Fables in Song :: :: University of Virginia Library

The Artist strode into the statued hall,
Up to the block; and, with pleased eyes perused
The Marble's snowy sides, slow measuring all
The length and breadth of them. The while he mused,
Into the stone, with such intense regard,
His deep gaze dived, that in a mystic thrill
It felt his human eye, throughout its hard
And frozen bulk, with a creative will

Awakening beauteous forms in slumber claspt,
Which heaved as tho'd that will they half foreknew.
Sudden, he stretch'd his searching hand, and grasp'd . . .
—Ah strange! 'Twas not the Chisel that now flew
Dartlike, obedient to that aiming eye,
Into the heart of the expectant stone.
His Thought plunged, kneading, in the trough hard by,
And clods of viscous Clay, one after one,
Thick on the table thump'd with clumsy thud:
There, grew together: wormlike writhing, rose
Pliant to every touch: until the mud,
Gliding and glutinous, 'gan half disclose
The thought that quicken'd it. Its impish speed
Was half, like Caliban, ungainly, half,
Like Ariel, delicate, till Fancy freed
Her image struggling from it. With low laught
“Seest thou?” it lisp'd and mutter'd. “Seest thou? Try
To follow me now; and mine image take
Upon thee. Which of us hath (I or thou)
The fine creative faculty to make
Ideas first corporeal?” And, complete
In clay, a statute stood before the gaze
Of the astonisht Marble.

Then, to eat
Slowly, and gnaw through all the intricate maze
Of netted lines about his body thrown,
The griding chisel, with three-corner'd wedge,

Ground his keen tooth upon the spluttering stone
Which sprang and split in sparkles round the edge,
Driven by the dancing mallet. By degrees
The out-thrust throat and formidable face
Assume imperative purpose: fingers seize
And grasp the fluttering scrollwith eager grace:
The deep eye darkens under beetling brows:
The half-uplifted arm begins to shake
The toga's massive fold, that backward flows:
And the stretcht finger points. What worlds awake
Upon those quivering lips? What thunder-speech
Up heaves the fierce Democarcy, and breaks
The power of pale Patricians cowering each
From that curl'd lip? For lo, the Tribune speaks!
The Tribune? O proud Marble, royal born,
Thou the coarse organ of the Demos? thou!
“Art thou enough humiliated, Scorn?
Pride, is thy loftiness at last brought low?”
The base material, to the nobler one
Form'd after its own image, sneer'd. “By Me,
And after me! 'This thus, and thus alone,
That, pround one, thou henceforth hast leave to be.”

But te pure Marble, in the image clothed
Of a new power, still conscious to the last
Of all his ancient force, made answer “Loathed
Abortive botch! A granted garb thou hast,
But think not thou art safe in it. `By thee?'
Through thee, say rather: who hast now made known

Undream'd of means, and mightier ones, to me
of being above thee. Look, fool, one thine own
Futile and perishable frame. Behold!
Already runs the gaping fissure straight
From head to heel. For all thy boasting bold,
They tottering limbs can scarce support the weight
Of thy flaw's body; and thy flimsy flesh
Hastily put together, may not long
Uphold thy silly head. Some crevice fresh
Is daily widening those loose clods among.
Drunk with the fancied triumph of a day,
Thou staggerest. Me, superior still, thou must
Invoke to represent thee. Baseborn Clay,
Slave of the immortal Marble, sink—in dust!”