POEMS
393
| Chief, the charm of thy reflecting, |
| Is the moral that it brings; |
| Nature, with the mind connecting, |
| Gives the artist's fancy wings. |
| Soul, sublime 'mid human débris, |
| Paints the limner's work, I ween, |
| Art and Science, all unweary, |
| Lighting up this mortal dream. |
| Work ill-done within the misty |
| Mine of human thoughts, we see |
| Soon abandoned when the Master |
| Crowns life's Cliff for such as we. |
| Students wise, he maketh now thus |
| Those who fish in waters deep, |
| When the buried Master hails us |
| From the shores afar, complete. |
| Art hath bathed this isthmus-lordling |
| In a beauty strong and meek |
| As the rock, whose upward tending |
| Points the plane of power to seek. |
| Isle of beauty, thou art teaching |
| Lessons long and grand, to-night, |
| To my heart that would be bleaching |
| To thy whiteness, Cliff of Wight. |
