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Till some Visconti dug it up
To rise and fall on Mabel's bosom!
O nameless brother! see how Time
Your gracious handiwork has guarded: See how your loving, patient art
Ilas come, at last, to be rewarded !
Who would not suffer slights of men,
And pangs of hopeless passion also,
THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH.
THE ARTIST. He wrought with patience long and weary years Upon his masterpiece, entitled " Fate," And dreamed sweet dreams, the while his crust he
ate, And gave his work his soul, his strength, and tears. His task complete at last, he had no fears The world would not pronounce his genius great, But poor, unknown-pray, what could he create ? The mad world laughed, and gave not praise, but
jeers. Impelled to ask wherein his work was wrong, He sought, despairing, one whose art was dead, But on whose brow were wreathed the bays of
Fame: The master gazed upon the picture long; “It lacks one thing to make it great," he said, And signed the canvas with his own great name!
A PAINTED FAN.
Roses and butterflies snared on a fan,
All that is left of summer gone by;
And loveliest blossoms that bloomed to die!
Fixing a beauty that will not change,Roses whose petals never will fall,
Bright, swift wings that never will range? llad you owned but th skill to snare as well
The swift-winged hours that came and went, To prison the words that in music died,
And fix with a spell the heart's content, Then had you been of magicians the chief;
And loved and lovers should bless your art, If you could but have painted the soul of the
thing, Not the rose alone, but the rose's heart! Flown are those days with their winged delights,
As the odor is gone from the summer rose;
LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON.
ON A FAN
THAT BELONGED TO THE MARQUISE DE POMPADOUR.
Painted by Carlo Vanloo,
Loves in a riot of light,
Roses and vaporous blue;
Hark to the dainty frou-frou ! Picture above, if you can,
Eyes that could melt as the dew,This was the Pompadour's fan!
See how they rise at the sight,
Thronging the Eil de Bouf through, Courtiers as butterflies bright,
Beauties that Fragonard drew,
Talon-rouge, falaba, queue,
Eager to sigh or to sue,-
Ah, but things more than polite
Hung on this toy, voyez-vous ! Matters of state and of might,
Things that great ministers do; Things that, maybe, overthrew
Those in whose brains they began ;IIere was the sign and the cue,
This was the Pompadour's fan!
Where are the secrets it knew?
Weavings of plot and of plan ? -But where is the Pompadour, too? This was the Pompadour's fan!
LABOR AND REST.
HACK AND IIEW.
Hack and Hew were the sons of God
In the earlier earth than now:
To obey as he taught them how.
And IIack was blind, and IIew was dumb,
But both had the wild, wild heart; And God's calm will was their burning will,
And the gist of their toil was art.
They made the moon and the belted stars,
They set the sun to ride ;
The wind and the purple tide.
Both flower and beast beneath their hands
To beauty and speed outgrew,The furious, fumbling hand of Hack,
And the glorying hand of Hew.
Then, fire and clay, they fashioned a man,
And painted him rosy brown; And God himself blew hard in his eyes: “Let them burn till they smoulder down!” And “There !” said Hack, and “ There!” thought
IIew, “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,
And perfect the vaster plan."
And still the craftsman over his craft,
In the vague white light of dawn,
While the mounting day comes on,
Yearning, wind-swift, indolent, wild,
Toils with those shadowy twoThe faltering, restless hand of Hack, And the tireless hand of Hew.
High grew the snow beneath the low-hung sky,
“ Bite deep and wide, O Axe, the tree! What doth thy bold voice promise me?”