Till some Visconti dug it up To rise and fall on Mabel's bosom! O nameless brother! see how Time Who would not suffer slights of men, To have his carven agate-stone On such a bosom rise and fall so! 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, Impelled to ask wherein his work was wrong, 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! ARTHUR GRISSOM. A PAINTED FAN. ROSES and butterflies snared on a fan, Of swift, bright wings that flashed in the sun, By what subtle spell did you lure them here, Bright, swift wings that never will range? 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; Yet still, whenever I wave my fan, The soft, south wind of memory blows. LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON. ON A FAN THAT BELONGED TO THE MARQUISE DE POMPADOUR. (BALLADE.) CHICKEN-SKIN, delicate, white, 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 Boeuf through, Courtiers as butterflies bright, Beauties that Fragonard drew, Ah, but things more than polite Things that great ministers do; Things that, maybe, overthrew Those in whose brains they began ;- ENVOY. Where are the secrets it knew? AUSTIN DOBSON. VI. LABOR AND REST. HACK AND HEW. HACK and Hew were the sons of God And Hack was blind, and Hew was dumb, They made the moon and the belted stars, They loosed the girdle and veil of the sea, Both flower and beast beneath their hands Then, fire and clay, they fashioned a man, And God himself blew hard in his eyes: "Let them burn till they smoulder down!" 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 still the craftsman over his craft, Yearning, wind-swift, indolent, wild, THE AXE. BLISS CARMAN. FROM "MALCOLM'S KATIE." HIGH grew the snow beneath the low-hung sky, In trance of stillness Nature heard her God "Bite deep and wide, O Axe, the tree! What doth thy bold voice promise me?" |