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XIII.

PYGMALION THE SCULPTOR.

"Materiem superabat opus."

1.-IN DEATH'S SHADOW.

UPON the very morn I should have wed
Jove put his silence in a mourning house;
And, coming fresh from feast, I saw her lie
In stainless marriage samite, white and cold,
With orange blossoms in her hair, and gleams
Of the ungiven kisses of the bride

Playing about the edges of her lips.

Then I, Pygmalion, kiss'd her as she slept,

And drew

my

robe across my face whereon

The haggard revel linger'd dark, and pray'd;

And the sore trouble hollow'd out my heart
To hatred of a harsh unhallow'd youth

As I glode forth. Next, day by day, my soul
Grew conscious of itself and of its fief

Within the shadow of her grave: therewith,

Waken'd a thirst for silence such as dwells

Under the ribs of death: whence slowly grew
Old instincts that had tranced me to tears
In mine unsinew'd boyhood, precious dreams
That swing like censers spilling balmy oils
O'er poppy flowers of sleep, mild sympathies
Full of faint odours and of music faint
Like buds of roses blowing;-till I felt

Her voice come down from heaven on my soul,
And stir it as a wind that droppeth down
Unseen, unfelt, unheard, until its breath.

Troubles the shadows in a sleeping lake.

And the voice said, "Pygmalion," and "Behold," I answer'd "I am here;" when thus the voice: "Put men behind thee-take thy tools, and choose A rock of marble white as is a star,

Cleanse it and make it pure, and fashion it
After mine image: heal thyself: from grief
Comes glory, like a rainbow from a cloud.
For surely life and death, which dwell apart
In grosser human sense, conspire to make
The breathless beauty and eternal joy

Of sculptur'd shapes in stone. Wherefore thy life
Shall purify itself and heal itself

In the long toil of love made meek by tears;

And at the last, I shall become again
A part of thee, a beauteous silentness

With speech nor motion, but with influence
Like the dumb glory of the moon: a bliss
Wherein the spirit of our love shall grow
Eternal; and the loss will be redeem'd."

I barr'd the entrance-door to this my tower Against the hungry world, I hid above

The mastiff-murmur of the town, I pray'd

In my pale chamber. Then I wrought, and chose

A rock of marble white as is a star,

And to her silent image fashion'd clay,

And purified myself and heal'd myself

In the long toil of love made meek by tears.

2.-THE MARBLE LIFE.

THE multitudinous light oppress'd me not,
But smiled subdued, as a young mother smiles,
When fearful lest the sunbeam of the smile
Trouble the eyelids of the babe asleep.

As Ocean murmurs when the storm is past And keeps the echoed thunders many days, My solitude was troublous for a time

With the new sorrow, and I utter'd doubt

Out of a bitter heart. Yea, oftentimes

I swam from dream to dream and gazed thro' tears
On the weak hands dropt nerveless on my knees.
So held I solemn tryst with Memory—

Who, with the pale babe Hope upon her breast,
Sits haggard, hooded, underneath blue night,
Looking on heaven and seeking evermore
To call to mind her former dwelling-place,

M

Where Hope was born, beyond the silent stars.
Wherefore I should have harden'd; but the clay
Grew to my touch, and brighten'd, and assumed
Fantastic images of natural things,

Which, melting as the fleecy vapours melt
Around the shining cestus of the moon,

Made promise of the special shape I loved.
Withdrawing back, I gazed. The unshaped stone

Took outline in the dusk, as rocks unhewn

Seen from afar thro' floating mountain mists
Gather strange forms and human lineaments.
And thus mine eye was fill'd with what I sought
As with a naked image, thus I grew
Self-credulous of the form the stone would wear,
And creeping close I strove to fashion clay
After the vision. Day and night, I drew
New comfort from my grief; my tears became
As honey'd rain that makes the woodbine sweet,
Until my task assumed a precious strength
Wherewith I fortified mine inner ear

Against the pleadings of the popular tongue

That babbled at my door; and when there dawn'd

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