_Painter._ Let none call happy one whose art's deep source
They know not--or what thorny paths he trode
To reach its dazzling goal!
_Marquis._ What dost thou mean?
_Painter._ I'll seek a simile--Some gorgeous cloud
Oft towers in wondrous majesty before ye--
It bathes its bosom in pure ether's flood,
Evening twines crowns of roses for its head,
And for its mantle weaves a fringe of gold;
Ye gaze on it admiring and enchanted--
Yet know not whence its airy structure rose!
If it breathe incense from some holy altar,
Or earth-born vapours from the teeming soil,
When rain from Heav'n descends--if fiery breath
Of battle, or the darkly rolling smoke
Of conflagration, thus its giant towers
Pile on the sky--ye care not, but enjoy
Its form and glory,--Thus it is with art!
Whether 'twere born amid the sunny depths
Of a glad heart entranced in mutual love--
Or, likelier far, alas! the sorrowing child
Of restless anguish, and baptized in tears--
Or wrung from Genius even amid the throes
Of worse than death--Ye gaze and ye admire,
Nor pause to ask what it hath cost the heart
That gave it being!
_Blackwood's Magazine._
* * * * *
Romance is ever readier
To make unbidden sacrifice, than rear
The sober edifice of mutual bliss! Ibid.
* * * * *