Three Hundred Sonnets | ||
72
PHIDIAS.
O rare creative mind, and plastic hand,Whose skill enshrined in one gigantic form,
Chryselephantine, rear'd in air enorme,
The viewless guardian of thy father-land
Olympian Jove,—pardon to thee for this,
That of the God whose chariot is the storm
Thy soul by Him untaught should deem amiss,
Pardon to thee, and praise; thy labour proves
The heart's sincerity, though little light
Scatter'd the darkness of thy moral night:
Behold, it quickens! the colossus moves!
Who, who would not fall down?—Start not, ye proud,
Perchance your idols are as false as Jove's,
And ye more guilty than that pagan crowd.
Three Hundred Sonnets | ||