 | English Roses |  |
THE QUARRIED HEART.
The generations yet unborn shall come,And quarry at his treaure houses; some
To hang in tawdry frames some priceless gem,
Or join it to a harlot's diadem
Of borrowed beauty; some to turn their mud
To palaces, that make the marble bud
And laugh for ever in immortal lines.
But, while he lived, men counted not his mines
As rich with jewels and red gold; they passed
To others, when they saw their features glassed
In vulgar forms and squalid fancies. None
Would know, that here a Master's work was done.
They loved to find their own mean stupid parts
Reflected by the same ignoble arts
And glorified, and hail themselves all girt
With native folly and congenial dirt
Gilt. But this man would never soil his hand
With touch of vileness, for a King's command
Or ransom, and he went his royal way
Unswerving if the whole world stept astray
And left him stranded still. He held the truth,
Who rendered it in dreams of deathless youth—
And syllabled in song, till earth shall fly,
Sole in his splendid wise insanity.
490
The poor and needy, and in lavishness
Of regal robes made fine the naked form
Which else had no defence against the storm;
And scattered praises, like pure flowers of white,
To lift the little to his infinite;
Even now they call their own his riches, fain
To steal that plenty which he wrung from pain;
Till all the world is sweeter for his art,
The quarried fragments of a broken heart.
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