Though parted by distance, those scenes of my childhood Rise fresh in my mind, when to them I recur— I fancy I visit the vale and the wildwood, Where flowers yield perfume, like India’s myrrh;— And then, in the warmth of the deepest emotion, I stand as in youth on the banks of that rill, And hear in its gurgle a song of devotion. With mine, for the Cottage that stood on the hill. The rudely built Cottage, the old-fashioned Cottage, The one-story Cottage, that stood on the hill.
“Like a clear fountain, his desire Exults, and leaps toward the light, In every drop it says ‘Aspire!’ Striving for more ideal height.” — “Looking within myself, I note how thin A plank of station, chance, or prosperous fate, Doth fence me from the clutching waves of sin; _In my own heart I find the worst man’s mate!_” J. R. LOWELL.
An artist was passing slowly through the thorough-fare of a great city, where for a few days he was sojourning.
He was a young man, and the few years of his life, if they had proved heavy and sorrowful in experience, had at least left no dark impress on his forehead. His figure was strikingly elegant, and the face manly, and very beautiful; it might well have been taken to represent the Genius of Thought, so calm, elevated, and ennobled by spiritual excellence was it.
The artist was a poor man; you could guess that by the worn garments in which he was attired, for from the figure, bearing, and whole appearance of the youth, it was evident that he was not of that class of geniuses who affect shabbiness in personal appearance, in the name of eccentricity.
And he was an ambitious young man, too. A glance into his studio, where constantly and diligently he toiled in his vocation, had told you that. It would seem by the constant emendations he would make, and by the finished style he labored to impart to all he did, that nothing short of superior excellence or perfection in his art, would satisfy him.
He has come into the open air this morning, not because he is wearied with his work, for it is a source of continual delight to him—neither in search of amusement, but to ponder on a thought which has long harbored in his mind—three pictures should be his fame. From his quiet studio he would send into the world a moral lesson that should delight and instruct, and leave in the world an abiding moral influence. Not only did Martin Gray long to win for himself a proud name on the earth, but with the poets and the preachers he would fain lift up his voice and teach—he also would be a priest and a reformer, and by his works he would testify to the infinite beauty of holiness and virtue.