The Story
of Saville
Thicker than jewels of August dew, so that his only fear
Was that the phantom embryos, tiny as stars of snow,
Might melt and slip away into naught, and he never see them go—
And often he rose in the dead of night and dashed off a virile sketch
To lull into quiet some clamoring shape that had kept his mind at a stretch;
Then followed his masterpiece, “Rupert’s Trust,”—God! how he sweated and slaved,
Denying his body forgotten the nurture and slumber it craved;
Ah! that was well worthy the doing, worthy a continent’s praise—
Men for a slighter achievement than this had been crowned with eternal bays—
He had dropped his palette and brushes, had sent his soul in the gaze
He bent on his picture completed, his beautiful darling,—had smiled
To think that his wedlock devoted had bloomed in an exquisite child,—
What! could it be that men cherished their children born but of the flesh
As he cherished this holier offspring snared in a mystical mesh,
