And "There!" said Hack, and "There!" thought Hew, "We'll rest, for our toil is done."

But "Nay," the Master Workman said, "For your toil is just begun.

"And ye who served me of old as God

Shall serve me anew as man,

Till I compass the dream that is in my heart,
And perfect the vaster plan."

And still the craftsman over his craft,
In the vague white light of dawn,
With God's calm will for his burning will,
While the mounting day comes on,

Yearning, wind-swift, indolent, wild,
Toils with those shadowy two,—
The faltering, restless hand of Hack,
And the tireless hand of Hew.

Bliss Carman [1861

ARS VICTRIX *

IMITATED FROM THEOPHILE GAUTIER

YES; when the ways oppose—
When the hard means rebel,
Fairer the work out-grows,-
More potent far the spell.

O POET, then, forbear

The loosely-sandalled verse,
Choose rather thou to wear

The buskin-strait and terse;

Leave to the tyro's hand

The limp and shapeless style;

See that thy form demand

The labor of the file.

*For the original of this poem see page 3592.

SCULPTOR, do thou discard

The yielding clay,-consign To Paros marble hard

The beauty of thy line;

Model thy Satyr's face

For bronze of Syracuse; In the veined agate trace The profile of thy Muse.

PAINTER, that still must mix
But transient tints anew,

Thou in the furnace fix

The firm enamel's hue;

Let the smooth tile receive
Thy dove-drawn Erycine;
Thy Sirens blue at eve

Coiled in a wash of wine.

All passes. ART alone

Enduring stays to us:

The Bust out-lasts the throne,-
The Coin, Tiberius;

Even the gods must go;

Only the lofty Rhyme

Not countless years o'erthrow,

Not long array of time.

Paint, chisel, then, or write;
But, that the work surpass,
With the hard fashion fight,—
With the resisting mass.

Austin Dobson [1840

FLOWER O' THE MIND

FANCIES

FANCIES are but streams

Of vain pleasure;
They who by their dreams

True joys measure,

Feasting, starve, laughing, weep,

Playing, smart; whilst in sleep

Fools, with shadows smiling,

Wake and find

Hopes like wind,

Idle hopes, beguiling.

Thoughts fly away; Time hath passed them;

Wake now, awake! see and taste them!

John Ford (?) [fl. 1639]

TOM O' BEDLAM

THE morn's my constant mistress,

And the lovely owl my marrow;

The flaming drake,

And the night-crow, make

Me music to my sorrow.

I know more than Apollo;

For oft, when he lies sleeping,

I behold the stars

At mortal wars,

And the rounded welkin weeping.

The moon embraces her shepherd,

And the Queen of Love her warrior;
While the first does horn

The stars of the morn,

And the next the heavenly farrier.

With a heart of furious fancies,
Whereof I am commander:

With a burning spear,

And a horse of air,

To the wilderness I wander;

With a Knight of ghosts and shadows,
I summoned am to Tourney:

Ten leagues beyond

The wild world's end;

Methinks it is no journey.

Unknown

L'ALLEGRO

HENCE loathed Melancholy

Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight born,

In Stygian Cave forlorn

'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights unholy! Find out some uncouth cell,

Where brooding Darkness spreads his jealous wings,

And the night-Raven sings;

There, under Ebon shades, and low-browed Rocks,

As ragged as thy Locks,

In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell.
But come, thou Goddess fair and free,
In Heaven yclept Euphrosyne,
And by men, heart-easing Mirth,
Whom lovely Venus, at a birth,
With two sister Graces more,
To Ivy-crowned Bacchus bore;
Or whether (as some Sager sing)

The frolic Wind that breathes the Spring,
Zephir with Aurora playing,

As he met her once a-Maying,

There, on Beds of Violets blue,

And fresh-blown Roses washed in dew,

Filled her with thee, a daughter fair,

So buxom, blithe, and debonair.

Haste thee, Nymph, and bring with thee

Jest and youthful Jollity,

Quips and Cranks, and wanton Wiles,
Nods, and Becks, and Wreathed Smiles,
Such as hang on Hebe's cheek,
And love to live in dimple sleek;
Sport that wrinkled Care derides,
And Laughter holding both his sides.
Come, and trip it as ye go

On the light fantastic toe,

And in thy right hand lead with thee,
The Mountain Nymph, sweet Liberty;
And if I give thee honor due,
Mirth, admit me of thy crew

To live with her, and live with thee,
In unreproved pleasures free;
To hear the Lark begin his flight,
And, singing, startle the dull night,
From his watch-tower in the skies,
Till the dappled dawn doth rise;
Then to come in spite of sorrow,
And at my window bid good-morrow,
Through the Sweet-Briar, or the Vine,
Or the twisted Eglantine.

While the Cock, with lively din,
Scatters the rear of darkness thin,
And to the stack, or the Barn-door,
Stoutly struts his Dames before,

Oft listening how the Hounds and horn
Clearly rouse the slumbering morn,
From the side of some Hoar Hill,

Through the high wood echoing shrill.
Some time walking not unseen

By Hedge-row Elms, on Hillocks green,
Right against the Eastern gate,
Where the great Sun begins his state,
Robed in flames, and Amber light,
The clouds in thousand Liveries dight.
While the Plowman, near at hand,
Whistles o'er the Furrowed Land,
And the Milkmaid singeth blithe,
And the Mower whets his scythe,