To Impatient Genius

Painter that with soul-creations
Would'st attain th' applause of nations;
And deserve a name of glory
To be writ in future story;
Work thy way.
Live with Nature, love her truly,
Wisely, wholly:—and so duly
Bide thy day.
With high thoughts thy mind adorning,
Heed no critic's shallow scorning,
Nor at yelping curs repine:
Every light must cast a shadow,
So must thine.

Sculptor, with ambition glowing,
Steep thyself to overflowing
In the majesty and greatness,
Strength, and beauty, and sedateness
Of th' antique:
But forget not living Nature,
Heavenly in its form and feature,
For the Greek.
Beauty is renew'd for ever:—
Let its love support endeavor,
Though neglect enwrap thee now—
Work:—and men will find a laurel
For thy brow.

Poet, singing in the earnest
Love and Hope with which thou burnest,
And upon a lofty summit
Sounding nature with the plummet
Of thy song:
Grieve not if thy voice be chidden,
And thy tuneful lustre hidden
Under wrong.
Scorn not Fame, but rise above it;
Truth rewards the minds that love it;
Like the planets shine and sing;—
Noontide follows every morning,—
Summer, spring.

One and all, be up and doing;
Glory needs incessant wooing;
And if Faith—not mere ambition—
Prompts you to a noble mission,
You shall rise:
But the acorn, small and flower-like,
Must have time to flourish bower-like
To the skies.
Bide you yours:—of wealth not lustful;
Ever patient, calm, and trustful:—
Years shall magnify your bole,
And produce immortal foliage
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