Can this be she of haughty mien, The goddess of the sword and shield? Ah, yes! The Grecian poet's myth Sways still each battle-field. For not alone that rugged war Some grace or charm from beauty gains; But, when the goddess' work is done, The woman's still remains. ADDRESS. OPENING OF THE CALIFORNIA THEATRE, SAN FRANCISCO, JAN. 19, 1870. RIEF words, when actions wait, are well: BRIE The prompter's hand is on his bell; The coming heroes, lovers, kings, Are idly lounging at the wings; Behind the curtain's mystic fold The glowing future lies unrolled,- One retrospect, - the first and last. "The world's a stage," the master said. To-night a mightier truth is read: Not in the shifting canvas screen, The flash of gas, or tinsel sheen; Not in the skill whose signal calls Ah, friends! beneath your real skies The actor's short-lived triumph dies: On that broad stage of empire won, Whose footlights were the setting sun, Whose flats a distant background rose In trackless peaks of endless snows; Here genius bows, and talent waits To copy that but One creates. Your shifting scenes: the league of sand, An avenue by ocean spanned; The narrow beach of straggling tents, A mile of stately monuments; Your standard, lo! a flag unfurled, Whose clinging folds clasp half the world, This is your drama, built on facts, With "twenty years between the acts." One moment more: if here we raise The oft-sung hymn of local praise, Glassed in the poet's thought, you view What money can, yet cannot do; The faith that soars, the deeds that shine, Above the gold that builds the shrine. And oh when others take our place, And Earth's green curtain hides our face, Ere on the stage, so silent now, The last new hero makes his bow: So may our deeds, recalled once more In Memory's sweet but brief encore, Down all the circling ages run, With the world's plaudit of "Well done!" |