Chapter I

“When Shakespeare died the Drama died.”
This cry
Has echoed down the ages as a truth
None would gainsay, until, today, forsooth,
Like weaklings we all fear to make reply,
But suckle at Tradition’s milkless breast.
O ART! your name to mingle with the dust
Of dead men’s bones, and scarred with sordid rust
Of years, and in a catacomb to rest!
O YOUTH! throw off the shackles of the Past,
It is the Present that is yours alone;
The excellence you seek can never last
If linked to models that today’s outgrown.