Poems (Eckley)/The Sculptor's Reverie

by Sophia May Eckley

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.

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.

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.

There was marble half hewn—great blocks in the rough;
 Now prophet, now sybil, now sage
Seemed starting to life from inanimate stone,
 Like ghosts of some evil presage.

But suddenly fell on his spirit a trance,
 No longer in silence he mused,
A crowd of pale phantasms thronged the hot room,
 And there rose a deep murmur confused.

But the click of the mallet—the buzz of the file
 Soon ceased to enliven the calm,
And the sculptor was lost in the silver of sleep—
 His heavy brow dropt in his palm.

THE REVERIE.

I dreamt that the embers had swooned on the hearth,
 That spark upon spark fled away;
Each fountain of flame, in a basin of gold,
 From ripples danced off into spray.

The cold chill of evening fell dark on my soul,
 Down dropping in death-dew of night,
And heavily bending each flower of thought,
 Which lately had blossomed to sight.

I said as the fire burn'd out on the hearth,
 Dissolving the frescoes in gloom,—
With senses entranc'd has my spirit broke free
 From the body, the soul's only tomb?

The fire that burn'd in those dim restless depths,
 Drew shadows I'd ne'er seen before,
Long, long I stood gazing—transfix'd with the sight,
 I had enter'd my soul's open door.

I seemed to be dreaming, yet still not asleep,
 Each sense was so quickened to sight,
There were galleries, gardens, and flowers—Alas!
 Weeds too—noxious weeds, that no blight

Had faded or withered—strong root had they all,
 Too long had they choked up and barred
The palace within, a "temple" so called,
 Whose threshold with evil was scarr'd.

Yet still there were flowers, altho' every root
 Twined fast to some weed I deplored;
Alas! must each blossom of loveliness cling
 To some evil sincerely abhorred?

***

All the visions of my day-dreams,
 All the fancies of life's way,
Stood before me, mute assembly,
 Solemn group in stark array.

There they stood, thought's solemn sculptures,
 No more floating fancies free,
But embodied truths for ever,
 Statues through eternity!

Chiselled by a subtle sculptor,
 In that studio called the brain,
In that chamber of deep mysteries,
 Whose artisans are joy and pain.

Some were garlanded with roses,
 Some with violet white and blue,
Some with ivy steadfast-clinging,
 While the feet of friends I knew.

Little feet had been before me,
 Footprints lost in dewy grass,
And I heard sweet children's voices,
 Softly singing, "Let him pass!"

All the fancies of these day-dreams,
 Wrought out in a sculptor's room,
No more stood in mute assembly,
 But prest on through light and gloom.

On I wandered, silent, wondering
 At the crowd that surged amain;
"Strange," I said, "to be a stranger
 In a dream of one's own brain."

But such a crowd,—so many pictures,
 Scarce remembered—hardly known,
Could these be my thoughts? bewildered
 I sank down and wept alone.

But hark! hark! the children's voices!
 Sweetly singing, "Let him pass!"—
Little feet had been before me,
 Footprints lost in dewy grass.

Is it that the soul's unloosing
 From the body, tho' called death,
When the "silver cord," if severed,
 Stops the heart, and stills the breath,

Is the opening of that chamber,
 Whence deep mysteries of thought
Stand embodied, moving, living—
 Still companions, though unsought?

Then soft clouds came floating o'er me,
 Took the forms of answered prayer,
And the mist that rolled before me,
 Swept my sorrows into air.

For sweet groups of angel faces,
 Pitying faces bent to see,—
These were holy aspirations,
 That had ne'er forsaken me.

Did I say that I was dreaming?
 Did I say this all before?
That I entered guest unbidden
 Through my own soul's open door?

There to see these living sculptures,
 Every thought embodied there,
Ne'er to perish, good and evil,
 Beautiful, and false, and fair.

Still I heard the children's voices,
 Softly singing, "Let him pass
Through these asphodels and nettles,
 To the violets in the grass.

"Let him see sin linked to sorrow,
 Let him see the good and true—
Humbly pray that his soul's sculptures
 Be transformed henceforth anew."