University of Virginia Library

For have we not oft said,—‘To whom 'tis given
To be, for Art's pure sake, entirely shriven
Of other work, how blest!—to whom 'tis lent
To put off from their feet all detriment,
And stand for ever on Art's holy ground?’—
What favour, to be lost, and only found
By fellow-worshippers, enrapt amid
The symbols and the mystic meanings hid
In Nature's core;—sometimes in some huge tree
To stretch out glorious arms, a shield to be
To timorous flowers; or, in a stream on-sliding,
To fill one's groovëd saddle, and be riding
On subject earth; or in a cloud to mount,
And see the river Morn gush at its fount,
Before its flood the skies hath overswum;
Or in a mountain to stand, old, and dumb,
And many-climed; or in a vale to lie
All green and beauteous 'neath the Maker's eye;
Thus to run through all the amazing range
Of form, hue, sound; being and seeing,—strange
Yet truly,—blended into one; till, fired
Inly, one wrought out with a hand inspired
Some glorious stone or picture, or indited
Poems or anthems glorious: so, delighted,
Live on, holding one's self in full requited
For faithful work, by finish'd work's assoyl;
And at the last turn humbly from the toil
To say, ‘O Lord, burnt out is all the oil
Thou fill'dst this lamp of life with!’—while around
The bow'd head, ‘Well done, servant good!’ should sound.

For the true Poet pares not his work's claws,
Nor draws its teeth, to humour fashion's laws;
Nor thaws, like slug, neath critic salt, to fall
And melt to an unmeaning slimy scrawl:—
Nor is it to be Artist, to be loud
Crying one's wares, and pushing in the crowd;
To hang the head and faint, because there 's none
But the great God to smile, and say ‘Well done!’
To peep o'er this man's shoulder, and feel mad
If he excel; or to turn meanly glad
At passing that man; thus with envy swelling
Of others, or with pride at self's excelling;—
To fret and fever, for that popular praise
Doffs not its lackey-cap, nor Raleigh plays,
Cloak-carpetwise, to our Elizabeth;—
No:—'tis to hang upon the holy breath
Of Nature's teachings, and to stretch the mind
As a string to be play'd by, of each wind
Of sincere impulse, the imperial finger;
It is, to cast all else away, to linger,
A glowing lifetime through, at the great wells
Beside whose sacred runnings beauty dwells,
And flowers of self-sacrifice aye live;
It is, with love and reverence, to give
Room in us for the Maker, and to spend
Life wholly 'mid the influences which lend
Strange power of creation to the creature;
It is to give back Nature's each true feature,
And glass her surfaces by the control
Of that which shapes them,—their interior soul;
It is to make perfection our election,
And, choosing that, to aim at that perfection;
So to accomplish a right worthy thing
And be a world-enricher; than a king
More glorious, though his fighting flag unfurl'd
Bore on it all the escutcheon of a world;—
Only less glorious than is he whose strife
Is to perfect, not merely Art, but Life.

We know, full well, how oft bread-getting need
Spoils all; how oft necessity, indeed,
The neck of many a crowing purpose wrings;
And breaks up costliest harps, and makes their strings
Tie parcels, or converts them, one by one,
To cords to hang out vulgar clothes upon;
And baulks the Muse of many a golden voice
That should have left age after age no choice
But to be glad for, which our streets must find
Now singing toys to sell or knives to grind:—
Call it not cruel: hard it seems; but still
It is not cruel, if it is God's will.
If thou know'st any one who mid the flowers
Which the birds sing to in their sunny hours
May not thus live, nor be as I have said,
Haply it is because he could not wed
Art, without suffering loss. Had rain and sun
Been giv'n, perhaps his ground had overrun
With dark and hateful weeds of vanity.
'Tis true, he never now the fount shall see
Wherefrom all mighty poets influence draw,
To sing to deathless time the primal law;
Yet may he just as well fulfil his day,
And do his work as faithfully, as they.