by Blanchard Jerrold.
Originally published in Temple Bar (Ward and Lock) vol.3 #10 (Sep 1861).
I.
Break from me all the coarser ties of life,—
The hope of gain, the bitter lust of power,—
Kind Nature takes my soaring heart to wife,
And bids me taste one uninfected hour.
II.
No freakèd silver floats above my head,
No speck of foam dissolves beneath my feet,
But has a lesson in it, and a thread
To draw me onward into fancies sweet.
III.
Now all about is harmony,—the waves
Advance and vanish, as a maiden's feet,
Nor strive again to kiss the rocky caves
They lightly played with, in the noon-day heat.
IV.
The polypi, to which the waves retire,
Work out the end for which they were ordained;
Nor cherish hopes, nor kindle with desire,
To shine at once, about a lady's hand.
V.
The lark, that soars above yon golden glen,
Contented, keeps the land beneath her wing;
The sinewy sea-gull flies the realms of men,
Nor envies weaker birds because they sing.
VI.
Then let me lie along this sunny coast,
And, watching still the law of instinct rule,
Sum up the shades of all the hours I've lost
In wandering widely from my proper school.
VII.
When I was quite a boy, I yearned towards art;
All outward things stole to my pencil's end;
I took sweet Nature to my bounding heart,
And warmed it with the smiling of a friend.
VIII.
Then men who knew her not, but still would know,
Came to me, lightly saying, "This is wrong:
Clouds float not thus above us, nor doth snow
Give purple tints, when shades are growing long;
IX.
Her leaves are green, not red; her sky is blue;
And sheep are gray, not spangled is their fleece;
And rocks are brown, not of that orange hue.
You masquerade, not imitate her!" "Peace!"
X.
I cried, and cast my pencil from my hand:
"To paint for blind men is a sorry scheme.
I cannot cleanse your eyes with fairy wand,
And will not stoop to your most vulgar theme.
XI.
The artist's art, to me, is to select,
To be Columbus, in some wayside wood,
Discovering, in each bramble, flower-deck'd,
New combinations of the true and good.
XII.
But if you will not have it thus, I go,
And cast my pencil bravely to the wave:
Reflecting still the blue of heaven below—
Sea! wash it lightly to my dead hope's grave."
XIII.
I seized a pen: it laboured o'er my page;
My hand was cramped, my thoughts were all awry;
Yet, with a boldness foreign to the age,
My mind lay struggling with some mystery.
XIV.
I strove to see with my unaided sight,
To disregard the tattered forms of schools,
To mould, apart, some image for the light,—
A new creation, free from ancient rules.
XV.
I said that Nature never did repeat;
That he was great who made some new advance;
That you might find in any quiet street
A man to copy—give him but the chance.
XVI.
The true aim was, from study to deduce;
To read new truths in the sad lives of men;
From old laws winnow happy facts for use,
And garland them with a poetic pen.
XVII.
I told a story—rough, it may be,—still
The blood of breathing life was in the page;
There were few mysteries foreboding ill,
Few handsome angels in paternal cage.
XVIII.
It was not in three volumes—what of that?
Is human nature always parcelled out
To give one book as tangled as a mat,
One yielding a long evening of doubt,
XIX.
And one of day-break joyed by wedding-bells?
Are voices always in a trio raised?
Oh! not with compasses the true man tells
How he was loved, and set aside, and praised!
XX.
Ah, me ! the sun is leaning on the west;
The ship is swiftly sailing from the sun.
Shall I throw pebbles, in this sad unrest,
Throughout my life, and die with nothing done?