the sculptor's dream of home.
77
Sprang from the senseless marble. Men looked on,
And marvelled at his power; his name was heard
In the high halls of great and god-like Art,
And his the hour of triumph—lo, his brow
Wore the green wreath he sighed for; but there came
To dim the sunlight of that glorious morn,
A heartsick yearning for his early home,
And the fond playmate of his boyhood years.
Fame could not fill the places of the lost—
Her clarion music, proud although it be,
Was discord to the tones of tenderness
His wearied spirit asked, yet asked in vain.
And marvelled at his power; his name was heard
In the high halls of great and god-like Art,
And his the hour of triumph—lo, his brow
Wore the green wreath he sighed for; but there came
To dim the sunlight of that glorious morn,
A heartsick yearning for his early home,
And the fond playmate of his boyhood years.
Fame could not fill the places of the lost—
Her clarion music, proud although it be,
Was discord to the tones of tenderness
His wearied spirit asked, yet asked in vain.
He is alone—but thought hath borne him on,
'Till the dim studio seems a greenwood shade,
'Neath the blue skies of his own native land.
The gush of rills, the song of summer birds,
And the low hum of busy insect wings,
Break on the stillness of the summer day:
A wild, sweet laugh, the echo of glad thoughts,
Comes to his ear—his gentle sister's voice
Calls him to join her rambles, and they roam
Through the cool arches of the quiet wood,
'Till the dim studio seems a greenwood shade,
'Neath the blue skies of his own native land.
The gush of rills, the song of summer birds,
And the low hum of busy insect wings,
Break on the stillness of the summer day:
A wild, sweet laugh, the echo of glad thoughts,
Comes to his ear—his gentle sister's voice
Calls him to join her rambles, and they roam
Through the cool arches of the quiet wood,
