The Young Artist By Mary Arthur SHE sat among the whisp'ring woods, With wild flowers at her feet, And heard from out the glossy leaves A murmur soft and sweet; Yet not the music or the balm Had stirred the lady's thought- A spell of deeper, fuller power Had there its magic wrought. A vision rose before her, bright As dreams of hope can be, And wakened to a new delight Her fancy bold and free: A dream of fame and glory, When years of toil were flown, When all the weariness was past, And brightness all her own. "I will win a radiant future! It shall glow with colors rare, And the great and noble of the earth Shall pour their tributes there. Oh, is it not a glorious gift, This living, proud desire, That gladdens with its brilliancy, And warms me with its fire. "No wavering doubt shall hold me From the point I hope to win; Nor will I need the world's applause When satisfied within. I will pass through all the shadows That cluster round my way, And only feel the darkness past When reigns for me the day."