The morning call., 1891-02-22
THE SCULPTOR.

In a little village lying underneath italian skies
Where the roses blooming ever listen to the south
winds signs,
Here there dwet a famous sculptor; he was known
in all the land,
He could make the very marble seem to breathe be
meath his hand
People said the gods them selves had taught to him
this wondrOus art,
And they looked him in wonder and they kept
from him apart.
But he cared not either for their petty notice or
their fear
And he lived but for his marble, and alone he held
that dear.
Alone, said =? Nay, pardon me, fear I do him
wrong,
He loved a village maiden fair, and thought his love
strong.
Often with her had he walked beneath the soft and
moonllt skies,
And his vows of love were answered by her sweet
and shy replies.
But her pure and gentle spirit could not understand
his art;
She cared not for his famous name, but she only
priced his heart
And rejoicing in the love he gave, and trusting him
comoete.
She, content with what he offered, laid her heart
down at his feet.
But of late there had come over him strange and
sudden mood;
Through day. and even night, he worked taking
rest nor food.
In his lonely garrett chamber, all the night his ham
mer rang,
And all night flew the snowy chips and all night
the chisel sang;
And the people, they heard it. whispered each to
each and said:
II Is working some statue by his rowing fancy
led;
With some wondrous work of beauty he Will soon
surprise the land"
And they spoke of how the marble grew beneath his
But the sculptor and no one saw his
work OF art
Not even the gentle maiden and she the chosen OF
his heart.
Day by day the sculptor Iabored, day by day the
While the laborer thought OF nothing but TO send
his chisel true.
At last twas finished, and enraptured before it Its
maker stood,
Fair and perfect was the image clad in graceful
wOmanhOOd.
Beautiful each lovely feature delicate each limb OF
grace,
Lacking nothing to complete the beauty of its form
and face;
Long the sculptor stood before it. and passion
filled his breast,
Tortured him with ,everlsh longing and would give
his heart no rest.
And he knew he loved the image with love be-
And the white fair face OF marble was the goddess
OF his soul;
He would spend long hours before it, knseling on
the dusty floor;
Lost to ALL the world around him. he would silently
adore,
And he thought not of the maiden who was long his
promised bride,
For that fair strange face had filed him with
mighty passions tide.
One night, as he kueit before 1t, seeking what was
out of reach,
All the peut up floods within him found relief at
last in speech,
And he cried: &c wondrous creature that these
human hands have made,
All my lie goes out unto thee Well for thee my
heart has paid
Come down from thy lofty station; give me but one
hour of bliss!
1 have formed thee surely should claim from thee
Thou art mine, and have given thee all my skilIful
hands could give;
Every limb and feature perfect, but cannot bid
thee live.
thou fair and lovely image pray the gods for this
Let me see thee breathe one hour and my load of
anguish lift"
Eagerly he looked upon 1t, but the marble did not
change;
Motionless it stood as ever, clad in beauty sweet
and strange.
sprang the sculptor to his feet and seized hammer
from the floor:
Thou hast made me mad" he CRIED "and by the
gods thou'It do no morel
Dear to all my wild entreaties, thou hast moved
me past control;
have made thee; III destroy thee as thou hast
destroyed my -
HI gh he raised his mighty hammer held IL motion
less In air,
Gazed one moment on the face that smiled SO still
and calmly there.
just enc moment, then the blow descended on that
perfect face
Leaving nothing but shattered relic, rert of
beauty in Its place.
Steadily the sculptor faced 1t, dropped his hammer
to the floor,
Stood moment, staggered backward then the
sculptor knew more.
There they found him, lying teess at the shivered
statues base
With the sunlight streaming gently Ger his pale and
troubled face.
And they laid him in the garden, and before week
had passed,
There beside him slept the maiden who had loved
him to the last.
Der their heads the roses whisper softly to the
sigh ing wind:
Ger their feet the myrtle lovingly around the gray
stone twined.
But the roses, though they whisper, know not why
the sculptor died,
And so there he lies forgotten with the maiden at
his side. BEATRICE b. DI LUNA.
February, 1851