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 alone by love of upward flight, So Genius soars—it does not need to climb— Upon God-given wings, to heights sublime. 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.
With much hard labour and some pleasure fraught, The months rolled by me noiselessly, that taught My hand to grow more skilful in its art, Strengthened my daring dream of fame, and brought Sweet hope and resignation to my heart.
Brief letters came from Helen, now and then: She was quite well—oh yes! quite well, indeed! But still so weak and nervous. By-and-by, When baby, being older, should not need Such constant care, she would grow strong again. She was as happy as a soul could be; No least cloud hovered in her azure sky; She had not thought life held such depths of bliss. Dear baby sent Maurine a loving kiss, And said she was a naughty, naughty girl, Not to come home and see ma’s little pearl. No gift of costly jewels, or of gold, Had been so precious or so dear to me, As each brief line wherein her joy was told. It lightened toil, and took the edge from pain, Knowing my sacrifice was not in vain.