Statue! thy sculptor's holiest thought in stone!
Thee ere the purity of morning broke,
Day after day he wrought with noiseless stroke,
Pure as a Flower by silent Nature sown!
And (I may guess unblamed) that starry crown
Upon thy heavenly brow he fixed sublime
In rapture caught—ere Fancy's self had time
The happy thought to own or to disown.
Here rule—yet in thy right, nor let the Earth
Claim loveliness she never yet hath given;
Not Hope art thou, still as the desert Palm
Entranced at noon; Hope trembles—for her birth
Is of the mutable. Thou art a child of Heaven,
Not Hope, but Faith angelically calm.