Classic Poem

I.

Wondrous Enchanter! at that touch of thine,
The cold dead marble warms, and lives, and wakes;
The shape thy thought would give, it plastic takes,
Rises and stands in symmetry divine:
That Indian Maid seems but to wait thy call,
To break the spell of silence, and in speech,
With those just parting lips our souls to teach
Truths pure as crystal drops on flowers let fall.
For not alone the outline soft as air,
With each material grace that charms the sight,
Thou fashionest, but settest also there
A spiritual beauty, calm, etherial, bright;
As if within there glowed an angel soul
Whose living light serene suffused the whole!

II.

Creator of the Beautiful and True,
What matchless shapes before thine inward eye
Forever float! what visions open lie
Of rarest things that science never knew!
As in the bosom of the sleeping lake
That no breath ruffles, of a summer morn,
Sky, mountain, rock and tree, green slope and lawn,
A treasury of beauty seem to make;
Even so, methinks, dwell ever in thy mind
Types of all fairest things — an endless store —

That stay thy bidding to stand forth enshrined
In visible form, thenceforth to change no more.
Thy pure creations bid our souls aspire
To know the Infinite Beauty, and admire!