Art.

Yes, let Art go, if it must be That with it men must starve— If Music, Painting, Poetry Spring from the wasted hearth. Pluck out the flower, however fair, Whose beauty cannot bloom, (However sweet it be, or rare) Save from a noisome tomb. These social manners, charm and ease, Are hideous to who knows The degradation, the disease From which their beauty flows. So, Poet, must thy singing be; O Painter, so thy scene; Musician, so thy melody, While misery is queen. Nay, brothers, sing us battle-songs With clear and ringing rhyme; Nay, show the world its hateful wrongs, And bring the better time!