AN ARTIST'S FAME.
Painter. Let none call happy one whose art's deep source
They know not—or what thorny paths he trode
To reach its dazzling goal!
Marquis. What dost thou mean?
Painter. I'll seek a simile—Some gorgeous cloud
Oft towers in wondrous majesty before ye—
It bathes its bosom in pure ether's flood,
Evening twines crowns of roses for its head,
And for its mantle weaves a fringe of gold;
Ye gaze on it admiring and enchanted—
Yet know not whence its airy structure rose!
If it breathe incense from some holy altar,
Or earth-born vapours from the teeming soil,
When rain from Heav'n descends—if fiery breath
Of battle, or the darkly rolling smoke
Of conflagration, thus its giant towers
Pile on the sky—ye care not, but enjoy
Its form and glory,—Thus it is with art!
Whether 'twere born amid the sunny depths
Of a glad heart entranced in mutual love—
Or, likelier far, alas! the sorrowing child
Of restless anguish, and baptized in tears—
Or wrung from Genius even amid the throes
Of worse than death—Ye gaze and ye admire,
Nor pause to ask what it hath cost the heart
That gave it being!
Blackwood's Magazine.
Romance is ever readier
To make unbidden sacrifice, than rear
The sober edifice of mutual bliss! Ibid.