The Dying Sculptor

'I hear my comrades' tools at busy morn,'
The youthful sculptor said; ' but my poor name
Must die, like some poor babe that dies unborn,
While they may follow Phidias in his fame;
I may not lift my head above the crowd;
My marble visions are dissolving fast;
My dream of art flits like some snow-white cloud
From weary eyes, that watch it to the last,
Before they sleep; and thou, my last design!
Wherein I fondly hoped would reappear
The model glories of the Belvidere,
With his proud-postured grace in every line;
'Tis time I learn'd, while slowly fading here,
To study lowlier attitudes than thine.'