 | Poems |  |
70
ON RECEIVING SOME DRAWINGS.
Sweet are these drawings, and though wanting thatGreat finish and pretence, which modern art
Dresses its being in, to me they are
A finer exposition of the mind
From which they issued, than more labored skill,
These first faint streaks of that consuming light
Which thou shalt shed on art, and all fair things.
For thou wert made for beauty, dwell'st in it.
No other home is thine, than where the world
Winds her green tresses o'er the golden bank,
Under whose edge the wild brook leaps along,
Like a mad courser running to the sea.
71
And the soft wind of Summer in thy ear
Speak with a voice of pleasure. But thy way
Not thus for ever. There shall be a day
When perchance sorrow, with her icy smile
Shall visit thee. Then shall thy wondrous art,
With most consoling influence, beckon thee
To sweet thoughts;—then thy pencil guide the way
Into a region of keen memories;
And many a form spring into graceful life,
Airy and light, dispellers of thy gloom.
Ah glorious fancy, who with shaping skill
Hast visited us here, else how obscure,
And with thy splendid charms and graceful mien
Re-clothed the sere and tearful, drooping world,
So that now going onward to the tomb,
Alone and halt, beggars in love and joy,
We from thy presence catch a glance of heaven,
And on the face of nature read the life
Which we did wish to live, as though 'twere so.
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