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“A SCULPTOR!” “ He left no work to see!”
“ A genius!” “Wherein might his genius be?”
“A dead man !” “Reverence for the dead
Must never blind to the truth,” ye said.

There was That within him which was divine ;
But his soul was its prison, not its shrine ;
And the fetter'd Thought could never, free,
Go forth in its strength and symmetry,

Though its prison-walls at its yearning cry
Trembled and shook exceedingly.-
Alas for the man whom God bids live,
And keep what he fain would die to give.

Ever with patient hand he sought
To give its due to his lovely Thought;

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And day after day, the story tells,
He workt as one whom a god impels.

One watcht him ever, with eyes so deep
For love that no slumber knew nor sleep :
Fair in body and fair in mind,
True and patient and strong and kind.

The self-same arms had rockt their rest ;
Their lips had drunk from the self-same breast;
And her mother, dying, had pray'd that she
Would her foster-brother's keeper be.

The woman her life's delight had deem'd
To work for him while the waiting seem'd
So long and dreary; and, ere 'twas o'er,
The wolf might be standing at the door :
So, having him thus in her heart, she said
The sister should be in the mother's stead.

But, seeing that she was fair and young,
And knowing the stranger's busy tongue,
She pray'd it would please him to confer
The shield of a husband's name on her.

And three days after the burial,
Through a dull rain driving slow and small,
Wet ground underfoot, grey sky overhead,
They walkt to the church and there we wed.

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