ICONOCLASM.
I.“When Shakespeare died the Drama died.”This cryHas echoed down the ages as a truthNone would gainsay, until, today, forsooth,Like weaklings we all fear to make reply,But suckle at Tradition’s milkless breast.OArt! your name to mingle with the dustOf dead men’s bones, and scarred with sordid rustOf years, and in a catacomb to rest!OYouth! throw off the shackles of the Past,It is the Present that is yours alone;The excellence you seek can never lastIf linked to models that today’s outgrown.II.How long shall we perpetuate untruthAnd teach that Art does not exist today?That only idols crumbling with decayAre meet as shrines for eager, suppliant youth?How long shall we bow down to foreign godsAnd worship them with lips, but not with heart?We are ashamed to recognize our art,We sneer and call our native writers clods.But from the prairies of the grander West—Free from the ancient gyves that bind and gall—Are men and women rising to the call,Intent on only what is new and best.The East is dead and buried in the Past,The West alone can do what work will last!John Northern Hilliard.
I.“When Shakespeare died the Drama died.”This cryHas echoed down the ages as a truthNone would gainsay, until, today, forsooth,Like weaklings we all fear to make reply,But suckle at Tradition’s milkless breast.OArt! your name to mingle with the dustOf dead men’s bones, and scarred with sordid rustOf years, and in a catacomb to rest!OYouth! throw off the shackles of the Past,It is the Present that is yours alone;The excellence you seek can never lastIf linked to models that today’s outgrown.II.How long shall we perpetuate untruthAnd teach that Art does not exist today?That only idols crumbling with decayAre meet as shrines for eager, suppliant youth?How long shall we bow down to foreign godsAnd worship them with lips, but not with heart?We are ashamed to recognize our art,We sneer and call our native writers clods.But from the prairies of the grander West—Free from the ancient gyves that bind and gall—Are men and women rising to the call,Intent on only what is new and best.The East is dead and buried in the Past,The West alone can do what work will last!John Northern Hilliard.
I.
I.
“When Shakespeare died the Drama died.”This cryHas echoed down the ages as a truthNone would gainsay, until, today, forsooth,Like weaklings we all fear to make reply,But suckle at Tradition’s milkless breast.OArt! your name to mingle with the dustOf dead men’s bones, and scarred with sordid rustOf years, and in a catacomb to rest!OYouth! throw off the shackles of the Past,It is the Present that is yours alone;The excellence you seek can never lastIf linked to models that today’s outgrown.
“When Shakespeare died the Drama died.”
This cry
Has echoed down the ages as a truth
None would gainsay, until, today, forsooth,
Like weaklings we all fear to make reply,
But suckle at Tradition’s milkless breast.
OArt! your name to mingle with the dust
Of dead men’s bones, and scarred with sordid rust
Of years, and in a catacomb to rest!
OYouth! throw off the shackles of the Past,
It is the Present that is yours alone;
The excellence you seek can never last
If linked to models that today’s outgrown.
II.
II.
How long shall we perpetuate untruthAnd teach that Art does not exist today?That only idols crumbling with decayAre meet as shrines for eager, suppliant youth?How long shall we bow down to foreign godsAnd worship them with lips, but not with heart?We are ashamed to recognize our art,We sneer and call our native writers clods.But from the prairies of the grander West—Free from the ancient gyves that bind and gall—Are men and women rising to the call,Intent on only what is new and best.The East is dead and buried in the Past,The West alone can do what work will last!
How long shall we perpetuate untruth
And teach that Art does not exist today?
That only idols crumbling with decay
Are meet as shrines for eager, suppliant youth?
How long shall we bow down to foreign gods
And worship them with lips, but not with heart?
We are ashamed to recognize our art,
We sneer and call our native writers clods.
But from the prairies of the grander West—
Free from the ancient gyves that bind and gall—
Are men and women rising to the call,
Intent on only what is new and best.
The East is dead and buried in the Past,
The West alone can do what work will last!
John Northern Hilliard.
John Northern Hilliard.