The Battle-Day and Other Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Then loudly cheered the applauding throng,
And thrilled each child of art and song:
But 'mid the crowd was one, whose soul
Had long sighed vainly for a goal;
Men counted him a dreamer;—dreams
Are but the light of clearer skies,
Too dazzling for our naked eyes;
And when we catch their flashing beams,
We turn aside and call them dreams!

Oh! trust me!—every truth that yet
In greatness rose and sorrow set,
That time to ripening glory nurst,
Was called an idle dream at first!

And so he passed thro' want and ill,
And lived neglected and unknown:
Courage he lacked not—neither skill—
But that fixed impulse of the will
That guides to fame, and guides alone.
And opportunity ne'er smiled,
Without which, genius' royal child
Is but a king without a throne.

And sad, indeed, his youth had been,
Had love not wound its flowers between
And helped him life's harsh griefs to bear,
By grafting them on a gentler care.
Shall art's own votaries live unloving?
Docile to an impulse true,

He, who thinks the beautiful
Shall feel it too.

And thus the poor young artist loved
And wooed a loving maid:
Her father was an artisan
Who plied a steady trade,
And bowed before no mortal man,
For he lived by what he made;
Altho' his labour's price began
To shrink as his strength decayed.

He sought not riches, rank, or fame:
But too much he himself had borne
In hunger, withering pain and scorn,
To let his daughter feel the same;
And he had said that very morn,
When timidly the suitor came,—
“To the ranks of the brave in the marches go!
“And carve a fortune from the foe!

“Or let me see thee at the loom
“When the shuttle rings in the merry room!
“Do anything!—but hang no more
“Like an idle soul at my daughter's door.
“Go! and God speed! and make thy way!
“Return in happier hour and say:
“‘I strove the strife, and I won the day.’
“And with my child 'mid blessings dwell—
“But now—till then, or for ever—farewell!”

He heard the words with reverence due;
He owned them wise, and felt them true:
But his arm's too weak to grasp the blade;
Nor can he stoop to a plodding trade:
Why blame him?—we're what God has made!
And he turned him, sick in heart and will
That fortune and he had been matched so ill.

'Twas then he heard the state's decree,
Like the trumpet that sounds to a victory:

He starts from the spot an altered man,
For the gaol's revealed and the race began!

Then ardours new illume his eyes,
And visions proud come thronging fast;
In dreams he sees his labour rise;
In dreams he grasps his labour's prize;
Alas! in dreams time's treasure flies,
And the first short year has past.

He trembles at the new-year chime,
And tries to grasp its fleeting prime:
In feverish haste
An outline's traced,—
Each new-born fancy seems sublime:
He rushes burning in the air,
To vent the expanding ardour there:
But doubt comes on and brings despair,
And all that morning-promise fair
Has left the cancelled canvas bare

Ere evening's shadows climb.
As swift the rapid sketches rise,
As swift the glowing triumph dies,
As light and shade alternate hies
O'er skies of April time.
And moments come, when cold dismay
Had bade for aye the labour stay:
But the thought of his love like a golden chain,
Drew him back, ever back, to his task again.

And, as they pass, each Sabbath-day,
By the spot where he waits on the churchward way,
Colder and colder the father grew;
The maiden smiled on a love so true,—
But her tears were many, her smiles were few.
And weeks roll on, and months flit o'er,
And still the mighty work's to do:
While fever, eating to the core,
Shines his transparent pulses thro',
And paints insidious, streak by streak,
With death's romance his flushing cheek.

'Twas on an eve of autumn pale
That first he felt his strength to fail.
The sun o'er Spain had shone its last;
The leaves around were falling fast;
The western clouds were turning grey;
And Earth and Heaven seemed to say:
“Passing away! Passing away!”

A wild conviction smote his mind:
And if unbidden sorrows blind,
One moment, eyes that still descry
In life so much that's worth a sigh,
The weaker mood remained not long,
And left him strangely calm and strong.

The second year has flown away,
And shorter grows the wintry day:
But ever-toiling, unremitting,
At his task the painter's sitting;
Undisturbed by hope or fear;
Steady, conscious, calm, and clear;

For angels warn him every night
To labour while 'tis still life-light.
And is it Death, whose solemn hand,
Fettering fancy's rebel-band
And lifting up his spirit high,
Has touched it with sublimity?
Oh! say not so! the young are strong,
And bravely speeds the work along,
And Love's soft thrill and fame's proud feeling
Possess a wondrous power of healing.
And weeks roll on,—and months flit o'er;
The work is speeding more and more;
And rivals who, with smiling eye
Had watched the lost time hurrying by,
Now croak their raven prophecy
And, sneering, of his progress ask:
But pain and grief their magic trying,
Faith and fame his heart inspiring,
Love its godlike power supplying,
Sit by the canvas untiring:

They deepen the shade, and they heighten the light,
They force on the work with invincible might;
They toil through the day and they think through the night:
Are they workmen to fail at the task?

Then, hail to thee! Florence the great!
And, hail to thee! Florence the fair!
Ere the last sheaf of autumn is gathered,
What a triumph of Art shall be there!