Our Art is but a word; a breathy note;
Mere Aspect of its Purpose left unsaid,
Great Statement, yet untried, still i'th'throat,
Its purposed Beauty half uncoverèd.
Expressions Power, nor its Means to find,
The Sleeping Infant, slept too long, ne'er learns,
Till Waked by Muse's Messenger, a Mind
Will ne'er learn Way, to walk Beyond its Bournes.
Reflecting on exchange, but brief, an eve,
Echoing strains of Genius' Sounding bred:
The heights a Loving Maestro might achieve,
His Cradling Care of Art rememberèd.
Blest Art's Babes, in Fortune's Art, roused by Him;
Blest Art, sans need to sound Its Requiem.