Poems (Gould, 1833)/The Young Artist
THE YOUNG ARTIST.[1]
Ay! young dreamer, this is the hourFor the tablet to glow by the pencil's power!When the soul is pure, and warm, and new,And believes that the world, like itself, is true—When the sky is cloudless, the eye is bright,And gives to its objects its own clear light;Now is the time, while the heart is single,For the painter's touch—for the hues to mingle!Now the portions of light and shadeWill on the delicate sketch be laidTo stand indelibly, all betweenLife's gay morn and its closing scene!
Honors may bloom on thy future way;And the rays of glory around thee play.But Fame's best laurels never will beSo dear as thy sister's wreath to thee!For, they will not set on a cloudless brow,And a silken curl, as we see them now!Fame will her envied crown prepareFor the whitening locks and the brow of care.Its clustering leaves will not be litBy the smile of a child, who has braided it! As thy native castle, sublimely grand,A beautiful structure, thou may'st standHigh and unmoved by the tempest's strife,The bolt and the blast of the storms of life.But should it be thus, there must come a dayWhen thy house will shake, and its strength decay;When the light that will gild its crumbling towersMust be left by the sun of thy childish hours!Then, may their memory, like the vine,Mantling over the ruin, twine,And, spreading a living vesture, climbTo cover the rust and the tooth of time,And curtain with verdure the mouldering walls,Which shall not fade till the fabric falls!
Sister, gather the buds of Spring,All dewy and bright, as they 're opening!Treasure them up from the frost and blight,For a lowering day and a starless night.And they will be fresh in thy bosom stillWhen all without may be dark and chill.Another will seek to be crowned by theeLord of thy heart and thy destiny!Thou may'st bestow, in thy riper years,Laurels to water with daily tears.Then will memory love to comeThrough mist and shade, to thine early home,Within the halo that brightly beamsAround the scene of thine infant dreams.Again thou wilt playfully sit, and lookOn the artlesss ketch of thy brother's book, And own no moment of earthly blissSo pure, so holy, and sweet as this!
Children, Time is a fleeting day,The brighter its scenes, the sooner away!Look to the mansion, and seek the crownThat shall not decay when the sun goes down!
- ↑ An engraving originally accompanied this poem, representing a boy seated on a flowery bank, with pencil and book, sketching from the natural objects around him. His little sister, who has playfully twined a wreath of budding flowers about his brow, sits beside him, looking into his sketch book. In the distance is seen an old and ivy-mantled castle, supposed to be the home of the children in the foreground,