31.12.2010, 12:43
THE DYING SCULPTOR.
' I hear my comrades' tools at busy morn,'
The youthful sculptor said ; ' but my poor name
Must die, like some poor babe that dies unborn.
While they may follow Phidias in his fame ;
I may not lift my head above the crowd ;
My marble visions are dissolving fast ;
My dream of art flits like some snow-white cloud
From weary eyes, that watch it to the last,
Before they sleep ; and thou, my last design !
Wherein I fondly hoped would reappear
The model glories of the Belvidere,
With his proud-postured grace in every line ;
'Tis time I learn'd, while slowly fading here.
To study lowlier attitudes than thine.'
' I hear my comrades' tools at busy morn,'
The youthful sculptor said ; ' but my poor name
Must die, like some poor babe that dies unborn.
While they may follow Phidias in his fame ;
I may not lift my head above the crowd ;
My marble visions are dissolving fast ;
My dream of art flits like some snow-white cloud
From weary eyes, that watch it to the last,
Before they sleep ; and thou, my last design !
Wherein I fondly hoped would reappear
The model glories of the Belvidere,
With his proud-postured grace in every line ;
'Tis time I learn'd, while slowly fading here.
To study lowlier attitudes than thine.'