Poems (McDonald)/The Sculptor's Dream of Home
He stood alone, amid the magic forms
His chisel's touch had wakened. There were shapes
Of rare and most exceeding loveliness;
And the cold marble seemed instinct with life,
So vividly had his high art called back
The buried past, and peopled that dim spot
With the bright creatures of poetic thought.
He stood alone, a stranger. His loved home,
Far o'er the sea, in the fair western world,
Lay in its untold beauty. Mountain heights
Reared their blue summits to the summer heaven;
Broad prairie lands, where bounds the buffalo,
Still stretched, unmeasured by the gazer's eye;
And the far-reaching rivers, deep and strong,
Linked shining lakes with ocean.—But for him,
Though fair as Eden were its grassy vales,
Its wooded heights, and rush of crystal waves,
His spirit's eager wing sought other climes.
A restless craving for the beautiful
In art, lured him from home and country:
Fame's silver trumpet rang upon his ear—
Her laurel wreath hung o'er him in the clouds,
And for the deathless garland burned his brow.
Italy! thrice glorious Italy!
The cradle of young Genius, nurse of Art,
Seemed as the Promised Land, and thither roamed
His willing feet.
THE SCULPTOR'S DREAM OF HOME.
He stood alone, amid the magic forms
His chisel's touch had wakened. There were shapes
Of rare and most exceeding loveliness;
And the cold marble seemed instinct with life,
So vividly had his high art called back
The buried past, and peopled that dim spot
With the bright creatures of poetic thought.
He stood alone, a stranger. His loved home,
Far o'er the sea, in the fair western world,
Lay in its untold beauty. Mountain heights
Reared their blue summits to the summer heaven;
Broad prairie lands, where bounds the buffalo,
Still stretched, unmeasured by the gazer's eye;
And the far-reaching rivers, deep and strong,
Linked shining lakes with ocean.—But for him,
Though fair as Eden were its grassy vales,
Its wooded heights, and rush of crystal waves,
His spirit's eager wing sought other climes.
A restless craving for the beautiful
In art, lured him from home and country:
Fame's silver trumpet rang upon his ear—
Her laurel wreath hung o'er him in the clouds,
And for the deathless garland burned his brow.
Italy! thrice glorious Italy!
The cradle of young Genius, nurse of Art,
Seemed as the Promised Land, and thither roamed
His willing feet.
And the bright goal was won!
Fame numbered him among her noblest sons,
And 'neath his touch, shapes of unearthly beauty,
Such as in dreams ethereal only dwell,
Or in the poet's fancy start to life,
Sprang from the senseless marble. Men looked on,
And marvelled at his power; his name was heard
In the high halls of great and god-like Art,
And his the hour of triumph—lo, his brow
Wore the green wreath he sighed for; but there came
To dim the sunlight of that glorious morn,
A heartsick yearning for his early home,
And the fond playmate of his boyhood years.
Fame could not fill the places of the lost—
Her clarion music, proud although it be,
Was discord to the tones of tenderness
His wearied spirit asked, yet asked in vain.
Fame numbered him among her noblest sons,
And 'neath his touch, shapes of unearthly beauty,
Such as in dreams ethereal only dwell,
Or in the poet's fancy start to life,
Sprang from the senseless marble. Men looked on,
And marvelled at his power; his name was heard
In the high halls of great and god-like Art,
And his the hour of triumph—lo, his brow
Wore the green wreath he sighed for; but there came
To dim the sunlight of that glorious morn,
A heartsick yearning for his early home,
And the fond playmate of his boyhood years.
Fame could not fill the places of the lost—
Her clarion music, proud although it be,
Was discord to the tones of tenderness
His wearied spirit asked, yet asked in vain.
He is alone—but thought hath borne him on,
'Till the dim studio seems a greenwood shade,
'Neath the blue skies of his own native land.
The gush of rills, the song of summer birds,
And the low hum of busy insect wings,
Break on the stillness of the summer day:
A wild, sweet laugh, the echo of glad thoughts,
Comes to his ear—his gentle sister's voice
Calls him to join her rambles, and they roam
Through the cool arches of the quiet wood,
The low, sweet murmur of his sister's voice
Hath passed, like music from the wind-harp's string;
Far o'er the booming billow lies his home,
And he is in his studio—alone.
'Till the dim studio seems a greenwood shade,
'Neath the blue skies of his own native land.
The gush of rills, the song of summer birds,
And the low hum of busy insect wings,
Break on the stillness of the summer day:
A wild, sweet laugh, the echo of glad thoughts,
Comes to his ear—his gentle sister's voice
Calls him to join her rambles, and they roam
Through the cool arches of the quiet wood,
Till the first star hath risen, and amid
The dark green boughs is flashing, like a gem,
The fire-fly's light.
The dark green boughs is flashing, like a gem,
The fire-fly's light.
Theirs is the converse sweet
Of souls congenial, for each youthful heart
Hath in its hidden depths a perfect world
Of poetry, and a most subtle sense
Of all things beautiful in Nature. She
Hath some rare fancy floating through her brain,
And whispers in his ear that she hath clothed
A fairy legend in bewitching rhyme; while he,
Catching the glories of a sunset sky,
Tells, how in Italy the eve is bright
With hues Italian skies can only know.
Oh! blessed vision! linger, linger still,
Cheer the lone heart, that pines for home once more,
And bear the exile back on memory's wing,
To the dear haunts of boyhood.
Of souls congenial, for each youthful heart
Hath in its hidden depths a perfect world
Of poetry, and a most subtle sense
Of all things beautiful in Nature. She
Hath some rare fancy floating through her brain,
And whispers in his ear that she hath clothed
A fairy legend in bewitching rhyme; while he,
Catching the glories of a sunset sky,
Tells, how in Italy the eve is bright
With hues Italian skies can only know.
Oh! blessed vision! linger, linger still,
Cheer the lone heart, that pines for home once more,
And bear the exile back on memory's wing,
To the dear haunts of boyhood.
Lo! a step
Hath roused him from his dream'; the greenwood shades
Have vanished, and the arches of the wood
Give place to time-stained walls of massive stone: Hath roused him from his dream'; the greenwood shades
Have vanished, and the arches of the wood
The low, sweet murmur of his sister's voice
Hath passed, like music from the wind-harp's string;
Far o'er the booming billow lies his home,
And he is in his studio—alone.