The long and sultry question of the Nude —
That theme to fire the fancy of the prude —
Is not so much a problem of the part
As of the whole, the perfect thing, in art.
The hidden ever hints of the unclean,
The lewd retreats in presence of the seen.

Roll paints the play of sunlight on the grass
In racy style, and he can paint a lass
Naked and glad and glowing like a rose
To mark the Line of Beauty in repose.
His leaf-fring'd witchery with woodland scenes
Where chequered sunshine glints the golden greens
Is worthy of the haunts where wood nymphs roam
And, with the Pagan painters, find a home.

View De Chavannes, of proud official " fame,"
A " cock-eyed primitive," of mournful aim,
Who scorns the sane and single point of view
And turns aside to cultivate anew
The misty visions of the mad and sad
In gravity and grayness thinly clad.
Yet, tho' his easel paintings give one pause,
His mural-pieces merit sound applause;
Ste. Genevieve , that sheer romantic flow'r,
A Pantheon " mural," is replete with pow'r.

The Salon of the Champ de Mars is one
That students seek and static painters shun.
It hints of some endeavour, and betrays
The search for subtle modes and simple ways.
It marks revolt against the sterile school
That, pow'rless to create, conforms to rule.

The French are strong in technique, but to quote
That technique's all of art, as Courbet wrote,
Pollutes fair Reason's pure and crystal fount
And makes the dainty thought of no account.

With Worldlings, ever reticent of speech;
With her own people, Folly's prone to preach.
Oft at the tender twilight's peaceful pause,
Careless of censure, as of cheap applause,
She seeks the lonely haunts of workingmen —
Some sculptor's, painter's, priest's, or poet's den —
And wiles the dolorous midnight grief away
With words of cheer that Wisdom dare not say.

Art is a cruel jade, of hopes and fears,
Of climbing fames, of laughter and of tears.
There came with her into the gray Globe's life
Consuming ache, corruption, woe and strife,
And all the fitful fever of desire
That tries her Chosen with a sleepless fire.
Life is not cut in sermons at her game —
Her own perfection is her only aim.
The most self-centred goddess known of Time,
She counts her happy dead in every clime.
Men barter peace and quiet for her wiles,
And welcome pain and shame to win her smiles,
And wander naked thro' unresting days

The lust of cheap achievement! that fierce bane,
How many men of talent has it slain!
The ones who falter ere coy Fame will yield,
And, blind to better fun, forsake the field;
Forsake fair aim to court the groundling's praise,
And cultivate the safe and shameful ways;
And, lost to beauty and the sense of sight,
Would rather be Respectable than " Right."
Some say that sore necessity's to blame,
As tho' a word could cloak their sordid aim.
Millet was poor, and so was Troyon, too;
But poverty did not obscure their view;

As it was written in the Book of Fate,
The ranting rabble loves the second-rate;
For the one touch that makes the whole world kin —
Vulgarity — is commonplace as sin.

Men do a thing because they find it pays;
But payment follows in uncounted ways.
The blaze of gold beguiles the worldly-wise;
But Genius looks beyond the dollar prize
Unto that better prize, not made with hands,
Born of the sovran Spirit's high commands;
Serenely sure, tho' jesting Pilates doubt,
The prize is from within, and not without.

The mental toiler marshals from his brain
Its finest music, its diviner strain,
Or he but plays the charlatan, and seeks
To bilk achievement with commercial freaks.
Yet, tho' he win the plaudits of the mart,
Fame, incorruptible, still stands apart;
And, clearer than the chatter of the Crowd,
Her Silence rises, sombre, stern and proud.