Young Sculptor! whose creative hand
Has waked these thoughts in me,
While thine own works around thee stand.
How proud thy soul must be!
The red fire kindling without touch;
The fountain's sudden birth;
So, Genius, dost thou rise, and such
Thy likenesses on earth.
The youth I speak of, is he not
Touch'd with thy fire by thee?
Has not thy guidance cast his lot,
His mind, his destiny?
Strange interest must it be to know
How it within him work'd;
What chance ray caused the leaves to blow.
Whose germs within him lurk’d.
Was it beside some summer stream,
That came that haunted hour
The forms that haunt enthusiast dream,
Of grace and depth and power;
And bade him mould them for his own,
Till both grew half divine?
Young master of the breathing stone,
It recks not,—they are thine!
Art thou not bound to that fair shore
Where art's great wonders be?
What miser's wealth to thee the store
Of classic Italy!
And worship there her gifted band,
Till thou again shalt come,
With practised eye, and perfect hand,
To England, fame, and home.
L. E. L.
