Thus was the royal scutcheon kept free from stain or blot! The story has descended from days now half forgot; 'Twas eleven hundred and forty this happened, as I've heard, The flower of German princes thought shame to break his word. * * * * * THE CRUCIFIX[41] (1830) In hopeless contemplation of his work The master stood, a frown upon his brow, Where shame and self-contempt appeared to lurk. With all his art and knowledge he had now Portrayed the suffering Savior's image there-- Yet could the marble not with life endow. He could not make it live, for all his care-- What is not flesh knows not to suffer pain; Cold stone can none but stone's cold likeness bear. Beauty and due proportion though it gain, The chisel's marks will never disappear And nature wake, howe'er his prayer may strain: "Ah, turn not from me, Nature! Thou most dear, I long to raise thee to undreamed of height-- But thou art dumb * * * a sorry bungler's here!" There entered then a loyal neophyte, Who looked with reverence on the master's art And stood beside him, flushed with new delight. To the same muse was given his young heart, The selfsame quest of beauty filled his days-- Yet must his soul with endless failure smart. To him the master: "Scorn is in thy praise! If so this dull, dead stone thy mind can fill, To death, not life, thou must have turned thy face!" Then boldly spoke the youth: "Admire I will! What though thy Christ for death's repose prepare So strangely silent and so strangely still, Yet at a great thing greatly wrought I stare, And long to match the marvel that I see; I see what is, and thou what should be there." The master looked upon him silently, His youthful strength, his limbs so straight and fine, And deemed there were no model such as he. "A prey thou find'st me to despair malign-- How get from lifeless marble life and pain? Here nature fails, whose secrets else are mine. To seek a hireling's aid were all in vain; And sought I thine, though partner of my aims, Naught but a cold refusal should I gain." "Nay," said the youth, "in art's and God's high names, I would perform unwearied, unafraid, Whate'er of me thy need transcendent claims." He spoke, and straight his beauty disarrayed, Showing the fair flower of his youthful grace Within the guarded workshop's sacred shade. Entranced the master gazed, and could not chase A thought that rose unbidden to his mind-- If pain upon that form its lines could trace! "The help thou off'rest if I am to find, Thee too the cross must raise above the ground * * *" Willing, the youth his gracious limbs resigned. With tight cords first his prey the sculptor bound, Then brought the hammer and the piercing nails-- A martyr's death must close the destined round!