 | 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.
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