THE SCULPTOR'S REVERIE.
SCULPTOR sate late in his desolate room,At the close of a dim Roman day,
He watched the grim shadows that fresco'd the walls,
He dreamed o'er his model in clay.
He looked deeply down in his sorrowing soul,
At the image he longed to create,
But not as those embers died out on the hearth,
Could that fire ever abate.
At the image he longed to create,
But not as those embers died out on the hearth,
Could that fire ever abate.
He saw but a feeble reflection that burned
In the depths of his passionate soul,
And felt the sweet vision more distant and faint,
With an anguish he could not control.
In the depths of his passionate soul,
And felt the sweet vision more distant and faint,
With an anguish he could not control.
The room was thronged thick with vague sculptures that mock'd
At fancies that swept through his mind,
Through realms of cold imagery known but to him,
And seen through the tears that did blind.
At fancies that swept through his mind,
Through realms of cold imagery known but to him,
And seen through the tears that did blind.
