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THE SCULPTOR'S DREAM OF HOME.
He stood alone, amid the magic forms
His chisel's touch had wakened. There were shapes
Of rare and most exceeding loveliness;
And the cold marble seemed instinct with life,
So vividly had his high art called back
The buried past, and peopled that dim spot
With the bright creatures of poetic thought.
He stood alone, a stranger. His loved home,
Far o'er the sea, in the fair western world,
Lay in its untold beauty. Mountain heights
