WERE I A SKILFUL PAINTER.

Were I a skilful painter, My pencil, not my pen, Should try to teach thee hope and fear; And who should blame me then? Fear of the tide-like darkness That followeth close behind, And hope to make thee journey on In the journey of the mind.

Were I a skilful painter, What should my painting be? A tiny spring-bud peeping forth From a withered wintry tree. The warm blue sky of summer Above the mountain snow, Whence water in an infant stream, Is trying how to flow.

The dim light of a beacon Upon a stormy sea, Where wild waves, ruled by wilder winds, Yet call themselves the free. One sunbeam faintly gleaming Athwart a sullen cloud, Like dawning peace upon a brow In angry weeping bowed.

Morn climbing o'er the mountain, While the vale is full of night, And a wanderer, looking for the east, Rejoicing in the sight. A taper burning dimly Amid the dawning grey, And a maiden lifting up her head, And lo, the coming day!

And thus, were I a painter, My pencil, not my pen, Should try to teach thee hope and fear; And who should blame me then? Fear of the tide-like darkness That followeth close behind, And hope to make thee journey on In the journey of the mind.