Her artistic conceptions are more fully developed in some of these poems than in any of her novels, especially in “Armgart” and “The Legend of Jubal.”  The special thought of “Armgart” is, that no artistic success is of so much worth as a loving sympathy with others.  The longing of Armgart was to be—­

                  a happy spiritual star

Such as old Dante saw, wrought in a rose
Of light in Paradise, whose only self
Was consciousness of glory wide-diffused,
Music, life, power—­I moving in the midst
With a sublime necessity of good.

Her ambition runs very high.

              May the day be near when men
  Think much to let my horses draw me home,
  And new lands welcome me upon their beach,
  Loving me for my fame.  That is the truth
  Of what I wish, nay, yearn for.  Shall I lie? 
  Pretend to seek obscurity—­to sing
  In hope of disregard?  A vile pretence! 
  And blasphemy besides.  For what is fame
  But the benignant strength of One, transformed
  To joy of Many?  Tributes, plaudits come
  As necessary breathing of such joy;
  And may they come to me!

Armgart is beloved of the Graf, and he tries to persuade her to abandon her artistic career and become his wife.  He says to her,—­

A woman’s rank
Lies in the fulness of her womanhood: 
Therein alone she is loyal.

Again he says to her,—­

                             Pain had been saved,
  Nay, purer glory reached, had you been throned
  As woman only, holding all your art
  As attribute to that dear sovereignty—­
  Concentering your power in home delights
  Which penetrate and purify the world.

Armgart will not listen; her whole heart is enlisted in music.  She says to the Graf,—­

I will live alone and pour my pain
With passion into music, where it turns
To what is best within my better self.

A year later Armgart’s throat has failed, and her career has ended in nothing.  Then her servant and friend, Walpurga, who has devoted her life to Armgart, speaks that lesson George Eliot would convey in this little story, that a true life is a life of service.  Walpurga chides Armgart’s false ambition in these words: 

                      I but stand
  As a small symbol for the mighty sum
  Of claims unpaid to needy myriads;
  I think you never set your loss beside
  That mighty deficit.  Is your work gone—­
  The prouder queenly work that paid itself
  And yet was overpaid with men’s applause! 
  Are you no longer chartered, privileged,
  But sunk to simple woman’s penury,
  To ruthless Nature’s chary average—­
  Where is the rebel’s right for you alone? 
  Noble rebellion lifts a common load;
  But what is he who flings his own load off
  And leaves his fellows toiling?  Rebel’s right? 
  Say, rather, the deserter’s.