AN ACTORSome one ('tis hardly new) has oddly saidThe color of a trumpet's blare is red;And Joseph Emmett thinks the crimson shameOn woman's cheek a trumpet-note of fame.The more the red storm rises round her nose—The more her eyes averted seek her toes,He fancies all the louder he can hearThe tube resounding in his spacious ear,And, all his varied talents to exert,Darkens his dullness to display his dirt.And when the gallery's indecent crowd,And gentlemen below, with hisses loud,In hot contention (these his art to crown,And those his naked nastiness to drown)Make such a din that cheeks erewhile aflameGrow white and in their fear forget their shame,With impudence imperial, sublime,Unmoved, the patient actor bides his time,Till storm and counter-storm are both allayed,Like donkeys, each by t'other one outbrayed.When all the place is silent as a mouseOne slow, suggestive gesture clears the house!
Some one ('tis hardly new) has oddly saidThe color of a trumpet's blare is red;And Joseph Emmett thinks the crimson shameOn woman's cheek a trumpet-note of fame.The more the red storm rises round her nose—The more her eyes averted seek her toes,He fancies all the louder he can hearThe tube resounding in his spacious ear,And, all his varied talents to exert,Darkens his dullness to display his dirt.And when the gallery's indecent crowd,And gentlemen below, with hisses loud,In hot contention (these his art to crown,And those his naked nastiness to drown)Make such a din that cheeks erewhile aflameGrow white and in their fear forget their shame,With impudence imperial, sublime,Unmoved, the patient actor bides his time,Till storm and counter-storm are both allayed,Like donkeys, each by t'other one outbrayed.When all the place is silent as a mouseOne slow, suggestive gesture clears the house!