The Sculptor And The Statue Of Jupiter.

A block of marble was so fine,      To buy it did a sculptor hasten.      'What shall my chisel, now 'tis mine -      A god, a table, or a basin?'      'A god,' said he, 'the thing shall be;      I'll arm it, too, with thunder.      Let people quake, and bow the knee      With reverential wonder.'      So well the cunning artist wrought      All things within a mortal's reach,      That soon the marble wanted nought      Of being Jupiter, but speech.      Indeed, the man whose skill did make      Had scarcely laid his chisel down,      Before himself began to quake,      And fear his manufacture's frown.      And even this excess of faith      The poet once scarce fell behind,      The hatred fearing, and the wrath,      Of gods the product of his mind.      This trait we see in infancy      Between the baby and its doll,      Of wax or china, it may be -      A pocket stuff'd, or folded shawl.      Imagination rules the heart:      And here we find the fountain head      From whence the pagan errors start,      That o'er the teeming nations spread.      With violent and flaming zeal,      Each takes his own chimera's part;      Pygmalion[1] doth a passion feel      For Venus chisel'd by his art.      All men, as far as in them lies,      Create realities of dreams.      To truth our nature proves but ice;      To falsehood, fire it seems.