"For, lo! the artist no more gazed
On features still and cold;
He stood, bewilder'd and amazed,
As living charms unfold.
"As if touch'd by yon orient ray,
The stone to life had warm'd;
For round the lip such bright smiles play,
As never sculptor form'd.
There, Caroline, that is what you ought to have felt. If I can make poetry on my own face—"
"Poetry on yourself! Why, Emmeline, I thought you were repeating a verse of some old poet, with which I am unacquainted. I really beg your pardon. I did not know your favorite Muse had dubbed you follower as well as worshiper."
"Nor did I till this moment. She feared for her reputation near such a love of prose as you are, and so touched me with inspiration. I am exceedingly obliged to her; but even if I failed to make you poetical, Caroline, you might have emulated Cowper, and instead of singing the 'Sofa,' sung the 'Table.' Indeed I think a very pretty poem might be made of it. Look at the variety of tasteful and useful things laid on a table—and there it stands in the midst of them, immovable, cold, insensible just like one on whom we heap favors upon favors, and who remains so wrapped in self, as to be utterly indifferent to all. Now, Caroline, put that into rhyme, or blank verse, if you prefer it; it is a new idea, at least."
"So new," replied her sister, laughing, "that I think I will send it to Percy, and request him to turn it into a Greek or Latin ode; it will be so much grander than my English version. You have so astonished mamma, Emmeline, by your mad mood, that she has actually put down her work."
"I am so glad!" replied Emmeline, springing to her mother's side; "I like other people to be as idle as myself."
"But there is a medium in all things, young lady," answered her mother, half-gravely, half in Emmeline's own tone; "and I rather think your conscience is telling you, that it is not quite right to desert one Muse for another, as you are doing now."
"Oh, but my drawing must wait till her Muse inspires me again. Poetry does not always come, and her visits are so delightful!"
"Then I am afraid you will think me very harsh, Emmeline; but delightful as they are, I must not have them always encouraged. If you encourage the idea of only working when the fit of inspiration comes upon you—in plain words, only when you feel inclined—you will fritter life away without one solid thought or acquirement. You think now, perhaps, habituated as you are to employment, that this is impossible; but you are just of an age to demand very strict watchfulness over yourself to prevent it. Now that you are emerging from the routine of childhood's lessons, and too old to be compelled to do that which is right, and—rendering your task of control more difficult—more susceptible to poetry, and what you term inspiration, than ever, you must try and infuse a little of Caroline's steady, matter-of-fact into your poetry, instead of almost despising it, as so cold and disagreeable. Now, do not look so very sad, and so very serious, love, and jump at the conclusion that I am displeased, because I speak seriously. I love your joyousness far too dearly to check it, or wish you to do so, especially in your own family; but just as you have learned the necessity of, and evinced so well and so feelingly, control in emotions of sorrow, my Emmeline, so I am quite sure you will trust my experience, and practice control, even in the pleasant inspiration of poetry and joy."