All finest art is seen In forms that foil the bladeUnkeen -- Verse, marble, gem inlaid.
All idle bonds refuse! Yet, so thou move aright,Bind, Muse, Thy limbs in buskins tight.
Spurn the too supple lilt That like an easy bootIs built For any random foot.
Thou sculptor, cast aside The clay thy hands aloneHave plied, Thy spirit elsewhere flown.
Strive with the marble rough Hewn from Carraran steeps, --Such stuff The perfect contour keeps.
From Syracuse her bronze Take thou, thereon imprestThe sconce Of proud or yielding gest.
With deftest hand go trace Over the agate rareThe face Apollo once did wear.
Painter, all tints refuse That fade; but pass thro' fireThe hues So fixt to thy desire.
Call up the syrens blue With looped tails entwinedEnsue With beasts of mythic kind.
Above the world enthrone Christ and the Maid Divine;Each one Girt with the holy sign.
Though all things end in dust, Yet Art well-wrought lives on;The bust Outlasts the city gone.
The buried coin or ring Dug up by some poor hind,May bring An Emperor to mind;
And lines of perfect sound, Though Gods themselves may pass.Are found More durable than brass.
Hew down and chisel fine. So that thy dream be sealedFor sign In stuff that will not yield!
