THE graver by Apollo’s shrine,
Before the Gods had fled, would stand,
A shell or onyx in his hand,
To copy there the face divine,
Till earnest touches, line by line,
Had wrought the wonder of the land
Within a beryl’s golden band,
Or on some fiery opal fine.
Ah! would that as some ancient ring
To us, on shell or stone, doth bring,
Art’s marvels perished long ago,
So I, within the sonnet’s space,
The large Hellenic lines might trace,
The statue in the cameo!