Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, TO MISS KELLY OF THE ENGLISH OPERA HOUSE, by THOMAS HOOD


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

TO MISS KELLY OF THE ENGLISH OPERA HOUSE, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Kelly, two quiet hours agone
Last Line: Not actress made, but born!
Subject(s): Opera


KELLY, two quiet hours agone,
Thy part was o'er, the play was done,
The tragic vision fled.
My lobster salad is discuss'd,
My wine and water mingled just,
And thou art in my head!

CLIFFORD is gone -- for all the while,
And BAKER'S everlasting smile,
Is vanish'd from me quite,
Like foolish portraits on a wall,
Sway'd by a curtain's rise or fall,
And not for after sight.

But thou, without or with my will,
Thy ringing tones attend me still,
And melancholy looks;
Again I see, and echo these
Again, like golden passages
Gather'd from olden books.

Not apt to lend my faith to cheats,
Or look for honey in the sweets
Of artificial flowers;
Though critical and curst withal,
Though early mingled grief and gall,
I recognise thy powers.

Tears thou canst bring, where tears have sprung,
Oft, from an aching heart -- not wrung
By griefs at second hand;
And smiles, to lips that have not curl'd
Seldom at humours of a world
Most vigilantly scann'd.

And years bring very chilly damps,
That dim the splendour of the lamps,
And shame the canvas skies;
The brightest scenes, I know not how,
Have changed -- and Mrs. GROVE is now
No fairy in my eyes.

I cannot weep when lovers weep,
Nor throne a tyrant in my sleep,
Nor quake at tragic screams;
The fond, the fervent faith is flown
Of boyhood; and a play is grown
Less real than my dreams.

And yet when I confront thee, still
I quite forget that sullen chill,
So perfect is thy art;
Again the vision cheats my soul,
For why? Thou dost present a whole,
Where others play a part.

The saddest or the shrewdest flights
Of tragical or comic wights
Are ne'er put out of joint,
And things by feebler authors writ,
Are better'd by thy better wit,
And dullness finds a point.

A kind of verbal novelist,
Up and down life, thou dost enlist
All humours, high and low;
That, dramatised, inform thy face
And voice, with every trick and trace
Of human whim and woe!

The stage, it is thy element,
Wherein thy mind preserves its bent,
Thou dost not seek or scorn,
The critic's meed, the public praise,
As if ordain'd to live in plays, --
Not actress made, but born!





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