Poems (Piatt)/Volume 2/The Sermon of a Statue
THE SERMON OF A STATUE.[IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY.]
Suddenly, in the melancholy place
With sculptured king and priest and knight assembled,
The music called us. Then, with kindly grace,
On a gold head was laid a hand that trembled:
"You little stranger, come," the verger cried,
"And hear the sermon." "No," the child replied;—
With sculptured king and priest and knight assembled,
The music called us. Then, with kindly grace,
On a gold head was laid a hand that trembled:
"You little stranger, come," the verger cried,
"And hear the sermon." "No," the child replied;—
A moment standing on his New-World will,
There in the Corner of the Poets, holding
His cap with pretty reverence, as still
As any of that company, he said, folding
His arms: "But let that canon wait." And then:
"I want to stay here with these marble men;—
There in the Corner of the Poets, holding
His cap with pretty reverence, as still
As any of that company, he said, folding
His arms: "But let that canon wait." And then:
"I want to stay here with these marble men;—
"If they could preach, I'd listen!" Ah, they can,
Another thought. It pleased the boy to linger
In the pale presence of the peerless man
Who pointed to his text with moveless finger.
Laughing with blue-eyed wonder, he said: "Look,
This one (but do you know him?) has a book!"
Another thought. It pleased the boy to linger
In the pale presence of the peerless man
Who pointed to his text with moveless finger.
Laughing with blue-eyed wonder, he said: "Look,
This one (but do you know him?) has a book!"
. . . I know him. Ay, and all the world knows him,—
Among the many poets the one only!
On that high head the stainéd gloom was dim;
In those fixed eyes the look of gods was lonely.
Kings at his feet, to whom his hand gave fame,
Lay, dust and ashes, shining through his name.
Among the many poets the one only!
On that high head the stainéd gloom was dim;
In those fixed eyes the look of gods was lonely.
Kings at his feet, to whom his hand gave fame,
Lay, dust and ashes, shining through his name.
I heard him. With the still voice of the dead
From that stone page, right careless of derision,
Sad jesters of a faithless age! he read
How the great globe would vanish like a vision,
With all that it inhabit. . . . And hath he
Then writ but one word, and that—Vanity?
From that stone page, right careless of derision,
Sad jesters of a faithless age! he read
How the great globe would vanish like a vision,
With all that it inhabit. . . . And hath he
Then writ but one word, and that—Vanity?