Lii

For, we two boast, beside our pearl, a diamond. I' the palace-gallery, the corridor beyond, Upheaves itself a marble, a magnitude man-shaped As snow might be. One hand--the Master's--smoothed and scraped That mass, he hammered on and hewed at, till he hurled Life out of death, and left a challenge: for the world, Death still,--since who shall dare, close to the image, say If this be purposed Art, or mere mimetic play Of Nature?--wont to deal with crag or cloud, as stuff To fashion novel forms, like forms we know, enough For recognition, but enough unlike the same, To leave no hope ourselves may profit by her game; Death therefore to the world. Step back a pace or two! And then, who dares dispute the gradual birth its due Of breathing life, or breathless immortality, Where out she stands, and yet stops short, half bold, half shy, Hesitates on the threshold of things, since partly blent With stuff she needs must quit, her native element I' the mind o' the Master,--what 's the creature, dear-divine Yet earthly-awful too, so manly-feminine, Pretends this white advance? What startling brain-escape Of Michelagnolo takes elemental shape? I think he meant the daughter of the old man o' the sea, Emerging from her wave, goddess Eidotheé-- She who, in elvish sport, spite with benevolence Mixed Mab-wise up, must needs instruct the Hero whence Salvation dawns o'er that mad misery of his isle. Yes, she imparts to him, by what a pranksome wile He may surprise her sire, asleep beneath a rock, When he has told their tale, amid his webfoot flock Of sea-beasts, "fine fat seals with bitter breath!" laughs she At whom she likes to save, no less: Eidotheé, Whom you shall never face evolved, in earth, in air, In wave; but, manifest i' the soul's domain, why, there She ravishingly moves to meet you, all through aid O' the soul! Bid shine what should, dismiss into the shade What should not be,--and there triumphs the paramount Emprise o' the Master! But, attempt to make account Of what the sense, without soul's help perceives? I bought That work--(despite plain proof, whose hand it was had wrought I' the rough: I think we trace the tool of triple tooth, Here, there, and everywhere)--bought dearly that uncouth Unwieldy bulk, for just ten dollars--"Bulk, would fetch-- Converted into lime--some five pauls!" grinned a wretch, Who, bound on business, paused to hear the bargaining, And would have pitied me "but for the fun o' the thing!"