Ix

This is the tale of an unhappy sculptor, A shaft of marble radiantly white, Whose adamantine substance would not yield To the impassioned efforts of the sculptor. The chisel struck the irresponsive rock Again, again, again, but all in vain Until at last discouraged and exhausted He sinks down at the foot of this cold stone.

That might have been a living Galathea, But is alas the tombstone of Pygmalion.