It is she herself who stands there singing To that sea of faces, that shines and stirs; And the cheers on cheers that go up ringing And rousing the echoes, are hers, all hers! Just for one moment the sweet delusion Quickens her pulses, and blurs her sight, And wakes within her that wild confusion Of joy that is anguish and fierce delight. Then the curtain goes down, and the lights are gleaming Brightly o’er circle and box and stall; She starts like a sleeper who wakes from dreaming: Her youth lies under Time’s funeral pall. Her day is dead, and her star descended Never to rise or to shine again; Her reign is over, her queenship ended-- A new name is sounded and sung by men. All the glitter and glow and splendor, All the glory of that lost day, With the friends that seemed true and the love that seemed tender, Why, what is it all but a dead bouquet! She rises to go; has the night turned colder? The new queen answers to call and shout; And the old queen looks back over her shoulder As, all unnoticed, she passes out. THE PRINCESS’S FINGER-NAIL. A TALE OF NONSENSE LAND. All through the Castle of High-bred Ease, Where the chief employment was do-as-you-please, Spread consternation and wild despair. The queen was wringing her hands and hair; The maids of honor were sad and solemn; The pages looked blank as they stood in column; The court-jester blubbered, “Boo-hoo, boo-hoo”; The cook in the kitchen dropped tears in the stew; And all through the castle went sob and wail, For the princess had broken her finger-nail: The beautiful Princess Red-as-a-Rose, Bride-elect of the Lord High-Nose, Broken her finger-nail down to the quick-- No wonder the queen and her court were sick. Never sorrow so dread before Had dared to enter that castle door. Oh! what would my Lord His-High-Nose say When she took off her glove on her wedding-day? The fairest princess in Nonsense Land, With a broken finger-nail on her hand! ’Twas a terrible, terrible accident, And they called a meeting of parliament; And never before that royal Court Had come such question of grave import As “How could you hurry a nail to grow?” And the skill of the kingdom was called to show. They sent for Monsieur File-’em-off; He smoothed down the corners so ragged and rough. They sent for Madame la Diamond-Dust, Who lived on the fingers of upper-crust; They sent for Professor de Chamois-Skin, Who took her powder and rubbed it in; They sent for the pudgy nurse Fat-on-the-bone To bathe her finger in eau de Cologne; And they called the Court surgeon, Monsieur Red-Tape, To hear what he thought of the new nail’s shape. Over the kingdom the telegrams flew Which told how the finger-nail thrived and grew;