Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE SONG OUT OF SEASON, by HENRY AUSTIN DOBSON



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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE SONG OUT OF SEASON, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: This is the place. Mutine said here
Last Line: Bad poets must be more.'
Alternate Author Name(s): Dobson, Austin


'Point de culte sans mystere.'

SCENE. -- A Corridor in a Chateau, with Busts and Venice chandeliers.

MONSIEUR L'ETOILE. TWO VOICES.

M. L'ETOILE (carrying a Rose).

THIS is the place. MUTINE said here.
'Through the Mancini room, and near
The fifth Venetian chandelier....'
The fifth? -- She knew there were but four; --
Still, here's the busto of the Moor.

(Humming.)
Tra-la, tra-la! If BIJOU wake,
He'll bark, no doubt, and spoil my shake!
I'll tap, I think. One can't mistake;
This surely is the door.

(Sings softly.)
'When Jove, the Skies' Director,
First saw you sleep of yore,
He cried aloud for Nectar,
"The Nectar quickly pour, --
The Nectar, Hebe, pour!"'
(No sound. I'll tap once more.)

(Sings again.)
'Then came the Sire Apollo,
He passed you where you lay;
"Come, Dian, rise and follow
The dappled Hart to slay, --
The rapid Hart to slay."'
(A rustling within.)
(Coquette! She heard before.)

(Sings again.)
'And urchin Cupid after
Beside the Pillow curled,
He whispered you with Laughter,
"Awake and witch the World, --
O Venus, witch the World!"'

(Now comes the last. 'Tis scarcely worse,
I think, than Monsieur l'ABBE'S verse.)

'So waken, waken, waken,
O You, whom we adore;
Where gods can be mistaken,
Mere Mortals must be more, --
Poor Mortals must be more!'

(That merits an encore.)

'So waken, waken, waken!
O YOU, whom we adore!'

(An energetic VOICE.)

'Tis thou, ANTOINE? Ah, Addle-pate!
Ah, Thief of Valet, always late!
Have I not told thee half-past eight
A thousand times!

(Great agitation.)

But wait, -- but wait, --

M. L'ETOILE (stupefied).

Just Skies! What hideous roar! --
What lungs! The infamous Soubrette!
This is a turn I sha'n't forget: --
To make me sing my chansonnette
Before old JOURDAIN'S door!

(Retiring slowly.)

And yet, and yet, -- it can't be she.
They prompted her. Who can it be?

(A second VOICE.)

IT WAS THE ABBE TI -- RI -- LI!

(In a mocking falsetto.)

'Where gods can be mistaken,
Mere Poets must be more, --
BAD POETS must be more.'





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