A blunderer hewed too deep; the stone was laid 'Mong broken things,—to every purpose lost; Twice fifty years it lay, like refuse tossed Upon a heap, till through that place there strayed A visitor whose mien and eye betrayed The artist-soul: 'twas Michael Angelo! Its latent worth upon him dawned, and lo, From that marred mass was his great "David" made. Ah, were our eyes like his, how often we, On life's waste heaps would come on treasures rare— Marred human lumps, by Sin's rude hand defaced; We'd take each shapeless mass and toil with care Till in the Hall of Heaven it would be placed: Our hands made deft by dreams of what might be! |