The Story
of Saville
No man for your fellow,—Enough! You are even so Kyrle and alone!”
Ah, well! he had hoped that the world one day would thus acknowledge his power,
Would wreath his temples with immortelles, would cast at his feet the dower
That genius merits and sometimes wins; but alas! not e’en for an hour
Had he been the idol; the waxen bud had blackened and failed of a flower.
And now he inquired as a father might of a distant and darling child
Of the veriest trifles; he knew how hard they were to be reconciled,
The needs of a picture like “Rupert’s Trust,” and the mirk of a dusty shop,—
Was it decently hung? did the light fall true from a shaded jet at the top?
And Oh! was it verily great? did it hold the vital, the God-given spark
That had been his latest glimpse upon earth, that still struck white through the dark?
Was the flame still lambently blazing and clear, the gold from the dross to refine,
Of force to pierce and to purify men, and change then from panthers and swine?
