FIRST PRIZE.
'TWAS in the Strand, a great demand
For seats was quite the rule;
The pit and gallery were crammed,
The stalls and boxes full.
One man remained who could not find
A solitary stool.
From gods to stall, he paced them all,
Unable to find rest;
A burning thought was in his heart,
Beneath his spotless breast.
He'd eaten pork, and knew full well
Pork he could not digest.
With hollow sound the curtain rose,
And then he found a place,
Where, cramped and crushed, he just could see
The great tragedian's face—
He was so prest, for the Iron Chest
He hadn't any space.
He saw how Irving walked the stage
With ill-dissembled care,
To keep the limelight on his brows
And on his flowing hair,
While all the rest were in the dark—
You only heard them there.
His voice was hollow as the grave,
Or like an eagle's scream—
Murderers, you know, talk always so—
His eyes like theirs did gleam—
He'd done this sort of thing before.
But then 'twas in a dream.
He showed how murderers start and gasp
When conscience pricks them sore;
He dragged his shirt-front out by yards,
And strewed it on the floor;
He rolled his eyes, and clutched his breast—
He'd done it all before.
If anybody mentioned death
Or foul assassination,
He started up and groaned or shrieked
With obvious perturbation.
'Twas very strange this sudden change
Provoked no observation.
And when at last four acts were past
Of stares and glares and guggles,
And in the chest they found the knife
Which he so neatly smuggles—
'Twas ecstacy to see him die
Of aggravated struggles.
Q.