POETRY.
THORWALDSEN'S LAST WORK.
[It is said that Thorwaldsen, on finishing his Last work, wept -because he could see no fault in it.]
IN flawless, faultless perfection the statue before me stands ; Is this your cause of rejoicing I turn aside in tears,
'To think, in this last and most laboured work of my brain and my hands, No sign of error, no trace of imperfection, appears.
Only small things are perfect ;—the pearl and the heather- flower, And the insect that passes away when its life is well began. The dewdrop is perfect and pure in the light of the morning hour, But spots of darkness darken the face of the moon and the sun.
All that is great is imperfect. In toil and in strife our powers Are matured ; and the strife that matures is one with the hindrance that mars.
Whether is greater, the child that laughs as he plays among flowers, Or the man that sighs as he turns a furrowed brow to the stars ?
`Things noble grow and aspire. To the heavens aspires the tree, And the river's volume swells till it loses itself in the deep. Aspiration and growth,—these have been life to me ; Level perfection is death ; I bow the head and weep.
'Or is it that I am blind, and see no more the faults Which with my finished work have ever been wont to blend? I know not; I only know that my genius creeps and halts ; I have reached the height of the pass, and my path must now descend.
I thank my God that not in vain I have lived.
I have served and used and adorned the hours as they passed me by ; I have laboured and striven, exulted, despaired, and achieved ; Now take me home, 0 Father ! I feel it is time to die.
JOSEPH JOHN MURPHY.
Previous page
