EPILOGUE

[Spoken in the character of Pierrot]

The sun is up, yet ere a body stirs, A word with you, sweet ladies and dear sirs, (Although on no account let any say That Pierrot finished Mr. Dowson's play).

One night not long ago, at Baden Baden,— The birthday of the Duke,—his pleasure garden Was lighted gaily with feu d'artifice, With candles, rockets, and a center-piece Above the conversation house, on high, Outlined in living fire against the sky, A glittering Pierrot, radiant, white, Whose heart beat fast, who danced with sheer delight, Whose eyes were blue, whose lips were rosy red, Whose pompons too were fire, while on his head He wore a little cap, and I am told That rockets covered him with showers of gold. "Take our applause, you well deserve to win it," They cried: "Bravo! the Pierrot of the minute!" What with applause and gold, one must confess That Pierrot had "arrived," achieved success, When, as it happened, presently, alas! A terrible disaster came to pass. His nose grew dim, the people gave a shout, His red lips paled, both his blue eyes went out. There rose a sullen sound of discontent, The golden shower of rockets was all spent; He left off dancing with a sudden jerk, For he was nothing but a firework. The garden darkened and the people in it Cried, "He is dead,—the Pierrot of the minute!"

With every artist it is even so; The artist, after all, is a Pierrot— A Pierrot of the minute, naif, clever, But Art is back of him, She lives for ever!

Then pardon my Moon Maid and me, because We craved the golden shower of your applause! Pray shrive us both for having tried to win it, And cry, "Bravo! The Pierrot of the minute!"