When the artist has laboured at his idea until it takes a form, not quite the matchless creation he dreamt, but as nearly approaching to it as his skill or paints can come, a glow of unearthly passion and wonderment at his own work comes over him; he has caught something more than he dreamt about, even although it be not quite so fair; for the vague indefinite is always more perfect than the embodied reality. He looks at his work with awe and wonderment. _SOUL_ Yes! the image is completed, every feature there is caught, Death is conquered, and immortal we have made it out of naught; And from that strange spark within us, that strange spark of inner fire, It is like ourselves, immortal, it can grovel or aspire. What is that which we have given it? something that we cannot tell, Something of a life beyond us, for we feel it oft rebel; Something thrilling, something noble, something leading to a goal, Ours--and yet beyond explaining, call it Heart or call it Soul. The artist wonders at himself, and, with the excitement, sees past the form to the ideal. It is like a draught of nectar to him, that Olympian wine which made the gods mad in the pleasant court of old Jove. _ADORATION_ I have made it. Have I made it? It is noble, it is good. It seems perfect, can I wonder that it is not understood? There were pangs in its out-coming, efforts of the clouded Will, But it forced its way to being, all my frame is trembling still. I have made it. Have I made it? Can the _wish_ engender power? I am humble, yet adore it; it was in me scarce an hour. I but yielded up volition, not one effort did it cost, Only pangs of indecision when I feared the thought was lost. He is exhausted with the effort and goes to bed, sleeping a dreamless sleep, while the dormant mind sobers down; and now comes the hour of reaction and icy pain, when he rises changed and cool to review the fevered work of yesterday. Reflection sets in, and he tastes of the cup of doubt and despair. _REFLECTION_ From the clouds we have descended, time hath cooled our fevered brains, Reason pounces on her victim, rivets round him iron chains, Pointing out each imperfection with a finger tipped in ice, Jeering tells him his creation cannot bear the looking twice, Sets him up, his harshest critic; now the labour has begun, Hours of thinking, watching, working, when the spirit part is done, Timid touches, happy chances, beatings of the fearful heart; First creation, second motion, then the patient tricks of art.