'Twas in the age when Arts and Peace
Revived once more in mighty Greece-
When Fame forsook the camp and blade,
And turned from purple fields to wreathe
Her meeds again for those who bade
The canvass glow, the marble breathe
"Twas in this age Melonian stood
The highest in his sculpture art;
Known as the great, loved as the good;
With hand but rivalled by his heart.
His was the power to wake the gaze,
Yielding the spirit's speechless praise
His was the spell that flings control
Over the eye, breast, brain, and soul;
Chaining our senses to the stone
Till we becora
As fixed and dumb
As the cold form we look upon.
Melonian was about to leave
His idol toil one summer eve.
When at his door a stranger guest
Appeared, in venerable guise,
Whose weight of years had dimmed his eyes,
And meekly lowered his "haught crest."
His garb was of a shape and sort
That plainly augured little wealth;
But his frank smile gave good report
Of rich content and placid health.
No stern and frowning gloom was seen
To curl his lip or shade his mien;
His bending limbs, and silvered head,
Stricken with patriarchal age,
Gave ample sign that he had read
Life's volume to its closing page.
Melonian rose; the stranger bowed:
"Artist," cried he "I've come to scan
Thy blazoned works, - is it allowed?
Though great, perhaps thou'rt not too proud
To please an old and curious man.
The restless wings of Rumor waft
Fair tidings of thy works and craft!
Crowds speak of thee with lauding joy.
I like thy name, and would employ
Thy hand. Say, Artist what may be
The sum that forms thy common fee?"
"Friend!" he exclaimed,
My charge may startle when 'tis named.
Excuse me, Stranger, if I say
I deem 'tis more than thou canst pay.
Two thousand byzantines I ask
For simplest form or briefest task."
"Two thousand! 'tis indeed fair store
Of gold, but he deserved much more.
Have what thou wilt, 'tis ne'er too much;
Double the sum, it shall be thine;
But will thy chisel deign to touch
A form nor human nor divine?
I see thou hast a goodly band
Of gods and heroes scattered round;
But I invoke thy master hand
To carve me but a simple hound.”
"A hound! a dog!" Melonian cried:
How's this, old man, would'st thou deride
My noble art? I blush with shame.
Say, dost thou mock my skill and fame?
I, first in Greece, think'st thou 'twould suit
Such hand to carve a cur!- a brute ?"
"Hold!" said the Guest. "I must not hear
Such light words thrown to one so dear.
Long as I've trod the world, I've found
Naught half so worthy as my hound;
And thou, Melonian, wouldst not spurn
His claims and merit, didst thou learn
The strange and strong, nay, holy tie
That linked so firm and tenderly.
Of all the boons that men possess,
To aid, to cheer, instruct, and bless,
The dog, — bold, fond, and beauteous beast -—
Is far from either last or least.
His love lives on through change of lot;
His faith will chain him on our grave, To howl and starve; but thou mayst not Have proved their love and faith: I have.
"Thy guerdon's sure: look on this ring,
A precious, though a bauble, thing;
The meanest jewel would suffice
To render safe thy utmost price.
But do my bidding, and the stone
Of richest lustre is thine own.
Behold and judge!" The Sculptor gazed
Upon the slender hand upraised,
And saw a finger thin and white,
Encircled with a hoop of gold,
Imbedding diamonds of light,
Nor loosely worn nor cheaply sold.-
Speak," cried the Stranger; "dost thou choose
To carve my dog? decide and tell...
Enough: I see thou dost refuse
The favor craved. Artist, farewell."
Melonian seized his hand: "Nay, nay,
Thy parting is not thus with me;
Thy speech, thy bearing all betray
Thou art not what thou seem'st to be;
There's more than meets the eye and ear
In thee. Say who, and what thou art!
I'm honest, and thou need'st not fear
A gossip tongue nor traitor heart.
May I beseech thee to relate
Thy secret pilgrimage and fate?
You start aye, 'tis a bold request;
But you have stirred within my breast
That quick and sudden interest
Which is not easily suppressed.
The warmth you've kindled doth defy
The rules of gentle courtesy ;
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