And thus I sought To chain my spirit down which erst I freed For flights to fame: I said, "The troubled life Of genius, seen so gay when working forth Some trusted end, grows sad when all proves vain-- How sad when men have parted with truth's peace For falsest fancy's sake, which waited first As an obedient spirit when delight Came without fancy's call: but alters soon, Comes darkened, seldom, hastens to depart, Leaving a heavy darkness and warm tears. But I shall never lose her; she will live Dearer for such seclusion. I but catch A hue, a glance of what I sing: so, pain Is linked with pleasure, for I ne'er may tell Half the bright sights which dazzle me; but now Mine shall be all the radiance: let them fade Untold--others shall rise as fair, as fast! And when all's done, the few dim gleams transferred,"-- (For a new thought sprang up how well it were, Discarding shadowy hope, to weave such lays As straight encircle men with praise and love, So, I should not die utterly,--should bring One branch from the gold forest, like the knight Of old tales, witnessing I had been there)-- "And when all's done, how vain seems e'en success-- The vaunted influence poets have o'er men! 'Tis a fine thing that one weak as myself Should sit in his lone room, knowing the words He utters in his solitude shall move Men like a swift wind--that though dead and gone, New eyes shall glisten when his beauteous dreams Of love come true in happier frames than his. Ay, the still night brings thoughts like these, but morn Comes and the mockery again laughs out At hollow praises, smiles allied to sneers; And my soul's idol ever whispers me To dwell with him and his unhonored song: And I foreknow my spirit, that would press First in the struggle, fail again to make All bow enslaved, and I again should sink. "And then know that this curse will come on us, To see our idols perish; we may wither, No marvel, we are clay, but our low fate Should not extend to those whom trustingly We sent before into time's yawning gulf To face what dread may lurk in darkness there. To find the painter's glory pass, and feel Music can move us not as once, or, worst, To weep decaying wits ere the frail body Decays! Naught makes me trust some love is true, But the delight of the contented lowness With which I gaze on him I keep forever Above me; I to rise and rival him? Feed his fame rather from my heart's best blood, Wither unseen that he may flourish still."