Page:The poems of Emma Lazarus volume 1.djvu/247

Rh Mayhap I lack the gift. Alas, I fear it! But not the patience, not the energy Of earnest, indefatigable toil, That help to make the artist.

’S death! He dares Belie me, and deny the testimony Of his own handiwork, whose every line Betrays a sluggard soul, an indolent will, A brain that s bred to idleness. So be it! Master Lorenzo tells the Spagnoletto His own defects and qualities! ’T were best He find another teacher competent To guide so apt, so diligent a scholar.

Dear father, what hath given thee offence? Cast but another glance upon the sketch; Surely it hath some grace, some charm, some promise.

Daughter, stand by! I know these insolent slips Of young nobility; they lack the stuff That makes us artists. What! to answer me! When next I drop a hint as to his colors, The lengthening or the shortening of a stroke, He’ll bandy words with me about his error, To prove himself the master.