Not less than the sincere accomplishment.
We only know the art we see and love
Is beautiful, intense, most subtile, rare,
And tho' with something from our New World air
Athrill, yet is it masterful, above
All else, with the old mastery—not old
But fresh forever as the dawn's new gold.
And in your art, that follows down the line
Of the world's noblest,—the most high, divine
Kinship of them who painted the deep soul,—
Glows a clear, individual attribute;
Something whereof the praiser would be mute
Save that he needs must tell the very whole
And in his office utterly faithful be:
Something that means swift vision of the truth;
The flame of life; the flush of endless youth;
A trait compounded all of Poesy;
A tone most exquisite, illuminate
With the keen sense of Beauty which even art
Can lift above itself; a throbbing heart;
An element that sets the noonday beam
Vibrant with tints; that makes the little, great;
And while the artist would another render
Reveals his own bright spirit in radiant splendor.
IN TIMES OF PEACE
'T was said: "When roll of drum and battle's roar
Shall cease upon the earth, O, then no more
"The deed, the race, of heroes in the land."
But scarce that word was breathed when one small hand
Lifted victorious o'er a giant wrong
That had its victims crushed through ages long;
