University of Virginia Library

I met him in the shadowy glen,—
I met him in the tangled wood—
I met him, where the noise of men,
Dies on the ear of solitude.
His youthful brow was pale and dreamy,
His auburn hair was thin and curled,
His large soft eye was blue and beamy—
Yet shunned the gazing of the world.
He climbed the cliff and trod the glade,
And ranged alone o'er hill and dell,—
Along bright babbling waters strayed,
And marked each lovely aspect well.
And then these scenes he fondly drew,
And such his pencil's magic skill,
Each graceful group, each heavenly hue,
Beneath his touch grew lovelier still.
When on his living canvas set,
The moonlit lake more sweetly gleamed;
And where two gushing streamlets met,
More brightly still the bubbles beamed.
But why that look of mild despair,
That wasted form, that hollow cheek?
Go strip his blasted bosom bare,
And read the record that ye seek.
'Tis but the tale of one, who dies
A victim of the world's neglect;
A spirit born for other skies,
On this dark icy planet wrecked—
One who hath wandered from his sphere,
And finds himself alone—alone—
Who meets no sympathy—no tear—
No echo to his bosom's tone.

Follow his fate: slow penury's tide
Creeps on with sickness in its train—
No friend sits watching at his side,
No gentle accents sooth his pain;
But bowed beneath a lowly shed,
His fevered form is idly thrown—
Stretched on a hard and scanty bed,
He meets his mournful fate alone!
But stay! the time of darkest gloom,
Is that which shrouds the breaking day;
And is the sufferer's hour of doom
But lit with hope's delusive ray?
His name hath reached the world's dull ear,
His tale is on the world's loud tongue,
And wondering listeners press to hear
His story told, his sorrow sung!
And those who passed the poor unknown
In cold indifference or scorn,
Now that his fame abroad is blown,
Recount his deeds, his tale adorn!
And now his works of matchless skill,
Are gathered up with busy care,
And, ranged along the gallery, fill
The thronging crowds with wonder rare.
And now each knowing novice traces,
Full many a touch of life and power,
And points out deep laid loves and graces,
Beneath each mimic leaf and flower.
And e'en the captious critic dwells
On the proud show with raptured gaze:
Now of some hidden blemish tells,
Now master strokes of art displays.
And now the warm appeal is made
In his behalf whose bosom bleeds;
And shall it be a vain parade,
When genius asks and pity pleads?
It cannot be—the miser gives!
The ample purse is full of gold!
Yet all too late—the spirit lives,—
But the wrung heart is crushed and cold!
Beneath a humble shed he died—
While with his praise fame filled the air,
Alone—nofriend his bed beside,
The hapless victim of despair!

Thus oft some bird from tropic shores,
The summer zephyr tempts to roam,
But soon the blast of winter roars,
And drives the stricken wanderer home.
Thus oft some gentle spirit stoops,
To this chill earth from Heaven above,
But here his angel pinion droops,
And back he flies to worlds of love!