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 would blame me then?--     Fear of the tide of darkness     That floweth fast behind,     And hope to make thee journey on     In the journey of the mind.     Were I a skilful painter,     What should I paint for thee?--     A tiny spring-bud peeping out     From a withered wintry tree;     The warm blue sky of summer     O'er jagged ice and snow,     And water hurrying gladsome out     From a cavern down below;     The dim light of a beacon     Upon a stormy sea,     Where a lonely ship to windward beats     For life and liberty;     A watery sun-ray gleaming     Athwart a sullen cloud     And falling on some grassy flower     The rain had earthward bowed;     Morn peeping o'er a mountain,     In ambush for the dark,     And a traveller in the vale below     Rejoicing like a lark;     A taper nearly vanished     Amid the dawning gray,     And a maiden lifting up her head,     And lo, the coming day!     I am no skilful painter;     Let who will blame me then     That I would teach thee hope and fear     With my plain-talking pen!--     Fear of the tide of darkness     That floweth fast behind,     And hope to make thee journey on     In the journey of the mind.