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JOHN RUSKIN.
I.
[Our poet-priest of art you should have seen]
Our poet-priest of art you should have seen,Who makes its voice one deep-toned hymn to God,
Who'd have its paths with feet the holiest trod,
Such as where Pisa's time-smooth'd graves are green
And silent, in her Holy Field have been,
And girt with tender beauty its dear sod,
Memmi, Orcagna, and he, dear to God,
Gaddi. Nor have such. by him, been unseen
Breathing amongst us, with whom art is prayer,
Each work is worship, where, nor faint nor dim
Glory to God is wrought in beauty rare,
In shapes and colours, through which upward swim
Sweet incense, which our awed souls skywards bear.
Hunt and Rosetti, so your hands praise Him.
II.
[His words, I know, are priceless thoughts with you]
His words, I know, are priceless thoughts with you;You should have had his face, friends, in your sight
For your remembrance, wonder and delight;
For he is one of England's rarest few,
Mating our days with the great times that knew
Our mother-tongue grow grander in its flight
From Milton's pen, pleading sublime for right,
And the rich organ-roll full pealing through
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Then looking on him, in him, friends, your eyes
Had seen one who from Truth's own lips has caught
Wisdom and faith her lightest words to prize,
Knowing, through her, God's wondrous will is wrought
That art, a child uttering her words, is wise.
III.
[When I remember how my hours go by]
When I remember how my hours go by,My days to months, my months to dead years grow,
Then the swift shortness of my life I know,
How little I may do or ere I die;
Then do I feel how time I waste, and cry
“Art woos me lovingly her charms to show,
I, still thrust from her; will it still be so?
Will life be fruitless everlastingly?
O will no season of sweet leisure be,
Release from all this care for things, how poor,
For my chain'd thoughts, so yearning to be free,
Doom'd still such daily task-work to endure.
Art gives you gold; O were it so with me!
That she would give my needs, O were I sure!”
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