As THROUGH the pictured pages of fair nature's book, With searching eye and thoughtful mind you look, Or man's own varied thought, and life, and face you scan, Ranging his changeful history since time began, The sage's vigorous word wins acquiescence due— “The Beautiful is but the splendor of the True.” The sheen of flowers, the grace of arching forest trees, The symmetry of hills, the smile of summer seas, The spell of music, all the wondrous charms of sound, Man's works of mind or hand, where strength or grace is found— All things in art or nature, small, great, old or new, If true are beautiful, if beautiful are true. False notes in song, false words, falseness in act, or thought, or form, Whatever violates God's perfect law must still deform. Heaven is all beautiful, because no falseness there Can enter in, its ordered perfectness to mar. Art o'er its failures, sin its shame, thin veils may draw; Nought can be beautiful that violates a law. So let us strive, whatever else we lose or gain, Whatever works be failures, whatever hopes be vain, Disdaining futile arts, false colors, false display, All tinsel brilliancy, attract however it may— Strive still, in thought and life this maxim to renew, “The Beautiful is but the splendor of the True.”