The Actors Child

                                          A Christmas Poem,

                                            For Declamation

The brilliant streets were full of folk,

     All hast’ning up and down;

And everywhere was life and light

     Within the noisy town.

And some were laughing on their way,

     And some were silent, sad;

And some were kind and noble folk,

     And some, mayhap, were bad.

But ever, ever, on the move,

     The great throng hurried by;

Each bent upon some mission but,

     None caring where or why.

And in a lately saddened home,

     Behind dark walls and still,

Upon a dainty bed of white,

     An actor’s child lay ill.

All day the anxious mother watched,

     The hand of death to stay;

The father just before had rushed

     Home from the matinee.

And now the clock had spoken “six”,

     The doctor shook his head;

“One hour, or two; not more than four,”

     And that was all he said.

“Seven”, drew near; the actor’s brain

     To him seemed growing wild;

He knew his mighty call to go,

     But could not leave his child.

The parents’ hands were clasped in love,

     But neither moved nor spoke;

And when the timepiece chimed once more,

     The little one awoke.

She half arose, and looked around,

     A heavenly face had she;

And something seemed to tell her that

     She neared eternity.

“Papa,” she said, “it’s seven o’clock,

     I counted every chime;

It’s very late; why don’t you go?

     You won’t be there in time.”

“My child, I cannot go to-night,

     My little one is ill;

I could not leave you, dearest girl,

     Now keep you, very still.”

“Not go tonight? O, dear papa,

     You shan’t stay here with me;

You must go out, and make them laugh,

     Why don’t – why can’t you see?’

“The people would feel awful bad,

     Christmas would be so drear;

What would so many people do

     Without you, papa dear?

Now go; please go; my god is good.

     He doesn’t need you here;

He’s telling me to – have – you go,

     Please go – now – papa – dear.”

An instant more ‘twould be too late,

     The darling slept once more;

The actor, true to art and love,

     In sorrow paced the floor.

“Oh God!” he cried, in silent plea,

     “Give unto me thine ear!

Where lies my duty, God above,

     O, be it there or here?”

The loving wife stole to his side,

     And pointing, he knew where,

She whispered, like a guiding one,

     “Your duty lieth there.”

“Go, go my husband; do her will,

     She’s in her Father’s care;”

And almost reeling to her side,

     He kissed her golden hair.

O, God forgive me, should she die,

     And I be far away!

And forth he rushed, a burdened man,

     To play the light and gay.

And folk were pleased with him that night,

     “A brilliant star,” they said;

But every call stabbed deep his heart,

     And none knew how it bled.

The curtain fell, in costume bold

     He ran into the street,

And hailed a cabman whom he knew,

     And home was driven fleet.

And when he saw the mother’s face,

     He knew his flower was dead;

“But God was good,” the mother smiled,

     “She woke no more,” she said.

Oct. 13, 1895

Written Sunday evening, at my

Desk, in two hours.

Pub. in the

Christmas

Dramatic News,

Dec. 20, 1895