Charles Mackay (Чарльз Маккей)
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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