And did I, on my honour, ever see Such hair before? Helen would write, ere long:
She gained quite slowly, but would soon be strong - Stronger than ever, so the doctors said.
I took the tiny ringlet, golden--fair, Mayhap his hand had severed from the head Of his own child, and pressed it to my cheek And to my lips, and kissed it o'er and o'er.
All my maternal instincts seemed to rise, And clamour for their rights, while my wet eyes Rained tears upon the silken tress of hair.
The woman struggled with her heart before!
It was the mother in me now did speak, Moaning, like Rachel, that her babes were not, And crying out against her barren lot.
Once I bemoaned the long and lonely years That stretched before me, dark with love's eclipse; And thought how my unmated heart would miss The shelter of a broad and manly breast - The strong, bold arm--the tender clinging kiss - And all pure love's possessions, manifold; But now I wept a flood of bitter tears, Thinking of little heads of shining gold, That would not on my bosom sink to rest; Of little hands that would not touch my cheek; Of little lisping voices, and sweet lips, That never in my list'ning ear would speak The blessed name of mother.
Oh, in woman How mighty is the love of offspring! Ere Unto her wond'ring, untaught mind unfolds The myst'ry that is half divine, half human, Of life and birth, the love of unborn souls Within her, and the mother-yearning creeps Through her warm heart, and stirs its hidden deeps, And grows and strengthens with each riper year.
As storms may gather in a placid sky, And spend their fury, and then pass away, Leaving again the blue of cloudless day, E'en so the tempest of my grief passed by.
'Twas weak to mourn for what I had resigned, With the deliberate purpose of my mind, To my sweet friend.
Relinquishing my love, I gave my dearest hope of joy to her.
If God, from out His boundless store above, Had chosen added blessings to confer, I would rejoice, for her sake--not repine That th' immortal treasures were not mine.
Better my lonely sorrow, than to know My selfish joy had been another's woe; Better my grief and my strength to control, Than the despair of her frail-bodied soul; Better to go on, loveless, to the end, Than wear love's rose, whose thorn had slain my friend.
Work is the salve that heals the wounded heart.
With will most resolute I set my aim To enter on the weary race for Fame, And if I failed to climb the dizzy height, To reach some point of excellence in art.
E'en as the Maker held earth incomplete, Till man was formed, and placed upon the sod, The perfect, living image of his God, All landscape scenes were lacking in my sight, Wherein the human figure had no part.
In that, all lines of symmetry did meet - All hues of beauty mingle. So I brought Enthusiasm in abundance, thought, Much study, and some talent, day by day, To help me in my efforts to portray The wond'rous power, majesty and grace Stamped on some form, or looking from some face.
This was to be my specialty: To take Human emotion for my theme, and make The unassisted form divine express Anger or Sorrow, Pleasure, Pain, Distress; And thus to build Fame's monument above The grave of my departed hope and love.
This is not Genius. Genius spreads its wings And soars beyond itself, or selfish things.
Talent has need of stepping-stones: some cross, Some cheated purpose, some great pain or loss, Must lay the groundwork, and arouse ambition, Before it labours onward to fruition.
But, as the lark from beds of bloom will rise And sail and sing among the very skies, Still mounting near and nearer to the light, Impelled wings, to heights sublime.
Impelled alone by love of upward flight, So Genius soars--it does not need to climb - Some sportman's shot, grazing the singer's throat, Some venomous assault of birds of prey, May speed its flight toward the realm of day, And tinge with triumph every liquid note.
So deathless Genius mounts but higher yet, When Strife and Envy think to slay or fret.
There is no balking Genius. Only death Can silence it, or hinder. While there's breath Or sense of feeling, it will spurn the sod, And lift itself to glory, and to God.
The acorn sprouted--weeds nor flowers can choke The certain growth of th' upreaching oak.
Talent was mine, not Genius; and my mind Seemed bound by chains, and would not leave behind Its selfish love and sorrow.
Did I strive To picture some emotion, lo! HIS eyes, Of emerald beauty, dark as ocean dyes, Looked from the canvas: and my buried pain Rose from its grave, and stood by me alive.
Whate'er my subject, in some hue or line, The glorious beauty of his face would shine.
So for a time my labour seemed in vain, Since it but freshened, and made keener yet, The grief my heart was striving to forget.
While in his form all strength and magnitude With grace and supple sinews were entwined, While in his face all beauties were combined Of perfect features, intellect and truth, With all that fine rich colouring of youth, How could my brush portray aught good or fair Wherein no fatal likeness should intrude Of him my soul had worshipped?
But, at last, Setting a watch upon my unwise heart, That thus would mix its sorrow with my art, I resolutely shut away the past, And made the toilsome present passing bright With dreams of what was hidden from my sight In the far distant future, when the soil Should yield me golden fruit for all my toil.
