A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields/Advice to a Young Poet (Auguste Vacquerie)
Friend, care for art, and care not for success,
It matters not if fools insult or bless;
Doubts, fears for thee would in my breast prevail,
If from the outset thou didst spread full sail,
And no winds adverse, quicksands, battles hard,
And death-fears even, crossed thee to retard.
Those who are great pass not, though every door
Open before them. Thou shouldst set no store
Upon the mode or fashion of the hour:
That passes; and the name, to-day of power,
To-morrow shall be eaten up by rust:
Dust soon returns, alas! to kindred dust.
The mode requires a marvel at each turn;
Oh, what a god! Let us our incense burn,
Is still the cry. But gods of yesterday,
What are they now? The potter's common clay.
The hope of an eternity of light
Once theirs, is over in a single night.
Thou, therefore, heedless of the senseless crowd,
Brood on thy thought, and to thy goal steer proud;
Work, work unceasing with thy pen in hand,
Or brow deep buried, till arising grand
Stands forth the new Idea like a star,
Apparent, lustrous, clear, if still afar;
And with thy sweat and blood achieve thy task,
Which brings its own reward—no other ask.
If thou, insensible to all abuse
Or worse, faint lukewarm praise so oft in use,
Livest in art, and carest not who hears,
And who indifferent heeds not, while he sneers,
And art not angry when blind men exhort,
Or honest men in praising, praise too short;
Thou too shall have at last the mob's acclaim,
Longer, though later, and the noise called fame:
But oh, forget not, should it still delay,
Now means an hour, to-morrow means for aye.