, they met their end.
He told it all to Horatio-his friend
That there's a power that shapes our ends.
On the death of both these men
He said that life is like to say 'one'.
Then, Dear Readers! towards his goal
Started moving his ' prophetic soul.'
Claudius made, then, a plan to snatch
His life, he arranged a fencing match-
Sent his message by a courtier
To prepare his dagger and rapier.
Clear of guilt, the Prince at ease
Accept the challenge by Laertes.
A scheme there is in a sparrow's fall
So 'on my part, the readiness is all.'
Prepared were table, trumpets, drums-
Claudius called, 'come, Hamlet, come.'
Fencing match was a scheme in fact
In which he used then all his tact.
He really poisoned Laertes ' mind
with revengeful thoughts bloody n unkind
Hamlet spoke, ere the fight began
To laertes, 'you are a gentleman
I've done you wrong but not in rudeness
I tell you that it was my madness.'
With these words, prepared to play
There death started a game to play
Laertes struck with poisoned weapon
None could understand what happened.
He himself was wounded badly -
Thought that he was killed but justly.
Envenomed drink was also there
Which was drunk by his Mother.
All that happened for no reason
All were crying, 'treason, treason'
Hamlet, wounded, thought to avenge
killed the king and took revenge.
He cried, 'incestuous, murderous Dane!
Fall! but never to rise again...............'
Alas! he saw that sergeant Death
Had come to take his last breath..
He felt that passed the Golden moments,
'the Time is up, the rest is silence.'
Cease my pen! don't speak of glory
who can dare to read his story?
An unjust act, a foul practice-
Revenge, O Prince! is a wild justice.
With all my heart, I remember you
Would you believe that I LOVE YOU...? ? ?
poem by Shahzia Batool
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Prince Fell For The Fair Maiden…
An allegorical ballad
Love bore the tale,
The black-eyed belle.
The prince loved her,
Despite the spell.
He married her,
Became a king.
The girl’s too shy
To be a queen.
She dreamed of dales,
Of sweet carnations.
A bird in her soul –
Her consolation!
The king’s cruel mum
And sisters said:
“We’ve brought you up,
Our dear lad! ”
Then the ocean of pains,
Of quarrels and worries.
The queen grows stubborn,
When the king dies…
The court’s alarmed,
The palace dives in vice,
The skies assault the earth,
Women cry out their eyes.
The old hag raged,
Was absorbed in wrath,
Couldn’t cast a spell,
And met her death.
The widow grew more fearless,
No longer was she a slave.
She could display her smartness,
And the court was filled with awe.
The court prospered and flourished,
Ended the ill-fated years,
The young queen loved her homeland,
That love made her shed tears.
And the spark of beauty – the love
Was born again… it sparked, it flamed,
The knight adored the young queen,
Faithful to her he remained.
Many know that story,
The ballad of glory:
The old tricks and shams
Repeat themselves.
Turned into a brave woman
The humble lass in the past...
She hoisted like sails
Her mourning dress.
The virtue was rewarded… at last.
29.O1.2OO2.
Translated from Georgian
poem by Janri Gogeshvili
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Surroundings-34
Street Hamlet-sestet-three worded each line
Sorrow is trailed
Along the street
A Hamlet soliloquising
With bagful tears
Pity, cluttered street
Still more done
poem by Indira Renganathan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
A Prayer For The King's Majesty
22nd January, 1901.
THE Queen is dead. God save the King,
In this his hour of grief,
When sorrow gathers memories in a sheaf
To lay them on his shoulders as he stands
Inheriting her glories and her lands--
First gain of his at which his Mother's voice
Has not been first to bless and to rejoice--
A man, set lonely between gain and loss.
(O words of love the heart remembereth,
O mighty loss outweighing every gain!)
A Son whose kingdom Death's arm lies across,
A King whose Mother lies alone with Death
Wrapped in the folds of white implacable sleep.
O God, who seest the tears Thy children weep,
O God, who countest each sad heart-beat, see
How our King needs the grace we ask of Thee!
Thou knowest how little and how vain a thing
Is Empire, when the heart is sick with pain--
God, save the King!
The Queen is dead. The splendour of her days,
The sorrow of them both alike merge now
In the new aureole that lights her brow.
The clamour of her people's voice in praise
Must hush itself to the still voice that prays
In the holy chamber of Death. Tread softly here,
A mighty Queen lies dead.
Her people's heart wears black,
The black bells toll unceasing in their ear,
And on the gold sun's track
The great world round
Like a black ring the voice of mourning goes,
Till even our ancient foes
With eyes downbent, and brotherly bared head,
Keep mourning watch with us. This is the hour
When Love lends all his power
To speed grief's arrows from the bow of Death,
When sighs are idle breath,
When tears are fountains vain.
She will not wake again,
Not now, not here.
O great and good and infinitely dear,
O Mother of your people, sleep is sweet,
No more Life's thorny ways will wound your feet.
O Mother dear, sleep sound!
When you shall wake,
Your brows freed from the crown that made them ache
So many a time, and wear the heavenly crown,
Then, then you will look down
On us who love you, and, remembering,
The love of earth will breathe with us our prayer,
Our prayer prayed here, joined to your prayer prayed there:
Who knows what radiant answer it may bring?
'God save the King!'
The Queen is dead. God save the King!
From all ill thought and deed,
From heartless service and from selfish sway,
From treason, and the vain imagining
Of evil counsellors, and the noisome breed
Of flatterers who eat the soul away,
God save the King!
From loss and pain and tears
Such as her many years
Brought her; from battle and strife,
And the inmost hurt of life,
The wounds that no crown can heal,
No ermine robes conceal,
God save the King!
God, by our memories of his Mother's face,
By the love that makes our heart her dwelling-place,
Grant to our sorrow this desired grace:
God save the King!
* * * * * * * * *
The Queen is dead. God save the King.
This is no hour when joy has leave to sing;
Only, amid our tears, we are bold to pray,
More boldly, in that we pray sorrowing,
In this most sorrowful day.
God, who wast of a mortal Mother born,
Who driest the tears with which Thy children mourn,
God, save the King!
Look down on him whose crown is wet with tears
In which its splendour fades and disappears--
His tears, our tears, tears out of all her lands.
The Queen is dead.
God! strengthen the King's hands!
God, save the King!
poem by Edith Nesbit
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Hamlet [to Polonius]: Good my lord, will you see the players well bestowed? Do you hear, let them be well used, for they are the abstract and brief chronicles of the time. After your death you were better have a bad epitaph than their ill report while you live.
line from Hamlet, Act II, Scene 2 by William Shakespeare (1599)
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
Vote! | Copy! | In Romanian
Sargent's Portrait of Edwin Booth
That face which no man ever saw
And from his memory banished quite,
With eyes in which are Hamlet's awe
And Cardinal Richelieu's subtle light,
Looks from this frame. A master's hand
Has set the master player here,
In the fair temple that he planned
Not for himself. To us most dear
This image of him! "It was thus
He looked; such pallor touched his cheek;
With that same grace he greeted us--
Nay, 't is the man, could it but speak!"
Sad words that shall be said some day--
Far fall the day! O cruel Time,
Whose breath sweeps mortal things away,
Spare long this image of his prime,
That others standing in the place
Where, save as ghosts, we come no more,
May know what sweet majestic face
The gentle Prince of Players wore!
poem by Thomas Bailey Aldrich
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Wimbledon Fortnight
Wimbledon fortnight is here once again,
Whether the sun shines, or whether there's rain,
Out come the nets, the white court lines are drawn,
Another great tennis championship has been born.
The stewards walk on and start taking their places,
Ready to watch players going through their paces,
Seeing that balls are not hit out of court,
These top tennis matches are vigorously fought.
The top seeds have come to show what they can do,
Their fans, with excitement will camp out and queue
To purchase a ticket, which is not easy to get,
To sit through the hours while they win the first set.
It's very nail biting and nerve racking too,
To watch all the moves and be unable to do
Anything to help the poor players, who try,
Especially when the shots are too low or too high.
The thuds of the rackets are rhythmic and strong,
Some serves are too short and some are too long,
The roar of the crowd, when their hero has scored,
And even more so, when their win is assured.
The umpire is diligently watching the game,
He's not here to wallow in fortune and fame,
But he's making sure that there's always fair play,
And that everyone's happy at the end of the day.
The ball boys and girls, who collect all the balls,
When a service is done, listen out for the calls,
From the linesmen, who shout if the shot is not true,
And whisk up the balls. We admire them, we do!
It's love, deuce, advantage, game, set and match,
They battle together, their opponent to dispatch,
The supporters heads sweep, to left and to right,
As they view the tense struggle, the scoring is tight.
But eventually, it's the day of the great final event,
His Royal Highness arrives, it's the tall Duke of Kent,
The atmosphere's electric, the players are here,
The welcome they get is one huge mighty cheer.
The game is well played and the audience are thrilled,
But one's got to win, there's a place to be filled,
The last shot is cast, and the winner jumps high
Over the net, with a loud joyous cry.
The Duke now comes forward, the cup to present,
A very great thrill at the auspicious event,
The winner holds it high up, above his proud head,
He's so lucky, for he only just won by a thread.
But Wimbledon fortnight, has been around now for years,
It's a thrill for the watchers, bringing elation and tears,
With champagne to drink, and those strawberries and cream,
It's the place that's the shrine of a tennis player's dream.
poem by Ernestine Northover
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Queen Gertrude: O, what a rash and bloody deed is this!
Hamlet: A bloody deed! almost as bad, good mother, as kill a king, and marry with his brother.
line from Hamlet, Act III, Scene 4 by William Shakespeare (1599)
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
Vote! | Copy! | In Romanian
King Claudius: How fares our cousin Hamlet?
Hamlet: Excellent, i' faith, of the chameleon's dish. I eat the air, promise-crammed. You cannot feed capons so.
line from Hamlet, Act III, Scene 2 by William Shakespeare (1599)
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
Vote! | Copy! | In Romanian
Vashti
She leaned her head upon her hand
And heard the King's decree --
"My lords are feasting in my halls;
Bid Vashti come to me.
"I've shown the treasures of my house,
My costly jewels rare,
But with the glory of her eyes
No rubies can compare.
"Adorn'd and crown'd I'd have her come,
With all her queenly grace,
And, 'mid my lords and mighty men,
Unveil her lovely face.
"Each gem that sparkles in my crown,
Or glitters on my throne,
Grows poor and pale when she appears,
My beautiful, my own!"
All waiting stood the chamberlains
To hear the Queen's reply.
They saw her cheek grow deathly pale,
But light flash'd to her eye:
"Go, tell the King," she proudly said,
"That I am Persia's Queen,
And by his crowds of merry men
I never will be seen.
"I'll take the crown from off my head
And tread it 'neath my feet,
Before their rude and careless gaze
My shrinking eyes shall meet.
"A queen unveil'd before the crowd! --
Upon each lip my name! --
Why, Persia's women all would blush
And weep for Vashti's shame!
"Go back!" she cried, and waved her hand,
And grief was in her eye:
"Go, tell the King," she sadly said,
"That I would rather die."
They brought her message to the King;
Dark flash'd his angry eye;
'Twas as the lightning ere the storm
Hath swept in fury by.
Then bitterly outspoke the King,
Through purple lips of wrath --
"What shall be done to her who dares
To cross your monarch's path?"
Then spake his wily counsellors --
"O King of this fair land!
From distant Ind to Ethiop,
All bow to thy command.
"But if, before thy servants' eyes,
This thing they plainly see,
That Vashti doth not heed thy will
Nor yield herself to thee,
"The women, restive 'neath our rule,
Would learn to scorn our name,
And from her deed to us would come
Reproach and burning shame.
"Then, gracious King, sign with thy hand
This stern but just decree,
That Vashti lay aside her crown,
Thy Queen no more to be."
She heard again the King's command,
And left her high estate;
Strong in her earnest womanhood,
She calmly met her fate,
And left the palace of the King,
Proud of her spotless name --
A woman who could bend to grief,
But would not bow to shame.
poem by Frances Ellen Watkins Harper
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Camp Within the West
O DID you see a troop go by
Way-weary and oppressed,
Dead kisses on the drooping lip
And a dead heart in the breast?
Yea, I have seen them one by one
Way-weary and oppressed,
And when I asked them, ‘Whither speed?’
They answered, ‘To the West!’
And were they pale as pale could be—
Death-pale with haunted eyes,
And did you see the hot white dust
Range round their feet and rise?
Oh, they were pale as pale could be,
And pale as an embered leaf;
The hot white dust had risen, but
They laid it with their grief.
Did no one say the way is long,
And crave a little rest?
Oh no, they said, ‘The night is nigh,
Our camp is in the West!’
And did pain pierce their feet, as though
The way with thorns were set,
And were they visited by strange
Dark angels of regret?
Oh yea, and some were mute as death,
Though shot by many a dart,
With them the salt of inward tears
Went stinging through the heart.
And how are these wayfarers called,
And whither do they wend?
The Weary-Hearted—and their road
At sunset hath and end.
Shed tears for them…Nay, nay, no tears!
They yearn for endless rest;
Perhaps large stars will burn above
Their camp within the West.
poem by Roderic Quinn
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Hamlet: The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remember'd.
line from Hamlet, Act III, Scene 1 by William Shakespeare (1599)
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
Vote! | Copy!
The African Prince
IT was a king in Africa,
He had an only son;
And none of Europe's crowned kings
Could have a dearer one.
With good cane arrows five feet long,
And with a shining bow,
When but a boy, to the palm woods
Would that young hunter go.
And home he brought white ivory,
And many a spotted hide:
When leopards fierce and beautiful
Beneath his arrows died.
Around his arms, around his brow,
A shining bar was rolled;
It was to mark his royal blood,
He wore that bar of gold.
And often at his father's feet,
The evening he would pass;
When, weary of the hunt, he lay
Upon the scented grass.
Alas! it was an evil day,
When such a thing could be:
When strangers, pale and terrible,
Came o'er the distant sea.
They found the young prince mid the woods,
The palm woods deep and dark:
That day his lion-hunt was done,
They bore him to their bark.
They bound him in a narrow hold,
With others of his kind;
For weeks did that accursed ship
Sail on before the wind.
Now shame upon the cruel wind,
And on the cruel sea,
That did not with some mighty storm,
Set those poor captives free:
Or, shame to those weak thoughts, so fain
To have their wilful way:
God knoweth what is best for all—
The winds and seas obey.
At length a lovely island rose
From out the ocean wave;
They took him to the market-place,
And sold him for a slave.
Some built them homes, and in the shade
Of flowered and fragrant trees,
They half forgot the palm-hid huts
They left far o'er the seas.
But he was born of nobler blood,
And was of nobler kind;
And even unto death, his heart
For its own kindred pined.
There came to him a seraph child
With eyes of gentlest blue:
If there are angels in high heaven,
Earth has its angels too.
She cheered him with her holy words,
She soothed him with her tears;
And pityingly she spoke with him
Of home and early years.
And when his heart was all subdued
By kindness into love,
She taught him from this weary earth
To look in faith above.
She told him how the Saviour died
For man upon the tree;
'He suffered,' said the holy child,
'For you as well as me.'
Sorrow and death have need of faith—
The African believed;
As rain falls fertile on the earth
Those words his soul received.
He died in hope as only those
Who die in Christ depart—
One blessed name within his lips,
One hope within his heart.
poem by Letitia Elizabeth Landon
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Queen Gertrude: And for your part, Ophelia, I do wish
That your good beauties be the happy cause
Of Hamlet's wildness: so shall I hope your virtues
Will bring him to his wonted way again,
To both your honours.
line from Hamlet, Act III, Scene 1 by William Shakespeare (1599)
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
Vote! | Copy! | In Spanish | In Romanian
Ghost: But know, thou noble youth, the serpent that did sting thy father's life, now wears his crown.
line from Hamlet, Act I, Scene 5, script by William Shakespeare (1599)
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
Vote! | Copy! | In Spanish | In Romanian
Queen Gertrude: O Hamlet, thou hast cleft my heart in twain.
Hamlet: Oh, throw away the worser part of it,
And live the purer with the other half.
line from Hamlet by William Shakespeare (1599)
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
Vote! | Copy! | In Romanian
Prologue Spoken the First Day of the King's House Acting After the Fire
So shipwracked passengers escape to land,
So look they, when on the bare beach they stand,
Dropping and cold, and their first fear scarce o'er,
Expecting famine on a desert shore.
From that hard climate we must wait for bread,
Whence even the natives, forced by hunger, fled.
Our stage does human chance present to view,
But ne'er before was seen so sadly true:
You are changed too, and your pretence to see
Is but a nobler name for charity.
Your own provisions furnish out our feasts,
While you, the founders, make yourselves the guests.
Of all mankind beside, fate had some care,
But for poor Wit no portion did prepare,
'Tis left a rent-charge to the brave and fair.
You cherished it, and now its fall you mourn,
Which blind unmannered zealots make their scorn,
Who think that fire a judgment on the stage,
Which spared not temples in its furious rage.
But as our new-built city rises higher,
So from old theatres may new aspire,
Since fate contrives magnificence by fire.
Our great metropolis does far surpass
Whate'er is now, and equals all that was:
Our wit as far does foreign wit excel,
And, like a king, should in a palace dwell.
But we with golden hopes are vainly fed
Talk high, and entertain you in a shed:
Your presence here, for which we humbly sue
Will grace old theatres, and build up new.
poem by John Dryden
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Black Hawk War of the Artists
WRITTEN FOR LORADO TAFT'S STATUE OF BLACK HAWK AT OREGON, ILLINOIS
To be given in the manner of the Indian Oration and the Indian War-Cry.
Hawk of the Rocks,
Yours is our cause to-day.
Watching your foes
Here in our war array,
Young men we stand,
Wolves of the West at bay.
Power, power for war
Comes from these trees divine;
Power from the boughs,
Boughs where the dew-beads shine,
Power from the cones
Yea, from the breath of the pine!
Power to restore
All that the white hand mars.
See the dead east
Crushed with the iron cars—
Chimneys black
Blinding the sun and stars!
Hawk of the pines,
Hawk of the plain-winds fleet,
You shall be king
There in the iron street,
Factory and forge
Trodden beneath your feet.
There will proud trees
Grow as they grow by streams.
There will proud thoughts
Walk as in warrior dreams.
There will proud deeds
Bloom as when battle gleams!
Warriors of Art,
We will hold council there,
Hewing in stone
Things to the trapper fair,
Painting the gray
Veils that the spring moons wear,
This our revenge,
This one tremendous change:
Making new towns,
Lit with a star-fire strange,
Wild as the dawn
Gilding the bison-range.
All the young men
Chanting your cause that day,
Red-men, new-made
Out of the Saxon clay,
Strong and redeemed,
Bold in your war-array!
poem by Vachel Lindsay
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!