IN FRENCH FIELDS.
255
Stands forth the new Idea like a star,
Apparent, lustrous, clear, if still afar;
And with thy sweat and blood achieve thy task,
Which brings its own reward—no other ask.
If thou, insensible to all abuse
Or worse, faint lukewarm praise so oft in use,
Livest in art, and carest not who hears,
And who indifferent heeds not, while he sneers,
And art not angry when blind men exhort,
Or honest men in praising, praise too short;
Thou too shall have at last the mob's acclaim,
Longer, though later, and the noise called fame:
But oh, forget not, should it still delay,
Now means an hour, to-morrow means for aye.
