Fabien Dei Franchi

　　（To my Friend Henry Irving）

　　The silent room， the heavy creeping shade，

　　The dead that travel fast， the opening door，

　　The murdered brother rising through the floor，

　　The ghost's white fingers on thy shoulders laid，

　　And then the lonely duel¹ in the glade²，

　　The broken swords， the stifled³ scream， the gore⁴，

　　Thy grand revengeful eyes when all is o'er， -

　　These things are well enough， - but thou wert made

　　For more august creation！ frenzied⁵ Lear

　　Should at thy bidding wander on the heath

　　With the shrill⁶ fool to mock him， Romeo

　　For thee should lure⁷ his love， and desperate fear

　　Pluck Richard's recreant⁸ dagger⁹ from its sheath -

　　Thou trumpet¹⁰ set for Shakespeare's lips to blow！