On Greenough's Group of the Angel and Child

I stood alone; nor word, nor other sound,
Broke the mute solitude that closed me round;
As when the air doth take her midnight sleep,
Leaving the wintry stars her watch to keep,
So slept she now at noon. But not alone
My spirit then: a light within me shone
That was not mine; and feelings undefined,
And thoughts flow'd in upon me not my own.
'T was that deep mystery — for aye unknown —
The living presence of another's mind.

Another mind was there — the gift of few —
That by its own strong will can all that's true
In its own nature unto others give,
And mingling life with life, seem there to live.
I felt it now in mine; and oh! how fair,
How beautiful the thoughts that met me there —
Visions of Love, and Purity, and Truth!
Though form distinct had each, they seem'd, as 'twere,
Imbodied all of one celestial air —
To beam for ever in coequal youth.

And thus I Iearn'd — as in the mind they moved —
These stranger Thoughts the one the other loved;
That Purity loved Truth, because 'twas true,
And Truth, because 'twas pure, the first did woo;
While Love, as pure and true, did love the twain;
Then Love was loved of them, for that sweet chain
That bound them all. Thus sure, as passionless,
Their love did grow, till one harmonious strain
Of melting sounds they seem'd; then, changed again,
One angel form they took — Self-Happiness.

This angel form the gifted Artist saw,
That held me in his spell. 'T was his to draw
The veil of sense, and see the immortal race,
The Forms spiritual, that know not place.
He saw it in the quarry, deep in earth,
And stay'd it by his will, and gave it birth
E'en to the world of sense; bidding its cell,
The cold, hard marble, thus in plastic girth
The shape ethereal fix, and body forth
A being of the skies — with man to dwell.

And then another form beside it stood;
' T was one of this our earth — though the warm blood
Had from it pass'd — exhaled as in a breath
Drawn from its lips by the cold kiss of Death.
Its little "dream of human life" had fled;
And yet it seem'd not number'd with the dead,
But one emerging to a life so bright
That, as the wondrous nature o'er it spread,
Its very consciousness did seem to shed
Rays from within, and clothe it all in light.

Now touch'd the Angel Form its little hand,
Turning upon it with a look so bland,
And yet so full of majesty, as less
Than holy natures never may impress —
And more than proudest guilt unmoved may brook.
The Creature of the Earth now felt that look,
And stood in blissful awe — as one above
Who saw his name in the Eternal Book,
And Him that open'd it; e'en Him that took
The Little Child, and bless'd it in his love.