Sonnets, Lyrics and Translations By the Rev. Charles Turner [i.e. Charles Tennyson] |
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THE DYING SCULPTOR. |
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 | Sonnets, Lyrics and Translations |  |
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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 hop'd would reappear
The model glories of the Belvidere,
With its proud-postur'd grace in every line;
'Tis time I learn'd, while slowly fading here,
To study lowlier attitudes than thine.”
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