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I was ever a fighter, so—one fight more,
The best and the last !
And bade me creep past.
The heroes of old,
Of pain, darkness and cold.
The black minute 's at end,
Shall dwindle, shall blend,
Then a light, then thy breast,
And with God be the rest !
YOUTH AND ART.
It once might have been, once only:
We lodged in a street together,
I, a lone she-bird of his feather.
Your trade was with sticks and clay,
You thumbed, thrust, patted and polished, Then laughed “ They will see some day
Smith made, and Gibson demolished.”
My business was song, song, song ;
I chirped, cheeped, trilled and twittered, “ Kate Brown 's on the boards ere long,
And Grisi's existence embittered !"
I earned no more by a warble
Than you by a sketch in plaster ; You wanted a piece of marble,
I needed a music-master.
We studied hard in our styles,
Chipped each at a crust like Hindoos, For air, looked out on the tiles,
For fun, watched each other's windows.
You lounged, like a boy of the South,
Cap and blouse-nay, a bit of beard too; Or you got it, rubbing your mouth
With fingers the clay adhered to.