Do not despise me . . . pleads the whispering shade.
Because I lack own substance, form or base,
That only by your limbs each move I make is made,
And that I weave my features on the outline of your face.
Go out, where living din and struggling lords
Or inwardly direct your searching frown,
There you will find the living shadow’s hordes
With shame your pride will bow its guilded crown.
See yonder gallant with the lovely miss
A coupled silhouette of charms’ excess,
Who had borrowed love's contour of age-known bliss
All lovers’ garb and a shadow's tenderness
The fan’s coy play, the smile, the tear-filled eyes,
All this was borrowed from another twain,
Who from another pair had snatched the lies,
With which love shams its joys and griefs in vain.
See yonder man, how dignified his pace,
Upon his noble forehead serene peace is engraved,
Look with what gentle gesture he condescends to grace
The bowing, bending throngs of men enslaved.
That pose is borrowed from some other Great,
That majesty comes from some higher seat,
If you could pierce that hollow shell and plate
You would find only empty, vain conceit.
This one prefers a scholar’s weighty mien
That one a nobleman, a social peer,
Another one would mimic Byron’s sheen,
While one in Rembrandt’s barret would appear.
Thus in a motley semblage all perform
According to a pattern from their birth,
’Tis all you need, the outline of good form
Who asks about your deeper inner worth?
What wealth of living shadows in their clothes
Play in the streets, and in their homes carouse.
Friend welcomes friends, each others hand enfolds
Each would outdo the others courtly bows.
Upon their features, honor and virtue beam
Of which their bosom harbors not a spark.
Believe me, our society’s whole scheme
Is just an endless shadowplay and lark.
95
