University of Virginia Library

THE FRAGMENT FINISHED.

It stood for many years, a fabric shorn
Of half its beauty, like a creature born
Out of due season in an alien clime,
Where thought and speech have lost the common chime
Of their young marriage—like a gem unset—
A blotted page, a record of regret—
Unfinished. As from resurrection ground
It rose, like flame that laughs at every bound,
But in mid distance stayed its upward flght—
A broken aim that would be infinite,
Though earth-fast. For He who alone could give
The crowning grace, whose love had made it live
And leap from marble, the great Master Mind
Had passed away, and had not left behind
The secret of his art. And thus it stood
Imperfect, in its utter orphanhood,
A thought half-spoken, hid in holy state,
A song unended, inarticulate—
God's temple still, but with no hand of hope
Uplifted to the golden gates that ope
To faith. It stood, while praises rippled round
Its walls, and made a sanctuary of sound.
Years followed years, and then a pupil came,
Who at the Master's feet had learned to frame
Stories in stones, that speech had never wrought,
And mould in marble the imperial thought
Too large for utterance, and could draw from mire
Music and passion and the tongue of fire.
And he had learned that nothing is so weak
Or worthless, but it can be tuned to speak,
And has within the angel's wings to fly,
That links its spirit with eternity.
He learned the gladness that is taught by tears,
And studied hope in the stern school of fears,
And so he know that to the open heart
No mystery lives, and in the meanest part
The whole lies hidden, and the touch of love
Can raise the earthliest to the courts above.
He came, and marvelled that the mighty plan
Had not borne out the glory it began,
And oft he wept: till, as he daily bent
In worship, lo! the walls grew eloquent
And to his reverence told the secret, long
Locked in their bosom like a silent song.
And on him flashed, to his puro sorrow given,
The finished fabric like a glimpse of heaven.
And so he wrought in prayer and with sweet pain,
Nor found his sacred labour was in vain
For the great Master, though the world was blind,
Translating into marble the great Mind,
That left its beauty like a watch-tower lone,
And building thoughts in everlasting stone.
Till the rich spire rose from the radiant whole,
White, pure, and perfect, like a cleansèd soul—
Like a glad spirit freed from prisoning bars,
Returning to its rest and native stars—
Embodied flame, rejoicing in its strength,
When its completeness had received, at length,
The last fair finish of the workman's hand,
To be a joy and wonder in the land.