Like a blind Jove who feels his way with thunder."—
"Here's sculpture! Ah, we live too! Why not throw
Our life into our marbles! Art has place
For other artists after Angelo."—
"I tried to paint out here a natural face—
For nature includes Raffael, as we know,
Not Raffael nature. Will it help my case?"—
"Methinks you will not match this steel of ours!"—
"Nor you this porcelain! One might think the clay
Retained in it the larvæ of the flowers,
They bud so, round the cup, the old spring way."—
"Nor you these carven woods, where birds in bowers,
With twisting snakes and climbing cupids, play."
XXI.
Your incense, gold, and myrrh are excellent.—
What gifts for Christ, then, bring ye with the rest?
Your hands have worked well. Is your courage spent
In handwork only? Have you nothing best,
Which generous souls may perfect and present,
And He shall thank the givers for? No light
Of teaching, liberal nations, for the poor,
Who sit in darkness when it is not night?
No cure for wicked children? Christ,—no cure!
No help for women sobbing out of sight
Because men made the laws? No brothel-lure
Burnt out by popular lightnings?—Hast thou found
No remedy, my England, for such woes?
