26.12.2010, 15:12
ON THE STATUE OF LORD BYRON,
By Thorwaldsen, in Trinity College Library, Cambridge,
'Tis Strange that I, who haply might have met
Thy living self—who sought to hide the flaws
In thy great fame, and, though I ne'er had set
Eyes on thee, heard thee singing without pause,
And long'd to see thee, should, alas ! detect
The Thyrza-sorrow first on sculptured brows,
And know thee best in marble ! Pate allows
But this poor intercourse ; high and erect
Thou hold'st thy head, whose forward glance beholds
All forms that throng this learned vestibule ;
Women and men, and boys and girls from school,
Who gaze with admiration all uncheck'd
On thy proud lips, and garment's moveless folds,
So still, so calm, so purely beautiful !
And near thee hangs a page, in boyhood penn'd,
When all thy thoughts were, like thy marble, pure ;
When thou hadst none but little faults to mend,
In Lochnagar's cool shadow still secure
From praise or slander ; but thy brilliant youth
And manhood soon took tribute of thy kind ;
Great artists then thy lineaments design VI,
And, last, the Dane's fine chisel struck the truth ;
And, when the current of the breath of fame
Drew up all relics of the master's craft,
This little page,—we know not whence it came, —
Ran flitting forward in the mighty draught,
And, placed at last, where it was fain to be.
Shares our fond gaze between itself and thee.
By Thorwaldsen, in Trinity College Library, Cambridge,
'Tis Strange that I, who haply might have met
Thy living self—who sought to hide the flaws
In thy great fame, and, though I ne'er had set
Eyes on thee, heard thee singing without pause,
And long'd to see thee, should, alas ! detect
The Thyrza-sorrow first on sculptured brows,
And know thee best in marble ! Pate allows
But this poor intercourse ; high and erect
Thou hold'st thy head, whose forward glance beholds
All forms that throng this learned vestibule ;
Women and men, and boys and girls from school,
Who gaze with admiration all uncheck'd
On thy proud lips, and garment's moveless folds,
So still, so calm, so purely beautiful !
And near thee hangs a page, in boyhood penn'd,
When all thy thoughts were, like thy marble, pure ;
When thou hadst none but little faults to mend,
In Lochnagar's cool shadow still secure
From praise or slander ; but thy brilliant youth
And manhood soon took tribute of thy kind ;
Great artists then thy lineaments design VI,
And, last, the Dane's fine chisel struck the truth ;
And, when the current of the breath of fame
Drew up all relics of the master's craft,
This little page,—we know not whence it came, —
Ran flitting forward in the mighty draught,
And, placed at last, where it was fain to be.
Shares our fond gaze between itself and thee.