Yes, let Art go, if it must be
That with it men must starve--
If Music, Painting, Poetry
Spring from the wasted hearth.
Pluck out the flower, however fair,
Whose beauty cannot bloom,
(However sweet it be, or rare)
Save from a noisome tomb.
These social manners, charm and ease,
Are hideous to who knows
The degradation, the disease
From which their beauty flows.
So, Poet, must thy singing be;
O Painter, so thy scene;
Musician, so thy melody,
While misery is queen.
_Nay_, _brothers_, _sing us battle-songs_
_With clear and ringing rhyme_;
_Nay_, _show the world its hateful wrongs_,
_And bring the better time_!