Classic Poem

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;
The wolf of Need was often at their door,
The wolf that Hals and Holbein knew before.
The peace that passeth understanding came
To teach them patience in their fight for fame;
Theirs was the grit that struggles to survive
And keep the better part the most alive;
And theirs the joy that clean creation brings
When singing Fancy mounts on soaring wings.
The master's pay is in this Joy of Work,
'Tis not in lucre that his prizes lurk;
The world may rations give, but rarely more,
For men are brib'd to grovel, not to soar.