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!