Twixt these four walls, so dusk and soiled by Time,
Where you, poor student, with your dreams sublime,
Build a proud future—many a flaming brow
Hath reared the structure you are rearing now;
Then saw it, under Time's relentless hand,
Crumbling to nothing, like a dome of sand,
And the heart with it. Many a canvas here,
Painted with life-blood, and the modest tear;
Where hope still shed its wild misguiding light
Or, where ambition, in his fancied might,
Rivalled the masters, now, midst dusty lots
Of kindred lumber in the Ghetto rots,
Gathering blackness, till the stranger calls,
And, for a pittance, decks his far-off walls
With “Raphaels,” “Claudes;” and other rubbish lies,
While the poor artist in his garret dies.
In yon low cell, that reeks with ancient damp,
The student sculptor burns his nightly lamp;
The summer day too short to tire his heart.
Art is his toil; his pastime still is art.
There hews his statue; suffering as he carves.
And at the feet of his first effort starves.
Here toiled a courage hunger could not tame,
Till crushed ambition sapped the failing frame.
Here the young soul for truth and beauty sighed,
Till envy smote him, and the victim died.

Here many an aspiration as divine
As yours has perished—as may thine and mine:
And we may see the names we write to-day
So proudly, brushed, as idle dust, away.
Well, let them pass; 't were nobler thus to fall,
Striving, than never to have striven at all.
Brave heart, toil on; and grandly struggle still,
With steady purpose, and unwavering will;
There is reward, though failure crowns your lot;
A triumph Time and Envy baffle not;
The noble suffering, and the long endeavor,
Shall bring the soul its recompense forever.