What is the end of all his lovely dreams—

The bright fulfilment of his earthly hopes?

Too often penury and dire disease,

Neglect, a broken heart, an early grave!—

Oh, had he tuned his harp to truths divine,

With saints and martyrs sought a heavenly crown,

How had his theme immortalized his song!—

Behold the man, who to the poet's fire

Unites the painter's fascinating art;

His touch embodies all that fancy brings

To charm the mental vision, and he dives

Into the rich and shadowy world of thought,

Soars up to heaven, or plunges down to hell,

In search of forms to mortal eyes unknown,

To animate the canvass. His bold eye

[Pg 8]

Confronts the king of terrors. Through the gates

Of that dark prison-house of woe and dread

Hails the infernal monarch on his throne,

Crowned with ambition's diadem of fire.—

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