Who is gliding so gloomily off at the wing.
Hope's cup at his lips lately brimmingly bubbled,
Now "foiled by a novice, eclipsed by a boy!"
Is the thought in his mind. The reflection is bitter—
Theatrical taste often craves a fresh toy,
And is captured by glitter.
What thinks Madame France of the attitude struck
By this confident slip of good stock histrionic?
Though dames swear their dear Petit Duc is a duck,
The smile of old stagers is somewhat ironic.